the afternoon Gretel came to him while he still sat in the common room. Dank, the day-watch yardsman, was with her and announced to the foundling that the landaulet had been retrieved.
Rossamund went out to the yard and found the carriage to be as much in the state they had left it, as could be expected. He asked after the corpse of the leer.
'Well, ye see,' said Dank, scratching his head, 'there was no body, not the horse's nor this Licurius fellow's.'
Rossamund's heart sank. The growing lightness within him evaporated, without even a memory of it ever occurring at all. His face must have shown his sinking spirits, for Gretel put her hand softly on his shoulder.
''Tis the way of things,' the day-watch yardsman explained. 'Monsters love their meat, and the skin and bones of people most of all. Sorry, lad. I'm sure your mistress will understand. She seems a worldly woman, if her reputation has it right.'
With a heavy sigh, Rossamund made his way to his room, Gretel and Dank-hat humbly in hand-accompanying him. When they were permitted to enter, Europe seemed in good spirits. With much 'um'-ing and 'ah'-ing, Rossamund gave her the grim news.
Dank confirmed his report almost as awkwardly. 'We searched as long and as far as we dared, ma'am, but turned up nought…'
Black gloom immediately descended upon the fulgar, and she ordered everyone from the room with a chilling whisper. As Rossamund left, she called to him. Her eyes were hard and her expression brittle. 'We will need a new driver,' she said.
Rossamund hesitated, the question of how forming in his mind and making its way to his mouth.
The fulgar's eyes narrowed.
'Y-yes, Miss Europe,' the foundling said, and left quickly.
He sought out Mister Billetus about such a task, and the proprietor told him that the town of Silvernook, a little way to the north, was the best place to find coachmen, wagoners and other drivers.
'Just go to the coachman's cottage of the Imperial Postal Office,' offered Mister Billetus. ''Tis where all the drivers spend their time waiting their turn to drive the mail from town to town.'
As it was deemed too late in the day for him to proceed, Rossamund was forced to wait till the next day to seek a driver in Silvernook. Instead he went to the common room to have dinner. Just as the night before, a maid served him and he chose a meal from a list upon a large oblong of card she held.
At the top it read 'Bill of Fare'… and beneath the dishes were categorized under subheadings: 'Best Cuts' and 'The Rakes.' The difference Rossamund could not fathom. Last night he had chosen lamprey pie from the list headed 'The Rakes' because he had had it once before and did not recognize the names of any of the other meals. It did not taste very good. Tonight he picked the venison ragout, and also asked for an exotic-sounding drink listed as 'Juice-of-Orange.' When this beverage arrived, it had a flavor that, yet again, amazed the simple tastes of the foundling. Sharp, sweet, tangy, refreshing, the juice was like the best orange he had ever eaten. The venison ragout, on the other hand, he found a bizarre flavor in his mouth, making it tingle and smart, but he pushed it down all the same. Not even the fussiest book child ever left food on a plate.
A woman dressed in an astounding display of peacock feathers and blued fur stood at the other end of the common room and sang so sweetly Rossamund forgot to eat for minutes at a time. Apparently her name was Hero of Clunes-so he heard people about him say-a famous actress from faraway south. Rossamund wondered what she might be doing in this remote region. Looking for 'Clunes' in his almanac, Rossamund found to his amazement that it was so far south it did not even show on any of his charts.
He finished his meal and returned to his room to slumber. Europe still lay in bed, her back to the door. Rossamund could not tell whether she slept or simply ignored him, and cared little for the risk to find out which. Not long after dawn he set out. Master Billetus sent Little Dog with him to show the way. Little Dog went forth barefoot, protected by proofing of much lesser quality than Rossamund's own fine jackcoat. He proved shy at first and seemed in awe of the foundling, an attitude so new to Rossamund that he found it unnerving.
They were let through the gates, which were firmly shut again behind them, and quickly arrived at the intersection by which the Harefoot Dig was built. A sign was there telling them that they had arrived at the Gainway. To the south, it said, was High Vesting. To the north was Silvernook, and below this Winstermill. The back of Rossamund's head tingled as he realized how close he was to his final destination. He had just to keep going north past Silvernook and he would arrive there. If it was not for Mister Germanicus waiting for him in High Vesting, he just might have. They turned left and went north up the Gainway toward Silvernook.
Little Dog walked quickly and Rossamund strained to keep pace. It was hard work and left little breath for conversation. The page boy kept looking about nervously, and Rossamund joined him. Overloud rustles made them jump and hurry on. Once a loud crack away among the trunks alarmed them so much they fled the road and hid behind a knuckle of lichen-covered rocks. It was always a relief whenever a cart or a carriage passed them by, the drivers typically offering a wave and sometimes a friendly, incoherent greeting. This traffic became more and more frequent as the day progressed.
By about the first bell of the forenoon watch-as Rossamund reckoned it-a cart rattled by and stopped. Its rubicund driver hoied! them cheerily, calling, 'Little Dog! Ye're wanting a hitch to Silvernook?' to which the two tired walkers gave a hearty yes.
The driver introduced himself to Rossamund as Farmer Rabbitt and chatted merrily about 'taters' and 'gorms' and how Goodwife Rabbitt was heavy with child. 'Moi first, yer know,' he grinned with a wink. Rossamund thought him the happiest fellow he had ever met, and could not help but grin along with the farmer's ready joy.
The darkling forest gave way to great, high hedges of cedar trees, grown close and thick along the verges. In the midst of almost every hedge-wall there was some kind of grand and solid-looking gate. Little Dog informed him that these were the fences behind which lived the local gentry.
As they rattled on, Rossamund thought on the perplexing choice before him: stay true to the original path- become a lamplighter and take on a boring life, or become the factotum-the servant-of a woman who did deeds with which he could never agree? It was more than he knew how to solve, and he hoped circumstances would provide a solution for him.
Soon enough they arrived at Silvernook, hidden within a high bluestone wall. The gates of the town were open, but they were watched. The town's gaters, who wore the black uniform of Brandenbrass, eyed them sternly as Farmer Rabbitt drove through. He set Little Dog and Rossamund down by the Imperial Postal Office, where the lads parted ways, for Little Dog had an errand to run somewhere else in the town.
'I'm sorry, Mister Rossamund, sir,' he said, 'but I probably won't be able to show you back to the Dig.You'll find yer way back a'right, though, won't you?'
'I reckon so, Little Dog,' answered Rossamund, blushing at the boy's deference. 'I'll have my driver by then- he'll be going back with me, I'm sure.'
With a satisfied nod, Little Dog left.
The Imperial Postal Office of Silvernook was narrow and high, like every other building in the town, making the most of the limited room offered within the safety of the town's walls. And as always, its chimneys were extraordinarily tall. As far as he knew, chimneys were so lofty because it was reckoned that the higher they were, the harder it would be for some curious bogle to climb them and do mischief.
People were going into and coming out of the Imperial Postal Office steadily. Rossamund found that he had to join a queue of high-class ladies in their voluminous skirts and festooned bonnets; guildsmen in their weathered leather aprons; and middle-class gentlemen buckled inside high collars and flaring frock coats, just so he might ask for further help. When he finally arrived at the serious woman on the other side of a perforated wall, she informed him that the coachman's cottage was beyond a certain side door, through which he proceeded directly.
The door opened onto a long drive that went between the Imperial Postal Office and another equally tall building. This drive took him to a sizable open area at the back, large enough to turn a two-horse carriage about, surrounded on every side by high houses. In a far corner was a small dwelling with a bright red door: the coachman's cottage. A brass plaque screwed to it declared:
… and Rossamund did just that.
There was a long pause.
He tried again, and the portal was finally opened, a thin, grudging gap.
'Hello,' Rossamund began, hands clasped meekly. 'Do you have any drivers in there?'
The gap increased slightly.
