youse.’
He beckoned to them to follow him, and they did, down a short corridor and into a small back room. It was wonderfully warm and cosy and quite different from the dusty neglected shop. Wenceslas
gestured to them both to sit down on the fireside chairs. The fire was stacked high with logs and was giving out powerful heat. The shopkeeper stood between them, staring from one to the other with
his tiny eyes.
‘I remembers you,’ he said to Jonah. ‘I still has that Cachelot tooth you etched, very skilful.’ Jonah reddened; he was not proud of his whaling past.
‘And I believes you to be Citrine Capodel.’ Wenceslas shook out a rolled-up bill that had been propped against the fireplace. It was one of Chief Guardsman Fessup’s ‘At
Large and Dangerous’ posters. It showed the four of them, the so-called ‘Phenomenals’, drawn in bold black ink, with the words ‘Murderers’ and ‘Thieves’
screaming out from above their heads. But it wasn’t the words that were the most prominent aspect of the poster. Unusually for such ‘wanted’ bills, Fessup had instructed the
printers to use colour, specifically for Citrine’s russet hair. The facial likeness was certainly reasonable, but her hair was unmistakable.
Citrine managed a laugh and pushed back her hood to display a head of rather odd-looking hair, still a strange and tangled mixture of black and her natural red from the recent dyeing disaster.
Wenceslas raised a wiry eyebrow, but said nothing.
‘We don’t want to cause you any trouble with Fessup or his Urgs,’ said Citrine, ‘but Suma said you might be able to help us.’
Wenceslas laughed. ‘Urgs? Pah! Not a brain cell between them. I ain’t worried ‘bout Fessup’s claptrapulation and his bungling pantaloons. Suma told me to help you anyhoos
I can, and that’s what I’ll do.’ He pushed his hand into his pocket and pulled out a small paper packet. ‘For you.’
Citrine read the label. ‘Hair dye?’
‘Won’t run in the rain, this one, Suma says.’ Wenceslas went out into the shop and the two exchanged a quizzical glance as they listened to his rummaging about. He returned
carrying a large can.
‘Now, you’ll be needing something for that Trikuklos of yours – stands out like a sore thumb, it does. Your father always did like quality; only the biggest and best for
Hubert.’
‘You knew my father?’
‘Oh yes. He came in all the time, looking for bits and pieces. You know what I say – sumthin’ for ever’one in here. Now, I set aside a tin of this for you. Try
it.’
‘Paint?’ queried Jonah.
‘The Trikuklos is black already.’ Citrine was rather taken aback at the revelation that her father was a customer of the Caveat Emptorium. ‘How will this help?
‘Not paint, varnish, and no ornerary varnish neither,’ said Wenceslas. ‘It dries to a special sheen that reflects what’s around it.’
‘Like a mirror?’ Jonah sounded uncharacteristically sceptical.
‘Sort of,’ said Wenceslas. ‘But it makes things much harder to see. It ain’t perfect – it’s no invisible paint, if that’s what you’re thinking
– but on a dark night it does a good job of foxing any nosy Urgs.’
‘Kew very much,’ said Jonah, and graciously accepted the tin along with a couple of paintbrushes. Wenceslas, declaring dramatically that he had forgotten his manners, left to make a
brew and soon returned with a tray carrying three steaming mugs and a plate of hard cakes. Citrine and Jonah realized then how hungry they were. If they had been in the Kryptos, by now they would
have been eating slumgullion. Citrine was also taking a little pleasure from the relatively soft furniture and the simple act of drinking tea. Folly’s tisane was wonderful, but its flavour
took a little getting used to. This tea reminded her of the good things about her old life. Wenceslas did not keep coffins and bones in his sitting room.
‘So, how else can I help youse?’ asked
He beckoned to them to follow him, and they did, down a short corridor and into a small back room. It was wonderfully warm and cosy and quite different from the dusty neglected shop. Wenceslas
gestured to them both to sit down on the fireside chairs. The fire was stacked high with logs and was giving out powerful heat. The shopkeeper stood between them, staring from one to the other with
his tiny eyes.
‘I remembers you,’ he said to Jonah. ‘I still has that Cachelot tooth you etched, very skilful.’ Jonah reddened; he was not proud of his whaling past.
‘And I believes you to be Citrine Capodel.’ Wenceslas shook out a rolled-up bill that had been propped against the fireplace. It was one of Chief Guardsman Fessup’s ‘At
Large and Dangerous’ posters. It showed the four of them, the so-called ‘Phenomenals’, drawn in bold black ink, with the words ‘Murderers’ and ‘Thieves’
screaming out from above their heads. But it wasn’t the words that were the most prominent aspect of the poster. Unusually for such ‘wanted’ bills, Fessup had instructed the
printers to use colour, specifically for Citrine’s russet hair. The facial likeness was certainly reasonable, but her hair was unmistakable.
Citrine managed a laugh and pushed back her hood to display a head of rather odd-looking hair, still a strange and tangled mixture of black and her natural red from the recent dyeing disaster.
Wenceslas raised a wiry eyebrow, but said nothing.
‘We don’t want to cause you any trouble with Fessup or his Urgs,’ said Citrine, ‘but Suma said you might be able to help us.’
Wenceslas laughed. ‘Urgs? Pah! Not a brain cell between them. I ain’t worried ‘bout Fessup’s claptrapulation and his bungling pantaloons. Suma told me to help you anyhoos
I can, and that’s what I’ll do.’ He pushed his hand into his pocket and pulled out a small paper packet. ‘For you.’
Citrine read the label. ‘Hair dye?’
‘Won’t run in the rain, this one, Suma says.’ Wenceslas went out into the shop and the two exchanged a quizzical glance as they listened to his rummaging about. He returned
carrying a large can.
‘Now, you’ll be needing something for that Trikuklos of yours – stands out like a sore thumb, it does. Your father always did like quality; only the biggest and best for
Hubert.’
‘You knew my father?’
‘Oh yes. He came in all the time, looking for bits and pieces. You know what I say – sumthin’ for ever’one in here. Now, I set aside a tin of this for you. Try
it.’
‘Paint?’ queried Jonah.
‘The Trikuklos is black already.’ Citrine was rather taken aback at the revelation that her father was a customer of the Caveat Emptorium. ‘How will this help?
‘Not paint, varnish, and no ornerary varnish neither,’ said Wenceslas. ‘It dries to a special sheen that reflects what’s around it.’
‘Like a mirror?’ Jonah sounded uncharacteristically sceptical.
‘Sort of,’ said Wenceslas. ‘But it makes things much harder to see. It ain’t perfect – it’s no invisible paint, if that’s what you’re thinking
– but on a dark night it does a good job of foxing any nosy Urgs.’
‘Kew very much,’ said Jonah, and graciously accepted the tin along with a couple of paintbrushes. Wenceslas, declaring dramatically that he had forgotten his manners, left to make a
brew and soon returned with a tray carrying three steaming mugs and a plate of hard cakes. Citrine and Jonah realized then how hungry they were. If they had been in the Kryptos, by now they would
have been eating slumgullion. Citrine was also taking a little pleasure from the relatively soft furniture and the simple act of drinking tea. Folly’s tisane was wonderful, but its flavour
took a little getting used to. This tea reminded her of the good things about her old life. Wenceslas did not keep coffins and bones in his sitting room.
‘So, how else can I help youse?’ asked
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