why have you taken up with the lampsmen?'
Though it was time to leave, Rossamund paused in thought. 'Because I had no choice either; because it was this or be cooped in the foundlingery forever. I'm a book child, and we get what we're given and say thank you, like it or no.'
'How little we have in common then.' Threnody tipped her plate, skilly and all, into the pail just meant for the slops. The attack on the calendars' carriage so close to Winstermill had caused no small stir among the lighters. It was universally agreed that the six fusil-bearing lads should all be marked with a cruorpunxis for their part. It would be a small drawing of a drip of blood, as was commonly awarded when a prentice had a hand in the slaying of a monster but the actual killer was not clear. In the bosom of many a hardened campaigner there rose too a genuine, almost paternal concern for the batch of young lantern-sticks. Such was this concern, it prompted the Lamplighter-Marshal to cancel the prentice-watch and move drills and tutelage normally conducted in the fields below Winstermill back within the fortress walls. Consequently, that afternoon, targets-the handling, firing, cleaning and right use of a fusil-was to be held in a long foyer of dark, aromatic wood called the Toxothanon in the westernmost end of the Low Gutter below the beautiful Hall of Pageants.
'Right, lads! Stand by twos at your lane!' Benedict, the Under-Sergeant-of-Prentices, stood behind the gaggle of lantern-sticks. 'After two months of this I am expecting good aim and handy reloading.' To those of Rossamund's watch he said, 'As for you lads who prevailed last night, I am expecting to be dazzled.'
Standing in her own firing lane beside Rossamund, Threnody took to the fusil with elegant aplomb, handling her firelock with an accomplishment equal to all but the frankest shot among the prentices. Much to Arabis' wry dismay, almost as many of Threnody's shots as his own found the center bull in the targets fixed to the great bales of straw at the farther end of the lanes. Benedict twice acknowledged her wicked aim and went as far as to say, 'You might make yourself useful yet, young lady.' Her self-satisfaction was so clear, Threnody almost glowed.
Unfortunately Rossamund, who was an indifferent shot at best, had the worst day at targets yet, missing many of his shots entirely, one ball lodging itself in a low crossing roof beam. His woeful aim did not, of course, escape the keen observation of the under-sergeant.
'Master Bookchild! For shame, not one solitary ball true, sir. Sergeant Grindrod would say your fusil work is a clattering, gaffing embarrassment and a wanton waste of powder. One night's pots-and-pans for you. Let's hope some good hours scrubbing will teach your arms to hold a franker aim.'
With sinking soul Rossamund kept to the work: make ready, present, level, fire-over and over, till they were lined up for Evening Forming and the quiet tolling of mains brought a merciful end to the training day.
Entering the manse via the Sally-the side door and only correct entry for the prentices into the manse-and stowing their fusils in the armory cupboard, the lads made their way back up to the mess hall and food. While they ate their boiled pork, boiled cabbage and soggy boiled rice, Mister Fleugh, an under-clerk to the Postmaster, hustled into the mess hall crying, 'Post is arrived!' An excited hubble-bubble warmed the room as the under-clerk extracted crushed packages and bent letters from a mostly empty satchel.
'Clothard… Onion Mole… Bookchild…'
Rossamund found a letter slapped before him, its water-stained and slightly smeared address still clearly stating: Master Rossamund Bookchild Apprenticed Lamplighter Winstermill Barracks The Harrowmath Sulk End
… written in Verline's unmistakable hand. Trembling with delight, he prized open the rough seal. Dated twenty-third of Brumis, it must have taken a week to make its way down the Humour through High Vesting and back up to Winstermill. It read: My dear courageous Rossamund,
Thank you, for your dear letter of the 13th of Pulchrys. What gladness we had at the news of your safe arrival-and my, what adventures you had! That Europa Branden Rose woman sounds very frightening, but what a thrill to meet someone so famous! You always wanted adventure, and had I been you I think I might have had my fill of it after such a journey. Little wonder you were at Winstermill fortress a week late. Still, far better late than absent.
My hope for you is that you are safe, that you are taking to your tasks with ease and that you have found like-minded souls there to share in further adventures, of which I am sure you are having many more.
Dear Master Fransitart is still determined to come to you. Time has done nothing to still his unease, and if, as you say, you know not of what troubles him, then I must confess to be at a loss. Craumpalin is no help. He and dear Fransitart worry like old women about you. In fact they seem to be having second thoughts about your life with the lamplighters, though since you say you are settling to the routine there they may be less troubled. I shall write more on this when I can.
What is joy, though, is that Master Craumpalin's restoratives have begun their marvels on your dear Master Fransitart and he suffers much less from the strains and aches of his seafaring ways. Your old dispenser sent beyond the Marrow to his contacts (he called them) for the scripts, and they have answered wonderfully. I do not fret for dear Fransitart's fortunes so much should he travel now.
Master Craumpalin is very happy with your report of how well his bothersalts performed. He bids me insist that you keep applying his nullodor, that you wear it at all times no matter where you are at. This was the first time I ever heard of such arrangements. I can only assume you know of what he speaks. He was in serious earnest when he declared this, so I offer to you to take him at his word and do as he bids.
Time for writing letters has come to its end, as anything worthy must.
Take great care of yourself. Return when you are at your liberty to do so. Forever your
P.S. Dear little Petite Fig (I am sure you remember her-how stoutly you defended her from the older boys). Well, the dear little one said that last night she saw Gosling moving about the street out front, spying on us from the lane across the way. Madam declared it impossible, but sent Master Fransitart and Barthomaeus with him to see. Of course they found nothing, and we are all perplexed. Even the littlest fret, for he has already become a frightful legend though gone only a month. I did hear that the lad had tried to reunite with his family, but that they did not want him back. (Who could spurn their own child so? It defies fathoming, as Master Fransitart would say.) So perhaps he has taken up loitering about here for want of anywhere else to go? I can only hope naught will come of it. The thought of his presence oppresses almost as much as when he lived with us. Fransitart will think of something.
Write back to me soon.
I wager he is hanging about the foundlingery. It's the kind of weak prank he would do. I am glad to be rid of him! Rossamund shook his head, banished any further thoughts of his old foundlingery foe and reread the welcome missive.
Threnody looked at him and then at the paper.
'You have received an amiable letter, I see,' she said.
'Aye, miss,' he replied, 'all the way from my old home.'
He was well aware that she had received no friendly communication from home: jealousy was writ clear on her face. With a slight cough, Rossamund put the letter away and began to eat.
While pudding (figgy dowdy filled with raisins and all poured over with a runny, barely sweet sauce) was being served, a summons came for Threnody from the Lady Dolours. Still suffering her fever, the bane had remained as a guest of the Lamplighter-Marshal, watching over the recovering Pandome and convalescing herself. The messenger-a little lighter's boy, too young to start his prenticing-delivered his message with many a faltering 'beg yer pardon' and clearing of the throat.
'I must go to take my alembants,' Threnody declared to Rossamund and, under the guidance of the small messenger, departed without another word. As she left, every other set of eyes but Rossamund's followed her and their gaze was not kind. She was going to take her plaudamentum, and whatever other draughts wits needed to keep their organs in check. Now that surely is an imposition! An image of Europe blossomed in Rossamund's memory, of her ailing by a dying fire, teeth blackened by the thick treacle she had drunk, dead grinnlings lying near. How glad he was not to be dependent on such foul chemistry.
At the very end of mains was a brief period called castigations. This was the time when the record of that day's minor infringements was reiterated and impositions meted out. Following centuries-old custom, Grindrod stood at the large double doors of the mess hall and boomed, 'Lamplighter-Sergeant-of-Prentices stands at the port!' An ancient civility: the prentices' mess hall was the refuge of the prentices alone, accessed by those of higher rank only after the senior-most prentice had granted permission.The boys ceased whatever they were doing and sat up straight. Arabis stood. In a clear confident voice he called, 'Cross the threshold and bear up to the hearth; this hall bids thee welcome!'
