Jane would bag me at least fifty merits.
“No, sir.”
Jane stopped straightening the tea things and quietly moved off.
“Right, then,” said deMauve. “I’ll telegram Vermillion and let them know.”
They settled down to small talk after that. Dad declined a scone but drank tea, and they talked about unicycle polo, and how the East Carmine team won silver at last year’s Jollity Fair.
Jane walked back in. She was carrying a salver with a note on it.
“Excuse me,” she said in her most polite manner, “but an urgent message has arrived for Master Edward.”
“Me?” I asked, somewhat surprised, but I took the message, thanked her and read it, then placed it in my top pocket. She curtsied and left the room without another word.
“Would you care for a scone, Master Russett?” said deMauve, since they had almost had their fill. “They’re actually very good.”
“Unusually . . . piquant ,” said Turquoise.
“Tangy,” added Yewberry.
“You are most kind,” I replied, “but I shan’t, thank you.”
Usually, I liked scones—but I couldn’t help but refuse on this occasion. The note Jane had handed me read: Don’t eat the scones .
We signed the village register after that. Names, parents, postcode, feedback, merit tally and how much of what color we could see. Dad filled in his as “Red: 50.23%,” and I marked mine as “Untested.” I noticed that Travis had signed in just above us. He carried a highly influential TO3 4RF postcode, so originally hailed from the traditional Yellow homeland of the Honeybun Peninsula. More interestingly, he carried a 92 percent feedback score. A model resident—right up until the moment he set fire to the post.
“I’m sorry to appear untrusting,” said Mr. Yewberry once we had filled in the register, “but would you mind? It’s the Rules.”
We loosened our shirts and showed him our postcodes, and he compared them to our merit books. As a double check he also looked at the pattern of black and white lines that grew from our left-hand nail beds, and compared these to our record, which took a little longer.
We passed verification, and the prefects had a swift look at our merit status and feedback score, which they seemed to approve of, as no comment was made. My feedback was good, at almost 72 percent, but my merit score less so. Aside from my recent fine for attempting to improve queueing, I generally kept my nose clean, hence my 1,260 merits. Two hundred above the thousand required for full residency wasn’t much, but at least I was there. With it I had the right to marry once I’d taken my Ishihara, have seconds at dinner, wear a patterned waistcoat and a whole lot more besides. My father had many more merits, as befit his years, profession and senior monitor status. He would have had more still, but he had been fined a packet when he lost a swatch two years before. Dad had been down to eight thousand the last time we had discussed it, and anything beyond the three thousand earmarked for my dowry would go toward a hardwood conservatory.
“Hmm,” murmured deMauve after he had read Dad’s total. “Impressive.”
“They were my wife’s,” said Dad simply.
“Indeed?” replied deMauve, no longer so impressed. “She must have been a fine woman. We’re sorry for your loss.”
“Was it lightning?” asked Mrs. Gamboge in a hopeful sort of voice.
Dad paused, hoping that they wouldn’t press him, but these prefects were different from our bunch. Old Man Magenta might have been a fool and a martinet, but he knew when to let personal matters drop.
“Swan attack?” suggested Yewberry.
“It was the Mildew,” interjected my father in a quiet yet forceful voice, “and our grief is a private matter.”
“We apologize,” said deMauve simply. He gave us back our books and rose to his feet. “No more will or should be said.”
They made their way to the front door, where they all solemnly shook hands with my father in turn.
“It may
“No, sir.”
Jane stopped straightening the tea things and quietly moved off.
“Right, then,” said deMauve. “I’ll telegram Vermillion and let them know.”
They settled down to small talk after that. Dad declined a scone but drank tea, and they talked about unicycle polo, and how the East Carmine team won silver at last year’s Jollity Fair.
Jane walked back in. She was carrying a salver with a note on it.
“Excuse me,” she said in her most polite manner, “but an urgent message has arrived for Master Edward.”
“Me?” I asked, somewhat surprised, but I took the message, thanked her and read it, then placed it in my top pocket. She curtsied and left the room without another word.
“Would you care for a scone, Master Russett?” said deMauve, since they had almost had their fill. “They’re actually very good.”
“Unusually . . . piquant ,” said Turquoise.
“Tangy,” added Yewberry.
“You are most kind,” I replied, “but I shan’t, thank you.”
Usually, I liked scones—but I couldn’t help but refuse on this occasion. The note Jane had handed me read: Don’t eat the scones .
We signed the village register after that. Names, parents, postcode, feedback, merit tally and how much of what color we could see. Dad filled in his as “Red: 50.23%,” and I marked mine as “Untested.” I noticed that Travis had signed in just above us. He carried a highly influential TO3 4RF postcode, so originally hailed from the traditional Yellow homeland of the Honeybun Peninsula. More interestingly, he carried a 92 percent feedback score. A model resident—right up until the moment he set fire to the post.
“I’m sorry to appear untrusting,” said Mr. Yewberry once we had filled in the register, “but would you mind? It’s the Rules.”
We loosened our shirts and showed him our postcodes, and he compared them to our merit books. As a double check he also looked at the pattern of black and white lines that grew from our left-hand nail beds, and compared these to our record, which took a little longer.
We passed verification, and the prefects had a swift look at our merit status and feedback score, which they seemed to approve of, as no comment was made. My feedback was good, at almost 72 percent, but my merit score less so. Aside from my recent fine for attempting to improve queueing, I generally kept my nose clean, hence my 1,260 merits. Two hundred above the thousand required for full residency wasn’t much, but at least I was there. With it I had the right to marry once I’d taken my Ishihara, have seconds at dinner, wear a patterned waistcoat and a whole lot more besides. My father had many more merits, as befit his years, profession and senior monitor status. He would have had more still, but he had been fined a packet when he lost a swatch two years before. Dad had been down to eight thousand the last time we had discussed it, and anything beyond the three thousand earmarked for my dowry would go toward a hardwood conservatory.
“Hmm,” murmured deMauve after he had read Dad’s total. “Impressive.”
“They were my wife’s,” said Dad simply.
“Indeed?” replied deMauve, no longer so impressed. “She must have been a fine woman. We’re sorry for your loss.”
“Was it lightning?” asked Mrs. Gamboge in a hopeful sort of voice.
Dad paused, hoping that they wouldn’t press him, but these prefects were different from our bunch. Old Man Magenta might have been a fool and a martinet, but he knew when to let personal matters drop.
“Swan attack?” suggested Yewberry.
“It was the Mildew,” interjected my father in a quiet yet forceful voice, “and our grief is a private matter.”
“We apologize,” said deMauve simply. He gave us back our books and rose to his feet. “No more will or should be said.”
They made their way to the front door, where they all solemnly shook hands with my father in turn.
“It may
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