“Miss?”

Europe turned her hazel gaze to him. “Yes, little man?”

He fidgeted. “What . . . what do you think of my name?”

The fulgar looked annoyed. “How do you mean, think?”

“Well, it’s not a name meant for a boy. Did you know that?”

Her expression relaxed. She laughed her liquid chortle. “Oh, I seeee! So, some would have it meant for a girl? What concern is it of mine how your sires chose to label you? Things are more than their names. If you were anointed ‘Dunghead,’ I’d still call you that without teasing or embarrassment. It’s just a word, little man.” She gave him a soft look—faint, but unusually kind.

Rossamünd’s heart sang a little. The fulgar might have gone some small way to redeeming herself for the harm done at the Brindlestow Bridge.

For a time she did not speak, and Rossamünd went to leave. Europe reached over and touched him on the arm. She said, very quietly, “I understand why you asked me this, though, and I’m sure it has been a great inconvenience to you for much of your life.”

He blinked at her capricious kindness. After a moment he answered, “Aye, ma’am, it has at that. They would call me ‘Rosy Posy’ or ‘Girly-man’ or ‘M’lady’ or . . . or more things besides.”

The fulgar contemplated him with a serious eye. “Hardly surprising. Children begin the cruel career of the untamed tongue almost as soon as they can talk.” She paused, and continued to look at him intently. He took the bowl from her to give himself something to do under that uncomfortable gaze.

“I hope you learn to master your hurts, little man.”

Rossamünd kept his eyes on the black dregs in the bottom of the bowl. “Oh, I just ignored them, stayed out of the way as much as possible. Master Fransitart and Verline looked after me very well, anyways, so I don’t mind.”

Europe shifted in her seat. “So, who are these—Master Fransitart and . . . Verline?” she asked, pulling out a small, black lacquered box.

Rossamünd relaxed. “Oh, Master Fransitart is . . . was my dormitory master, though not the only one: there’s Craumpalin and Heddlebulk, Instructor Barthomæus and Undermaster Cuspin . . .”

Europe’s eyes glazed and she went back to looking at the fire. It appeared that she had lost interest.

“. . . and Verline is Madam Opera’s parlor maid, but she took special care of me,” Rossamünd said, finishing quickly, wanting at least to answer her original question.

“Madam Opera, now?” Europe’s attention fixed on him again and she lifted one brow in her characteristic manner. “Enough names.Your first years sound almost as complicated as mine were. Go away now, little man. A woman must have her privacy. Let me know as soon as . . . Licurius’ body . . . and the landaulet are fetched back.” Her shoulders sagged and, even though she had just risen, she looked very tired.

Rossamünd nodded a little bow and, holding the soup bowl in one hand and picking up his almanac in the other, went to leave. As he opened the door, Europe called, “And tell them not to disturb me.”

“Yes, Miss Europe.”

As confused as he had ever been after a conversation with the fulgar, Rossamünd went to the common room. Strangely, he also felt lighter than he had for many days. He read his almanac and sipped on a mug of small beer. In 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.

Rossamünd 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.”

Rossamünd’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, Rossamünd 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, Rossamünd 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 Rossamünd left, she called to him. Her eyes were hard and her expression brittle. “We will need a new driver,” she said.

Rossamünd 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, Rossamünd 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 Rossamünd 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 Rossamünd 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. Rossamünd wondered what she might be doing in this remote region. Looking for “Clunes” in his almanac, Rossamünd 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. Rossamünd could not tell whether she slept or simply ignored him, and cared little for the risk to find out which.

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 Rossamünd’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 Rossamünd strained to keep pace. It was hard work and left little breath for conversation. The page boy kept looking about nervously, and Rossamünd 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 Rossamünd 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 Rossamünd 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. Rossamünd 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, Rossamünd 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 Rossamünd 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 Rossamünd, 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 Rossamünd, 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. Rossamünd 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 Rossamünd did just that.

There was a long pause.

He tried again, and the portal was finally opened, a thin, grudging gap.

“Hello,” Rossamünd began, hands clasped meekly. “Do you have any drivers in there?”

The gap increased slightly.

“You what?” came a sour voice from within.

Rossamünd cleared his throat nervously. “I . . . uh, we are needing to hire someone to drive the landaulet down to High Vesting. Um, we’re at the Harefoot Dig, you see, and . . .”

“You want someone to go with you down to the Dig,” the sour voice demanded, “so they can drive some cart to High Vesting, aye?”

“Ah . . . aye.”

“And how much you got in your purse?”

“I . . . um . . .” Flustered, Rossamünd counted his coins. “One sequin, a florin and eight guise.”

“I seeeee.” The sour voice sounded less than convinced. “Wait there.”

The door closed with a bang.

Fidgeting, Rossamünd was made to wait what felt like an overlong time.

Finally the scarlet door was pulled open a crack once more. “Sorry, no drivers available,” the sour voice declared, sounding almost triumphant. “Too busy! Try the Drained Mouse on Fossick’s Cauld—plenty of desperate lads there. Good-bye.”

“But wait, I don’t . . .”

The door closed with an even louder, all-questions-ending bang.

Even before Rossamünd had a chance to turn and walk away in disgust, the door was opened once again, wide this time. “So yer need some help with a driver, do yer?” a voice inquired.

Before him stood a cheerful-looking man with a ready, toothy smile and large ears that stuck out prominently, made more obvious by his hair, which was unfashionably short like Rossamünd’s. This fellow was dressed in drab, sturdy proofing: a jackcoat strapped all the way down the front; longshanks of a thick, corded material; and white gaiters reaching as high as the knee fastened over sturdy dark brown road-shoes. Wound tightly about his waist was a broad sash, and fixed by black ribbons to both arms were broad oversleeves of a brightly colored taffeta of rouge and cadmium checkers.

Rossamünd instantly recognized the mottle of a postman, those faithful fellows who braved bandits and bogles and foul weather to deliver mail to and from the scattered folk of the country. The colorful cloth was set off nicely against his otherwise dull attire, and made the man look important and serious, quite at odds with his friendly expression. In his hand he held a black tricorn.

Rossamünd frowned at him, not knowing how to answer.

“Hello, lad, sorry about being so abrupt. Just had ter make sure I got t’ yer in time. My name is Fouracres.” The man reached out a hand for Rossamünd to shake.

The boy did just that, as Fransitart had taught him to, looking up at the man’s face seriously. “Hello, Mister Fouracres. I’m Rossamünd.You’re a postman, aren’t you?”

The fellow nodded smartly. “Yes, lad, that I am—bit obvious, ain’t it? Rossamünd, yer say? Well, Mister Rossamünd, those other slothful souses in there might not want to help, but I may be of service to yer.”

“How so, sir?”

“Well, I’m needed in High Vesting, yer see, and I couldn’t help hearing yer needed a driver to take yer ter High Vesting, so I think: two people, same problem, one solution. I’d like ter offer me services to yer as the driver yer need. I’m not as well practiced as these daily-driving gentlemen—I’m a walker, yer see—but I still know how to switch a rein.”

Rossamünd did not care what the man’s credentials were: he could drive, that was all he wanted to know. He accepted Fouracres’ offer with glee.

The postman bowed humbly. “Just wait by the front of the office, and I will join yer as soon as I’m able,” he offered with a grin.

With many an exuberant thank you, sir! Rossamünd went back through the Imperial Postal Office and waited on the street out in front. It took a long time for the postman to emerge. As Rossamünd waited, with people and vehicles bustling by, he began fretting that he had been duped by the unwilling people inside the coachman’s cottage. His fears proved unfounded, however, for Fouracres arrived soon enough, hat on head, bag full of dispatches on his back and a satchel over his shoulder—ready to leave. Before much longer they were walking back out the gates of Silvernook and returning down the road to the Harefoot Dig.

Rossamünd had found a driver!