dank ancient cellars and pipes. Rossamund was suddenly sharply aware he would probably never see the glimner again.
'I know you will keep care of him, Doctor,' he said low and fast. 'Tell him good-bye from me if you see him.'
Luggage stowed, Fransitart and Craumpalin clambered aboard with admirable activity in such aged fellows.
'Leave now.' Crispus slammed the door of the coach shut. 'Each moment makes tensions thicker.' He called to the driver, 'Drive hard, sir, and safe! Get these good people to better places!'
A crack of whip and shout of starting and the carriage shot forward. Rossamund held his breath, not quite believing he was actually winning free of this place. He caught one last confusing sight of Threnody staring after the departing carriage before they were through those mighty bronze gates. Only when the lentum clattered off the Serid Approach and on to the Gainway did Rossamund manage to breathe evenly again. As Craumpalin more properly bandaged Fransitart's puncted arm, Rossamund looked to his old master. Fransitart turned his gaze to him. Deep conflicts showed there, old sorrows and new, a great agonized confusion. It was the nearest Rossamund had seen his old dormitory master come to tears, and it terrified him more than any anger could.
'Master Fransitart?' Rossamund reached out with his hand. Don't cry… he wanted to say, but did not know how. A thousand thoughts collided. Who am I? Is what Swill says true? And as he looked again at his dormitory master, a small frightened voice, right down in his most inward place… Do you still love me?
'Don't ye fret, lad,' the old salt said with a determined smile, taking Rossamund's hand, 'we'll fathom ye out of all this.' The dormitory master looked to Europe.
The fulgar sat straight and proud, staring out of the opposite window, taking small notice of the man.
'Listen to thy ol' Master Frans,' Craumpalin encouraged as he finished his mending. 'He and I 'ave been in worse dilemmas. We'll see thee right.'
Yet as Rossamund smiled to reassure the old dispensurist, it was only face-deep. The doubts persisted. Am I truly some kind of half-done monster? Am I a manikin? A rossamunderling? It's like my stupid name… And a worse thought: Have Fransitart and Craumpalin been lying to me all these years? His smile failed altogether. WHO AM I? his soul cried. In a small voice he dared to ask, 'Master Fransitart, who am I?'
The confusion in the old vinegaroon's eyes deepened. His wrinkled lips pressed and squeezed together as, for the first time Rossamund had ever known, Fransitart was struck speechless.
In the aching muteness Europe turned and looked at Rossamund with a mild expression. 'Why, little man,' she said, 'you're my factotum.'
… And with the sun just reaching its meridian, the carriage clattered down the Gainway, bearing him, his one-time foundlingery masters and the mercurial fulgar to Silvernook, then perhaps to High Vesting and unguessable ends.
