reaching into her wallet. The delivery boy from Knollypop’s Provender asked, “Is anything the matter? Old Knollypop added up the total twice. See?”
The boy took out a handful of colorful enumerative tokens, each with a different mathematical figure in bas-relief on its face.
“One hundred-and-twenty-six scintilla. It’s right there.”
Recovering her aplomb, Crutchsump fetched out the requisite amount of money from her wallet, the smallest part of its contents, and handed it over. “No, no, everything’s fine. I was just taken by a passing fancy.”
The small boy grew a little nervous. He made the sign of the Cosmocopia, bunching all his fingertips together and aiming them at the floor. “Not a passing ghost, I hope.”
“Not at all. All our ghost-catchers are in fine shape. Thank you for running this order over at the last minute. An unexpected dinner tonight. And please ask Knollypop if he’ll have any soutines in stock next week.”
Crutchsump added in a generous tip.
“Sure thing!”
The boy left, and Crutchsump began unpacking the hinge-topped wooden boxes he had left behind, each bearing a raised tradesman’s seal indicating their origin with Knollypop, and their expected return. She shelved pots and crocks and boxes, net bags of onions and tarbix, a carton of the brand of looby flakes that Lazorg liked best for his morning porridge….
By the time she was done arranging things to her satisfaction, the hour was nearly noon. She’d have to begin working on the dinner preparations soon. When Lazorg had ordained tonight’s banquet, over their breakfast table this very morning, he had been insistent on its importance to his career, and Crutchsump intended to outdo herself.
But first, given that there was still plenty of time until guests arrived at eight, she’d treat herself to a visit with Lazorg himself. He should be in his studio.
There might even be time for a quick, exciting coupling. Crutchsump felt her introciptor tingling; her gut brain conjured up quick vivid flashes of past sexual storms. She hoped that such a spontaneous emotional and physical union might occur today. Lazorg had been working so hard of late, that they hadn’t had sex for nearly two weeks. Crutchsump missed the closeness, felt such a sensual drought could not be good for Lazorg either.
She pulled a bell to summon one of the servants. Flumareen showed up, a very smart and obedient girl from the Telerpeton district, whom Crutchsump had known since Flumareen was an orphaned child.
“Thank you for taking that order to Knollypop’s, Fluma. Now I need you to fire up the stove and get some of the basic sauces simmering.”
“Yes, Crutchsump.”
Leaving the girl shoveling sea-coal with a wooden scuttle, Crutchsump walked down lush carpets through the dining room, the front parlor, the games room and the rear parlor, until she reached a wide ascending staircase. Every spotless, well-furnished inch of the apartment’s first floor brought her immense pleasure and pride.
For the past eight months, Lazorg and Crutchsump had occupied three rented, high-ceilinged levels—the fourth, fifth and sixth—in an exclusive residential building in the Stallkamp district. They had moved out of the squalor of Telerpeton within a week of Lazorg’s gallery debut (within a week of the thrilling consummation of their passions for each other, thought Crutchsump), but only into modestly better lodgings just a mile or so away, in the Ubiwerke district, home to middle-class merchants and skilled workers. But as soon as Lazorg had amassed a fair amount of money, as soon as his continued sales seemed assured, and not a passing fad among collectors, he had determined to splurge on what Crutchsump could only regard as a mansion in the clouds.
“We need a residence befitting our dreams, Crutchsump. A reward for all your hard work—for my genius. And we cannot command the highest prices for my creations if we don’t represent ourselves as
The boy took out a handful of colorful enumerative tokens, each with a different mathematical figure in bas-relief on its face.
“One hundred-and-twenty-six scintilla. It’s right there.”
Recovering her aplomb, Crutchsump fetched out the requisite amount of money from her wallet, the smallest part of its contents, and handed it over. “No, no, everything’s fine. I was just taken by a passing fancy.”
The small boy grew a little nervous. He made the sign of the Cosmocopia, bunching all his fingertips together and aiming them at the floor. “Not a passing ghost, I hope.”
“Not at all. All our ghost-catchers are in fine shape. Thank you for running this order over at the last minute. An unexpected dinner tonight. And please ask Knollypop if he’ll have any soutines in stock next week.”
Crutchsump added in a generous tip.
“Sure thing!”
The boy left, and Crutchsump began unpacking the hinge-topped wooden boxes he had left behind, each bearing a raised tradesman’s seal indicating their origin with Knollypop, and their expected return. She shelved pots and crocks and boxes, net bags of onions and tarbix, a carton of the brand of looby flakes that Lazorg liked best for his morning porridge….
By the time she was done arranging things to her satisfaction, the hour was nearly noon. She’d have to begin working on the dinner preparations soon. When Lazorg had ordained tonight’s banquet, over their breakfast table this very morning, he had been insistent on its importance to his career, and Crutchsump intended to outdo herself.
But first, given that there was still plenty of time until guests arrived at eight, she’d treat herself to a visit with Lazorg himself. He should be in his studio.
There might even be time for a quick, exciting coupling. Crutchsump felt her introciptor tingling; her gut brain conjured up quick vivid flashes of past sexual storms. She hoped that such a spontaneous emotional and physical union might occur today. Lazorg had been working so hard of late, that they hadn’t had sex for nearly two weeks. Crutchsump missed the closeness, felt such a sensual drought could not be good for Lazorg either.
She pulled a bell to summon one of the servants. Flumareen showed up, a very smart and obedient girl from the Telerpeton district, whom Crutchsump had known since Flumareen was an orphaned child.
“Thank you for taking that order to Knollypop’s, Fluma. Now I need you to fire up the stove and get some of the basic sauces simmering.”
“Yes, Crutchsump.”
Leaving the girl shoveling sea-coal with a wooden scuttle, Crutchsump walked down lush carpets through the dining room, the front parlor, the games room and the rear parlor, until she reached a wide ascending staircase. Every spotless, well-furnished inch of the apartment’s first floor brought her immense pleasure and pride.
For the past eight months, Lazorg and Crutchsump had occupied three rented, high-ceilinged levels—the fourth, fifth and sixth—in an exclusive residential building in the Stallkamp district. They had moved out of the squalor of Telerpeton within a week of Lazorg’s gallery debut (within a week of the thrilling consummation of their passions for each other, thought Crutchsump), but only into modestly better lodgings just a mile or so away, in the Ubiwerke district, home to middle-class merchants and skilled workers. But as soon as Lazorg had amassed a fair amount of money, as soon as his continued sales seemed assured, and not a passing fad among collectors, he had determined to splurge on what Crutchsump could only regard as a mansion in the clouds.
“We need a residence befitting our dreams, Crutchsump. A reward for all your hard work—for my genius. And we cannot command the highest prices for my creations if we don’t represent ourselves as
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