I’m a priest! My title is Reverend, not Mr.!”
The Yatsill made a rapid clacking noise that sounded like a close approximation of laughter.
“Really! My dear sir! I’m the priest! Now don’t you go getting ideas above your station! It’s unseemly! Very bad form! Oh, dear me, yes!”
“If you would simply explain—”
Colonel Spearjab interrupted. “Humph! Mademoiselle, you were obviously quite right in your assertion that these two are a dissonance. Perhaps, then, we should postpone any conversation about the roles they will play in our society until we have arrived at Yatsillat. What! What! I’m certain the Circle of Elders—”
“The House of Lords,” Mademoiselle Clattersmash corrected.
“Ah, yes. I do beg your pardon, the House of Lords—”
“And the Council of Magicians.”
“Absolutely! Indubitably! Most certainly! Ha ha! I am certain that both august bodies will be eager to interview our new friends, so let us leave the questions and decisions until then, hey, what? Our responsibility, for now, should be nothing more than to get back home as rapidly as possible.”
Mademoiselle Clattersmash nodded. “Very well. I acquiesce.” She turned to me. “You’ll not object to nursing Miss Stark, Mr. Fleischer?”
“Of course not!”
“Marvellous!” Colonel Spearjab enthused. He clapped his hands together. “Let us enjoy the journey, then! Smell that air! As fresh as a daisy! As a daisy, I say!” He looked down at me. “Incidentally, what in blue blazes is a daisy?”
° °
I was confused. The Yatsill were speaking English and I had no idea how or why.
The Aristocrats had taken on outlandish names: Colonel Momentous Spearjab; Mademoiselle Crockery Clattersmash; Sir Gracious Whipstripes; The Right Honourable Stirpot Quickly; and Lady Falldown Bruisebad. The Shunned—who were now, extraordinarily, referred to as “the Working Class”—went by the less extravagant appellations of Timothy Almost, Nicely Lookout, Sally Furniture, Dentworth Frosty, Jane Cough-Cough, and Harry Flopsoon.
It was madness. Total madness.
And the journey went on and on. The Ptall’kor clutched at grass and pulled itself over savannah, clutched at reeds and pulled itself along river courses, clutched at rocks and pulled itself across hillsides, clutched at trees and pulled itself over forests.
Mile after mile.
The three unconscious children regained their senses and I immediately realised they’d been transformed. Now, rather than sitting quietly like their “Working Class” fellows, they conversed in English with the other Aristocrats.
The Koluwaians retained the names they’d had before and still spoke their own language, to which the Yatsill switched when addressing them. The islanders were repeatedly referred to as “Servants,” and I was counted among their number.
I was not inclined to ponder over these mysteries. I was too concerned for Clarissa, who remained unconscious and appeared to be in extreme pain. She writhed and jerked and moaned and whimpered constantly, and all the while her bones produced sickening creaks and crunches and crackles. Something was happening to her, that much was certain, but it took me a long time to recognise what.
Realisation, when it came, was akin to a revelation. I was witnessing a miracle. My friend was being corrected.
Her bones were straightening. Her surgical scars were fading. The white streaks in her hair were darkening. And it finally became apparent that she was growing taller.
I must have slept at least fifteen times, and if the period between each sleep was the length of an Earth day, then it took more than a fortnight to travel from the Shrouded Mountains to Yatsillat.
Clarissa Stark awoke on the equivalent, I estimated, of the twelfth day.
She sat up and stretched. Her limbs were long and, dare I say it, magnificent. Her shape had altered so much that her trousers now only reached her calves and her shirt had ripped. Her black hair cascaded down to the middle of her straight back. Her skin was deeply tanned but smooth and unmarked.
“I feel funny,” she said.
I tried to speak but could only emit a croak.
“Good gracious, Aiden! Whatever is the matter with you? Have you caught a cold?”
“You—you—you look t-tremendous!” I stammered. “I mean—it’s unbelievable!”
She frowned, then uttered a small cry and put a hand to her blindfold. “What are these things on my forehead?”
“You were knocked into the pool. I dragged you out. When you emerged, there were little bumps over your eyes, like the Aristocrats possess.”
“Aristocrats?”
“The Wise Ones.”
“But why do you call them aristocrats?”
Ignoring the question, I blurted, “Clarissa! You’ve been mended! Your legs and back are straight! You are beautiful! Utterly beautiful!”
She made a noise, almost a bleat, ran her hands over her legs, then reached over her shoulder and tried to touch her spine.
“Put your