Because the smell of the fog was there. Right there, nestled in the pages. Hugo felt the pull of it like a yearning for food or sleep when he hadn’t had any in a day or two. And just then, as the craving ache crested over him, the catalog fell open on his quilt, not to the index he’d been looking for, but to the weather section—as if the book itself had said, I know what you need better than you know it yourself, so let’s not waste time in searching. There, on the center of the page and nestled in an ornate frame, was the entry:
FOG
Obscurities and effluvia of all varieties and opacity, including MISTS, MIASMAS, MURKS, GLOOMS, BRUMES, HAZES, SMOGS, SMOKES, SMAZES, GROUND CLOUDS, VAPORS, FUGS, SEA-FOGS and SEA-SMOKES and STEAM.
Please specify any particulates to be included (viz. water, carbonized matter, aromatics, chemicals—for available chemical options, see CHEMICALS, page 200), optimal visibility and/or density (Ringelmann scale or pencil smudge acceptable), and preferred levels of humidity, corrosiveness, conductivity, temperature, and tenacity.
If uncertain about how best to compound your preferred fog, we will be happy to advise you; you may also order by location and allow us either to recommend the perfect fog for your current circumstances or to replicate the fog you remember.
A wide variety of soots may also be purchased separately (see COMBUSTION, page 132).
For medicinal smoke, please see supplemental informational form at back of catalog (APPENDIX C: FORMS). May be purchased concurrently with a DIAGNOSIS (see MEDICAL, page 37); however, Deacon and Morvengarde assumes no liability regarding potential side effects. All panaceas are dispensed at the patient’s own risk and responsibility.
As Hugo read the description, the scent of his fog curled deeper into his lungs, and by the time he had gotten to the pricing below, it wouldn’t have mattered what a true London particular would cost. Hugo couldn’t live without it, not now that he knew it could be had to order.
The price was high, but not impossibly so. It took him three weeks to save enough; then, on a Friday, he took his hard-earned money to the local offices of Deacon and Morvengarde and, with the help of the D&M representative, placed an order for his fog. He handed over his money and in exchange received a square blue receipt with gilded edges. Hugo carried the receipt in his wallet, afraid to let it leave his person. It had been a lot of money, after all; and the receipt itself was an attractive bit of paper, like one of the beautifully lettered prayers the church down the street handed out to parishioners each Sunday.
Hugo’s attractive bit of paper said his fog would be delivered in a week, which meant the following Friday, which was a sail-patching day. Hugo spent all morning, then all afternoon, then all evening on the docks as he worked, watching and waiting for the distinctive oily yellow of the pea-souper to come rolling down the Skidwrack, his nose lifted in case it caught the first hint of the London fog before his eyes did.
But the fog didn’t come.
At last, with his fingers bruised and his workday done, Hugo set off for home, torn between indignation that the famed Deacon and Morvengarde hadn’t delivered on the day they’d promised and humiliation at having believed even for a moment that any sort of weather could be dispensed this way. He slunk into his lodging house and climbed the stairs glumly, cursing himself for wasting money on something so foolish.
There was a parcel waiting before his door.
It bore a blue-and-gilt label that exactly matched the receipt in Hugo’s wallet. He picked it up gingerly. Something inside shifted, and there again was the smell: the exact, the precise, the very odor he remembered.
Inside his room, Hugo undid the parcel and found, nestled in straw and wrapped in tissue, a round box about the size of his palm, made of smoked glass. Except no—the glass wasn’t smoked. That swirl was the fog itself, roiling against the lid in yellow and brown and gray and all the shades the London particular could take, its colors shifting and swirling like the blues and oranges of an opal. Except no opal could’ve been as pretty; not to Hugo, not just then.
He stared at the fog in its glass container for a few minutes, marveling at what he held. Then he glanced back into the package and found a small piece of folded paper that had been tucked inside the tissue. Unfolding it, he read:
Enclosed please find your purchase of one (1) genuine London Fog. Please take care when handling and do not attempt to contain fog in any vessel other than the one in which it was shipped. To release fog, turn lid widdershins; to recall fog, turn lid sunwise. Please note that the box lid should never be fully removed. We hope you enjoy your purchase and will not hesitate to contact us if we may be of further assistance.
Yours,
Deacon and Morvengarde, Incorporated.
Purveyors of Goods, Services, and Expressage.
Trusted since time immemorial.
Hugo carried the box carefully to his window, which looked out over the river. His fingers tingled as he pushed up the sash. He made himself count to ten, then, leaning out into the night, turned the lid one rotation counterclockwise.
Instantly, a thick, smoky fug sifted out from under the glass, spilling free on all sides, so that the runnels of fog combined with the round dome of the box put Hugo immediately in mind of a strange, smoke-tentacled jellyfish. The sensation of the fog was heartbreakingly familiar as it poured over the sides of his hand: it really did have a feel to it, an actual thickness, almost a weight. It rolled down
