With a slight arching of her brows, Europe looked knowingly at the postman's back. 'You've dealt with some yourself, I suppose?' she said. This was the first thing she had said all morning.
The postman did not look at her. 'Indeed I have, ma'am, though I am sure a near sight fewer than thee!'
'Hm.' Europe lapsed into silence once more.
After two hours, with the scene changing little, they passed a milestone, a squat block of white rock upon which was carved High Vesting, and beneath that, 6 miles.
Behind this milestone grew a small, scruffy olive tree. As Rossamund looked, he was sure he spied movement within, a subtle shifting within the bush. He glared into its deep shadows. There, within, he was certain there was a figure obscured by boughs, a little person with a face like an overlarge sparrow and round, glittering dark eyes. A bogle! It shrunk noiselessly into deeper shade, but its eyes remained fixed on Rossamund, blinking occasionally with a pale flicker. The foundling stared back in breathless wonder, craning his neck as the landaulet rattled past and moved on.
'It's only a milestone, little man,' Europe's curt voice intruded. 'Surely you've seen one before?'
The horse whickered.
The eyes disappeared.
Rossamund sat back quickly. Thrilled as he was by such a sight, he felt no inclination to tell Europe of it. He did not want to see this one destroyed as the Misbegotten Schrewd had been. Thinking on the encounter just past, he decided he must have seen a nuglung, one of the littler bogles, so the almanac said, often having an animal's head on a small, humanlike body-what the almanac called anthropoid, or like a man. Rossamund almost couldn't believe it: he had seen a nuglung, a real one. There were stories from ancient times that told of some of these nuglungs doing good things for people, though folk now would never believe such a notion. His almanac was typically brief on them, saying, as it always did about any kind of bogle, that avoidance was the best policy. The foundling reckoned such advice probably helped the monsters as much as people.
Opening a black lacquered box, Europe took out a soft drawstring bag with a stiffened circular bottom. It was a fiasco. Rossamund had seen them before. In them he knew women kept their rouges, blushes and balms: the tools of beauty. He did not think a fulgar would need such things, but, when she had finished dabbing and daubing at her face with the aid of a small looking glass, even a young lad like himself could not help but be amazed by the simple yet profound transformation. He did not think a little rosying of the cheeks and lips and whitening of the nose could be so flattering.
'A girl's got to look her best for the city,' she offered simply to his gawping.
Fouracres turned in the driver's seat to say something and was visibly stunned, turning an unmanly red from earlobe to earlobe. He quickly resumed his original position and muttered over his shoulder awkwardly, 'We'll… er… be at High Vesting in an hour or so, miss.'
Europe smiled weakly. 'Yes, we had deduced that for ourselves. A mere stone told us the distance about a mile back-but thank you for the thought.' She hummed happily and watched the passing scene.
Recovering his composure, Fouracres once more spoke over his shoulder. 'So, Rossamund, ye're going ter be a lamplighter, are yer?'
The foundling did not know how to answer this. Was he a lamplighter or was he now Europe's factotum? He looked at her quickly. Muffled in her thick coat, she paid him no attention whatsoever, returning to her usual regal reserve.
'That's what I am supposed for, sir,' he ventured, glancing at Europe once more. 'Though I am not really wanting it. Do you know much about them?'
'A little,' answered the postman. As he spoke, he would spend some of the time looking at Rossamund from the corner of one eye and at the road with the corner of the other, or turn his back completely and focus on the path ahead. 'I was thinking of becoming one myself, yer see, when the choices were afore me. As yer can see for yerselves, it didn't take my fancy.'
Here was the proof of his dull future. 'Too boring, Mister Fouracres?'
The postman paused, appearing bemused. 'That's not so much it… as the reverse.'
This was not the answer Rossamund had expected. He sat up. 'How do you mean?'
'I chose the quiet life of a strolling postman, for the lot of a lamplighter was a little too dangerous for mine.'
Rossamund found he was holding his breath. 'Dangerous? I thought they just went out, lit the lamps and went back home.'
With a chuckling snort, Fouracres looked sharply at Rossamund. 'That they do-on stretches of road traveling the fringes of civilization, at times of the day that bogles love best ter move about in, contending with bandits, poachers, smugglers, mishaps on the road itself, living with only a handful o' others in isolated places. Then you have ter go about changing the water in the lamps themselves, regular as the seasons-that part, I'll grant yer, ain't interesting at all. Mmm, not the job for this fellow.' The postman pointed to himself with his thumb as he returned his attention to the road. 'My hours are long and strange enough and my pay as low again as any should bear, without having cause ter make any o' this worser by joining the lamplighter service.' He gave Rossamund a cheeky, sidelong smile. 'Ye, however, Mister Rossamund, seem ter be made of sterner stuff. Well, good for yer. It's a good thing yer harness is so fine, else yer might have something ter worry about. Howsoever, I'd get yerself a well-made hat afore yer venture up ter Winstermill.'
Rossamund did not answer. His thoughts were turning on all the postman had just revealed. Bogles! Bandits! Perhaps the life of a lamplighter might be a whole lot more worthwhile after all? This clarified his path for him: now he was actually curious, even eager, to work his official trade. How do I tell Miss Europe this? The fulgar had said little more on her desire for him to become her factotum since the first day at the Harefoot Dig. He looked at her once more. Though her expression was resolutely aloof, she seemed sad-not momentarily unhappy, but troubled with deep, suppressed grief. How different she was from the talkative, boastful woman he had first met on the pastures of Sulk End. A tiny ache set in Rossamund's soul. He felt sorry for her loss of Licurius, however foul the leer had been, and he had an inkling that his devoted service might take that grief away. He was confused again.
Pondering intently on these things, he did not notice three crusty folk sitting by the side of the road with their rambling carts and rickety donkeys till the sound of their chatter caught his attention. They were sellers of vegetables of many kinds.
Fouracres hailed them as the landaulet passed. 'Hoy! Gentle eekers, do yer have any letters ter send?'
All three smiled with genuine, almost bursting joy, one of them crying, 'Ah, bless ye! Bless ye, Master Fourfields. No letters from us today.' She marveled at the landaulet. 'What a pretty pair o' legs ye're travelin' on this ev'nin'! Much easier on the boot leather than yer usual ones!' She tossed a large pumpkin to the postman.
'And blessings ter thee, Mother Fly! Mother Mold! Farmer Math! Sorry, I can't stop, but these 'pretty legs' have places they're taking me!' He grinned back, slowing the landaulet and catching the vegetable skillfully. 'I'll be back along here termorrer. We'll have a good natter then. Thanks for the fruit, madam-t'will make for a fine soup ternight.'
'Then I'll save me quizzin's fer anon,' the old woman returned in a hoarse too-loud whisper, rolling her intensely curious gaze over Rossamund and, more especially, Europe.
The fulgar did not even stir, but continued her cool stare at the country on the opposite side. The foundling, however, smiled happily at this rustic dame and her companions, who all returned his friendly expression.
'Save them all, Mother, and get yerself waddling home at the right time,' Fouracres said cheekily. 'Darkness comes too early this time o' year, and the chance of bogles with it.'
Mother Fly laughed a dry and crackling laugh. 'And ye'd better pass on yerself, fancy-legs. Ye've still got a- ways to rattle before ye can make yer soup. Till tomorrer!'
'Till termorrer.'
With that they passed on, Mother Fly waving cheerfully.
When they had gone a little farther, Fouracres informed him quietly, 'They're some of the eekers I was telling yer about. Good people, as hospitable as they get.' Rossamund wondered how it was such happy folk as these could bear to live in those tottering cottages out in this bare, haunted place.
They crested a small rise in the road and before them the land spread out and down in a large basin that found its way to the sea. Rossamund assumed it must be the mighty Grume-though he had never seen it before. So
