Chapter 7 - Park Walk
Time blustered by…
“The day’s unusually ripe. Wonderful for a stroll,” said Mr. Grey. As he spoke, an ashen jelly rain pattered atop his umbrella hat and soiled the hem of his robe.
“Fact,” said Honeydew nodding her agreement. “Weather odds weren’t lovely, but we spun lucky.”
Mr. Grey felt that this had been an appropriately stimulating exchange of observations. Mr. Grey decided to let the conversation idle. Honeydew seemed to decide the same. She said no more. Mr. Grey took the chance to reflect on the pleasant weather.
Let it be said that the day was unusually good for a walk in the park. The slimy, ashen downpour was not dropping as coldly or peltingly as it normally did in the parks at Starharbor’s edge. The rain plopping down around the walking pair didn’t cling and congeal into frosty jelly, as was its custom. Today, the dark aspic only dripped complacently from their sheltering pigskin hats; thudding to the sidewalk in fat globules; running across the cobblestone path in not-so-viscous streams; slithering down sewer pipes, or ducking and hiding in nearby ditches. Further abroad, beyond the plowed path, the jelly rain joined the jiggly blanket already covering the hills and valleys, themselves varnished with a lighter glister of slime than was natural. The rain made such a vibrant, wet, splashing static as it fell, that the little downpour sounded almost merry. As though the jelly itself could not help but laugh and dance on such a grand day, in such a splendid park, so fine for walking.
Mr. Grey felt that the rain’s hum - joyful as it sounded - began to fill too long a stretch of time; to feel that their moment of walking side-by-side beneath the downpour now slipped from a pleasant, contemplative silence into an awkward one. He considered which question to bring forward, which topic would fill the gap. The mind list Mr. Grey had memorized for the outing still held whole pages of unexplored conversational topics.
Mr. Grey decided to ask Honeydew about her job. He let a few more steps of cobblestone path splash onto his robe while he considered the most natural way of introducing the question. Then he said, “I guess you get fewer wheelhouse visitors? On these finer days?”
Honeydew smiled and loped lightly through the rain beside Mr. Grey. “Not as many. Though chances are good the ones who show up are a headache — Click.” Honeydew’s last sound expressed contempt. “They’re the obsessed kinds. Living in the wheelhouse. Not just fixed the wheels, though they’ve surely got the vacant stare and unthinking jerk-spin mastered. They slaver over the whole house atmosphere: the lights, the meals, the enchantment. They stroll in, bawdy like a bricklayer. They pester the barman for an appetizer, bug me for a main course, and throw treasure on bad wheel stakes for supper.”
Mr. Grey stepped around a standing jelly puddle. “I suppose you’re an even better selector of stakes than the regulars.”
“I’ll say. These obsessives just use the wheels to maintain rank with The Harbor’s other destitutes. The way they lay their stakes… Shameful. Tossing half the shiny pebbles they’ve scraped up on a sixty-fourth space of upper wedge. No rhythm to the bets. The weirdest part is; the loss doesn’t crush them. Dropping half a ‘trove’ and losing it should sting. But these fixed ones are desensitized to the loss. They wander to the next disappointment like led livestock.”
A dip in the path where the jelly massed deeply forced the pair to walk with delicacy, lest a vigorous step soak their shoes and hems in jelly.
Honeydew turned her head and watched the falling rain jiggle in the hills. Mr. Grey took this as another successful exchange, another moment for reflection. He returned to the list of topics and questions. He’d pencil pushed his questions into parchment first, then memorized it for the outing. He prepared a long list, just in case. Mr. Grey had devoted a full evening at the workers’ prison to its creation; scribbling away at his austere desk in the cell’s corner. He’d paced back and forth around the brick walled box, list in hand, mentally reciting each item. He wanted no risk of falling short on things to discuss.
Yet, while Mr. Grey still saw a broad selection in his mind, it quickly dwindled. Mr. Grey presented each new topic, they discussed it in a brief trade of sentences, then they resumed a silence. He’d expected each trading of thoughts to last longer. But Mr. Grey let the worry retreat, somewhere to the back of his mind. Each topic went off so perfectly - on the fine day at the park - that he felt each nothing less than a spectacular show of friendship; the kind only achievable between very good friends. That was the thought he dragged to his brain’s front. His face expressed no anxiety. Not that it ever would have…
Despite careful steps, The drizzle wetted Mr. Grey’s grey robe. The Wind - calmed since their balloon lift meeting, but still Gaunt, Brooding, and Hungry - kept tossing drops of slime into his back. Additionally, other pairs of walkers who were also enjoying the fine weather and coming the opposite way forced Mr. Grey to step through shallow puddles in the path. The conniving duos of cobblestone-and-puddle used those moments to soak him. But Mr. Grey felt no ill will toward the passers. They were, perhaps, more regular walkers in the park, and thus had more right to the driest sections of path. And besides, Mr. Grey thought Honeydew a better companion than any member of the other pairs. His conversation with her flowed so very naturally, after all.
Plus, Honeydew was beautiful. Her umbrella hat swooped around her head as a floating shield of semi-translucent, fine stitched pig leather. Atop the dandelion-eye signature robe, she wore a licorice coat with round, pearlescent buttons. The outfit complemented her eyes, but hadn’t the contour of a dream of transcending those lambent twins; full to bursting with an alert intelligence; dark, gleaming, vibrant, and with something primeval about them - like a blistering sun reflected off a desert oil spill.
Mr. Grey let his own matte eyes wander the drizzly distance. He watched a group of children trade the handle of a kite shaped like a butterfly as they frolicked the jelly hills. The kite flew defiant against the rain. The hatless, soaking kids laughed heedlessly in their fun.
Mr. Grey was readying his next topic, when he heard Honeydew breathe in sharply. She said, “I haven’t driven a steam swan in epochs! Let’s rent one.”
Mr. Grey saw the swan rental stand beside the path. He agreed. Honeydew grabbed Mr. Grey’s hand and led him. He was glad she did it. It spared Mr. Grey the trouble of awkwardly figuring out the appropriate moment to hold hands.
Mr. Grey pulled with his full body on the reins controlling the leftmost leg of the tall, gangly, mechanical steam swan. That same riveted-metal appendage plunged forward and touched ground with a sharp slap. Beside Mr. Grey in the swan’s cab, Honeydew labored with the right leg. She twisted her reins like a tourniquet then released them in a propeller spin. The limb scrunched itself up with the sound of grinding gearworks. Then it suddenly extended with a hissing release of steam.
Their combined efforts sent the steam swan lurching offroad. It landed shakily on its strut legs and splashed with webbed feet among the tiny shriveled beanstalks just shooting over the jellied hills. Atop the legs, high above the ground, their control cab tilted. The two of them leaned on the driver bench.
Every moment Mr. Grey expected a crash. He and Honeydew had lost control the instant they’d tried the evasive maneuver, and each tock after had been a notch up on Mr. Grey’s nerves. At least, he thought, their trick had saved them from colliding with the better-piloted swan which had come at them from the opposite direction.
But Mr. Grey and Honeydew, instead of crashing, gradually twisted and tugged at the different sets of reins. They managed to straighten out the vehicle’s stride, and return onto the road.
“I remember these being easier to pilot,” said Honeydew. She took deep breaths, and used a rare free hand to smooth her cornsilk hair.
“You have experience piloting swans?” asked Mr. Grey. Sweat forced its way onto his skin, and he wiped at it with the sleeve of his robe.
“Every day when I was a girl at drilling school. If you’d taken a stroll back then, odds are you’d see me and some copilot. Galloping down the straights. Hurtling the corners. I had lots of copilots. I learned to harmonize fast at the reins.”
“It’s just something we need practice doing together. Maybe we can master a few gaits before the day’s up.”
“We might figure out a trot,” Honeydew looked at the passing scenery. “I do have work at sunset. We’ll need to return the rental soon.”
“Well, you know, I fancy it’s a good thing the sun’s not showing itself then,” said Mr. Grey, glancing at the overcast sky. He’d been unsure of the joke when he started it; by the end, his voice had abandoned humor for a more-dignified, flat tone. He thought to rescue it with a smile, but Mr. Grey’s face had never quite understood that positioning of lips and cheeks and teeth. He abandoned the smile as well. Honeydew said nothing. Mr. Grey thought that perfectly excusable. He smoothed some lingering lines on his robe and cheeks, and decided to practice his humor before future outings.
Mr. Grey noticed Honeydew still looking out of the swan’s open side, where the rain drizzled beyond their canopied cab. He said, “It may be a jostley ride, but you can’t beat the view.”
“That’s true,” said Honeydew. She glanced at him with those dark and shiny eyes, then turned back to the scene. “Beats the view any grounded goer has in this park. And the clouds don’t shear every sight like in downtown.”
Their swan now plodded at a steady gait. Honeydew entrusted her set of reigns to Mr. Grey’s hands and leaned against one of the box’s metal supports with a relaxed attitude.
The driver’s box, or cab, of the steam swan was an open air style. A canopied roof of thick pigskin kept the gentle downpour off their heads. They sat on a grated metal bench, over a thick metal chassis, high on the set of creaky metal legs. Their eyes would sometimes turn slowly across the whole open front for a panoramic view of the park. Each time Mr. Grey yanked upwards at the reins the swan’s feet squelched over the slimy cobblestones. He pulled harder on the leftmost set, and the box twisted accordingly. Honeydew received the perfect view of a distant pond, without the need for so much as a twitch in her neck. The pristine jelly of the pond jiggled in the breeze; it captured the portrait of overhead clouds as glossy, wet, warbly paint on its strawberry surface. On the opposite bank, the skulk of capering kids continued battling the rain and Wind for control of their butterfly kite.
Speaking of the Gaunt, Brooding, Hungry Wind; at that moment she inserted her presence. She carried the drone of furry pufferfrogs from the reeded edge of the pond to Mr. Grey and Honeydew’s ears. The Wind dropped unceremoniously into the bench beside them and tugged on their sleeves. She drawled at them in a nasally tone. “What wonder! Spying a rock and a melon in such haunts.” Evidently, The Wind had her poetic airs on.
Honeydew nodded curtly. Mr. Grey said, “Hello Wind. I don’t mean offense… You sound a little down right now.”
The Wind rustled the pigskin canopy of the swan with a tragic sigh. “It’s a cooooldddd,” she moaned.
Mr. Grey expressed his sympathy, Honeydew did not. The Wind tried antagonizing them by bringing her chilliest breeze into the swan’s elevated box, and by waxing in halfhearted, flowery speech about her misery. The Wind eventually saw, however, that she only made a third wheel of herself. The Gaunt, Brooding, Hungry Wind floated soberly away, though she left her cold currents inside their swan. Neither were concerned; both Mr. Grey and Honeydew had wrapped up for cold weather. Honeydew affected a little shiver anyway, but only for show. The breeze had a brisk flavor to it, almost restorative in its freshness. It carried the melodies of the park, and occasional popping booms from pufferfrogs, which explode when exposed to ice.
Mr. Grey twisted and pulled at the twin set of reins. Their swan steamed, and huffed, and splattered along the park path. The Wind tossed another noise their way as they kept their course. Mr. Grey heard treasure clinking in waterfall sheets, and a chorus of high-laughed merrymaking, signature sounds of a fortune being dispersed from a wheelhouse. Mr. Grey swiveled their swan in the sound’s direction.
Even in this nature park, it seemed, the wheels were inescapable. This wheelhouse was neither spectacular, nor shabby, nor themed to fit into its atmosphere. It hung on an offshoot of the stony park path, between a ripply hill of jelly and a flat expanse of public bean field. The walls rose out of painted, polka-dot bricks and supported a copper sheeted roof. Under its eaves and gables, flamelights shot warm, bright plumes to dazzle the passersby.
Mr. Grey pointed out the structure while keeping both reins in one dry-hand-grip. He said, “Any bells or whistles on your wheelhouse like this one’s polka-dots?”
Honeydew smiled and said, “I didn’t realize we’d driven so far. That’s actually where I play hostess. In fact,” she added, after sticking her head out and failing to get the time from the cloud-covered sky, “you’re comfortable piloting this beast. Just drop me off outside.”
Mr. Grey’s fingers tightened around both sets of reins. His spine stiffened, more than usual. “I’d like to return the Swan together, I think. After all, I shouldn’t be solo piloting without a license.” In his eager reverie Mr. Grey forgot he wasn’t supposed to handle both reins by himself; even if some crack-pot pilots had, misguidedly and incorrectly, advocated for the ease of piloting alone versus copiloting. Mr. Grey didn’t have his swan license. He held the rightmost reins out to Honeydew.
Honeydew didn’t take them. She said, “Don’t shudder over it.” She clicked once for reassurance. “You’ve handled it fantastically.”
“I’m concerned about getting ticketed is all.”
“Oh… Well if you’re uncomfortable I can ride with you.” Honeydew leaned against the canopy support and once more wandered the passing scenery with her dark eyes. She left both reins in Mr. Grey’s hands. He continued piloting the swan alone.
Mr. Grey said, “We’ll return to the stand then?”
Honeydew nodded and said politely, “Yep. I’ve got to hustle before sunset.”
Mr. Grey pulled down with the tight knuckled left hand and yanked up with his dry right. The swan spun and stumbled, like a living swan too deep in its cups. Mr. Grey eventually managed a 180-degree spin, and got them plodding with even, mechanical strides, back the way they’d come.
The whirring and splashing of the steam swan melded with the rain and Wind to fill a new silent gulf. Mr. Grey returned to his mental list. He fixed his eyes ahead, but seemed to look beyond the jelly spattered cobblestones, beyond the jelly spattered hills, and all the way through Starharbor’s rigid skyline. Over their walk and swan ride, the list had shrunk. Now only a few sparse questions remained un-struck-through. Mr. Grey wondered if other people came up with longer lists for outings of the park walk variety. Mr. Grey resolved to write out and memorize a list twice as long next time. He never once wondered why Honeydew kept almost all the questions and topics unspoken from her own mental list. Mr. Grey thought she must have been too busy to make one. Or, that they’d had duplicates on their lists, in which case Mr. Grey could only blame himself for broaching them all without giving her the chance.
Mr. Grey twice more tried crossing that sticky, viscous, awkward silence between himself and Honeydew. Both times, Mr. Grey ended by retreating to the harbor of his own thoughts. She replied to his comments in short-word chords, sometimes accompanied with a shrug, or a yawn. She seemed languid. Perhaps he’d asked too many questions? Mr. Grey wondered if he’d had too much variety, and needed to group his questions by topic. But he squared himself up. Mr. Grey refused to let his spirits flag simply because their perfect discourse fell short - naturally, it would - when he ran out of things to say.
Mr. Grey veered the swan around a bend in the cobblestone path, where some small cliffs dripping with jelly blocked his forward view. Another swan came suddenly galloping round in the opposite direction. It moved in quick, controlled hisses of steam. Mr. Grey lost his handle on the double reins. He jerked upward on the right set. Their swan reeled backwards and to the side. Mr. Grey and Honeydew leaned precariously on the bench and nearly tumbled through the open air window.
By economical and altogether undignified yanking, grabbing, and twisting at the leather leads, Mr. Grey wrestled their swan into a tottering - but stable - stance. After regaining control he quickly passed the right reins to Honeydew. She accepted them without resistance. The other swan, meanwhile, came to an easy stop beside them. It settled into a comfortable half crouch on buckled metal knees. The other pilot must have had his license, for the other swan’s box held only one person.
The man wore a glowing, superfine wool robe with tails; cut so perfectly to his figure, that the driest school textbook, bound by the wisest and most careful scribe in the king’s service, must have envied its lack of creases. His every movement caught even the dim light of the cloudy, waning day on his robe, and returned it outward in a thousand shining blades. The pattern was like translucent grass, night-lit by stars crouching behind the blades. Even had his robe not been outstanding, the man’s features would have marked him as nobility. His jaw was square, his hair was fair, and his skin had evidently abolished pores early in his adulthood.
The man hailed them with a carefree wave of one hand. With the other, he easily controlled both sets of his swan’s reins. He called across the short space between their cabs in a voice like a harpsichord. “Gracious! Nearly a calamitous collision. Dare I say you’re unequal - dare I go further, and say unapproved? - for the handling of your conveyance? I might well dare indeed, sir,” He addressed these words to Mr. Grey, and followed them with a hard stare across the gap. Mr. Grey stared back; perhaps with resentment, but more likely out of an indecision of words.
Mr. Grey did not lose staring contests.
The other man broke. He let an easy smile replace the stern glower on his flawless face. With another careless wave of an oh-so-delicate hand, he said, “A jest, my good sir! Surely I’d have been similarly rankled, if you’d drove at me as abruptly and recklessly as I did you.” With one twang of laughter, he added, “And if I weren’t such an old hand at these rusted transports!”
Honeydew sat up. Following a sharp click, she said, “Must be you’re in a temper then; being an ‘old hand’, but still zigzagging at us.”
Feeling that the fault lay in his own inexperience, Mr. Grey had an apology halfway to his lips. But the gentleman across the gap twanged another laugh before Mr. Grey could speak. “I daresay you’re right. I beg innumerable pardons.” Honeydew relaxed the shoulders she’d been hunching, though her eyes kept their attentive shine. The man went on, “Neon Silveste. Your servant, ma’am and sir.”
Mr. Grey and Honeydew introduced themselves. When neither Mr. Silveste nor Honeydew spoke up, Mr. Grey used the moment to give his plain apology. Neon Silveste accepted it, and an amicable atmosphere bloomed between the two swans. The swan carrying Mr. Grey and Honeydew bucked still under the pair’s uncoordinated handling, but both birds stayed in chatting range. A short exchange began.
After a few further insignificant introductory remarks, Neon Silveste picked up the apologetic thread. “I confess I’m still cut up over my part in our near mishap just now.”
“I believe the fault was mine,” said Mr. Grey.
Honeydew whisked a hand in the air. “It’s no one’s fault. Chance alone arranges these affairs, and chooses the outcome.”
Neon Silveste reached to rub at his face but stopped himself before the fingers touched his acneless cheek. Instead he dropped the hand to his knee in an emphatic fist. “There’s a truth in that… Even so, I’d be less troubled by the ‘affair’ if you two allowed me some redemption. Will you honor me by hearing a short suggestion?”
“You have us intrigued,” Honeydew answered. Her eyes watched Neon. Mr. Grey nodded.
“I’ve got a droll little party to attend,” he began. “Nothing splendid and no one noteworthy, you understand. A few lords and ladies - unfortunate acquaintances of mine - and their escorts. Held at such-and-such’s stilt manor, downtown. They’ll be dreadfully dull partners at conversation. You’d be doing me the finest favor by attending. You’d be the only ones worth talking to.” As an afterthought he added, “Naturally you’ll be wanting my card.”
Mr. Grey watched Neon Silveste reach a languid arm to the deck of his swan and pull up one of the vehicle’s complementary fishing rods. Neon kept dexterous control of his ride with the leashes tucked into an armpit. He reached into a front pocket of the glimmering grass robe and drew a shiny piece of parchment. He hooked it on the rod, sent the hooked parchment soaring across the gap, and landed it neatly on the bench between Mr. Grey and Honeydew.
Honeydew swept the card up and read. She held it by the edges for Mr. Grey to see. Mr. Grey leaned closer to get a glance, while maintaining his arms’ position and control of the left reins.
Inspecting the card, Mr. Grey expressed no surprise - or any other emotion, for that matter - that Neon Silveste held the rank of ‘lord’, which generally came with better benefits than the ranks beneath it. Neon owned such-and-such a stilt manor himself, in this-and-that district of the city. But the dwarfish piece of parchment didn’t limit itself to names, titles, and addresses. No, no, no; this was a card, fit for the lord it belonged to. Scrunched and stuffed onto both sides of the shiny rectangle of parchment were all manner of personal details about Neon Silveste. Everything from medical history, to the names of his family, to the names of his pets, to hobbies, spiritual beliefs, existence-events, job history (a comparatively small category, in that it only listed prior experience as ‘something of a poet’), and even such details as his favorite metallic compounds, favorite flowers (violet, iris, and primrose), and favorite combinations of words. This surplus of text was almost more information than the card cared to hold, definitely more information than any acquaintance needed, and probably more information than anyone but Neon Silveste himself wanted to see. More succinctly; Neon Silveste’s card was like most peoples’.
Honeydew finished skimming the tiny parchment and Mr. Grey finished reading the full text. Honeydew looked at Mr. Grey with an awkward glance. Mr. Grey hooked the card back onto the fishing rod and let Neon reel it in.
Neon began to say, “If that’s all to your liking, I’d be pleased to introduce your names…”
Honeydew interrupted him. “I’m not a lady.”
Mr. Grey added, “Nor am I, sir. A lord, I mean…”
“Reallytruly?” asked Neon Silveste. He put on a surprised expression. “On my word, Mr. Grey and Honeydew, I simply shall not believe that.”
They assured him that it was true.
“Gracious! By the stars in the celestial domain; hidden behind the curtains of grey sky; peering down in occasional interest on our mundane mortal affairs; I say that by these same stars, I would never have believed it - sir! Ma’am! - were it told to me by anybody else.”
They assured him, again, that it was true.
“I’m ashamed,” said Neon. He painted an embarrassed flush over his cheeks. “I’ve thrust us into an awkward strain. Of course I can bring a guest. I’d be more than happy to. Indeed I would! But more than one guest… that’s poor etiquette. Surely you, Mr. Grey - or you, Honeydew - have another lord or lady you could recommend and accompany? How about it? I’ll take one of you as a guest. Some so-and-so acquaintance of yours shall invite the other.”
Honeydew shook her head. Mr. Grey - still leaning and tugging to control his half of the swan - said, “Sir, I’m sorry to say I don’t know any lords or ladies personally. But don’t put yourself in bad graces with your friends. Not on my behalf.”
“Well, alright. But only on your word to let me make this up to you another time, Mr. Grey. Only if you’ll give me your oath on that.”
“There’s nothing to…”
“I should cease existence! I will, without the promise of making this right.”
Neon Silveste entreated Mr. Grey with a theatrical performance of waving arms, stamping legs, and perfectly formed expressions. His show extended to the swan. It buckled and teetered with such agitation that - fearing for the young noble’s health - Mr. Grey accepted. Mr. Grey seemed almost relieved about escaping Neon’s invitation, by the way his knuckles relaxed in their grip on the swan’s leash.
Neon said, “Honeydew, I daren’t beg your company. Someone of your distinguished character - carrying the atmosphere of a lady if not the title! - surely has her existence scheduled a dozen eons out.”
Despite this being at odds with Neon’s offer of only moments past, Honeydew answered quite plainly that she, “hadn’t planned any spectacular outings for the next few evenings,” and would be delighted to attend.
Mr. Grey smoothed his little mustache and shifted his seat on the bench, confused by Honeydew’s acceptance. With a gliding turn and stop to Honeydew he said, “It’s not my business of course. But don’t you work evenings at your wheelhouse? Won’t there be a conflict, no matter what day the party is?”
Honeydew patted Mr. Grey’s hand, smiled, and said, “I appreciate the worry. It won’t be trouble. I’ll take that day off,” She turned to Neon. “If you’ll give me the details…”
The two of them exchanged information. Mr. Grey found most of Neon’s words superfluous; it had all been on the card. While Neon and Honeydew made their plans, The Wind threw a lashing of jelly rain horizontally, directly on Mr. Grey’s face. He battled the crabwise downpour and kept their swan upright, with only some creaky shifts of the webbed metal feet. Neon Silveste maintained cool control over his own bird.
Neon Silveste bade the pair farewell after making plans to meet Honeydew. He called to Mr. Grey one last time as he left. “Don’t forget, good fellow. You’ve shackled me with a debt. When next we meet, may the good fortunes floating the current of our devoted Wind favor me with the chance of repayment. ‘Til then, I say once more; farewell!” With a flourish and final curtsy of his swan’s legs, Neon Silveste swept down the road at a canter.
Mr. Grey found one perk in Lord Neon Silveste’s acquaintance; the meeting rescued his talk with Honeydew from that sticky, faltering, awkward silence. Silence which Mr. Grey still considered his fault. Honeydew waxed in talk for the rest of their trip to return the swan, and Mr. Grey fell with familiar comfort into the role of listener. Mr. Grey himself hadn’t found much noteworthy in Lord Silveste, or his card, or his party. To Mr. Grey, the lord looked cut from the same superfine cloth as every other lord, lady, or wealthy businessman he’d seen in the windows of highwheels rolling through Starharbor. Neon wore the same clothes, spoke in the same, refined, dialect - often with an uncomfortable flavor of improvised poetry - and had the same careless superiority in his manner. Nevertheless, Mr. Grey felt grateful when Honeydew took up the lord as a longer topic.
Honeydew talked most about the upcoming party. “I’ve never been to one,” she went on excitedly. “A soiree, I mean. I see those lords and ladies sometimes, in the wheelhouse. Most look right through barmen and hostesses. Not him though. Lord Silveste’s all class.”
Mr. Grey said, “A gentleman, no doubt.”
“He’s the kind who grabs passing opportunities. You know?”
“That was an impression one might get,” said Mr. Grey. He hadn’t gotten that impression himself. He thought Honeydew must have watched the lord closer. Mr. Grey had been busier with his leg of the swan.
With their talk flowing freer, Mr. Grey found the vehicle easier to control. They made smooth progress, splashing merrily along the jelly-dappled cobbles towards the rental stand.
Honeydew went on. “I admire that. Someone who’s done a thing or two in their time!”
Mr. Grey saw, he thought, an opening. After a tock’s stone-faced thought, he said, “I shouldn’t boast - and it’s no slight against Lord Silveste - but I may have the upper hand in that department.”
“You think so?” asked Honeydew, with a doubtful click.
“I’m not a lord. But employment at the change of address office does come with its excitements.” Mr. Grey attempted a small chuckle, which didn’t sound at all right.
“Elaborate.”
“Foinstance,” began Mr. Grey, who never could - for some unaccountable reason - separate the words ‘for’ and ‘instance’ in his speech, and always said them as one. “I have the option to travel, before the epoch’s out.”
Honeydew leaned back. The swan leaned with her. In quick, surprised words, she said, “Past the Odormoats?”
“I haven’t said ‘yes’ yet. But I think I’m going to. There are some citizens who didn’t get their visas filled out quite accurately. I hope to follow up. Let them know they’ll need to return and finish. Just the other day I met a young lady named Jodee Coats. She erupted into…”
Just as Mr. Grey felt his inner (inner, mind) emotions warming to the story, Honeydew interrupted him. Her words lacked her enthusiasm of a moment prior. “So you travel for business.”
“I’d still get to see what’s beyond the comforts of Starharbor. I only know a little more than most about other moats. Just the names on the address forms. I say again, though, that I think I have the better of Lord Silveste.”
“Sure,” she said. “I’m guessing your adventure’s a work perk? The king’s bouncer’s would stop anyone else?”
“I didn’t ask. I’d be surprised to hear a citizen got through without special circumstance. The bouncers are strict about who passes through which Odormoat, and in what direction, and for how long, and so forth.”
“Very strict,” Honeydew replied. She leaned back against the post and was quiet. Their swan plodded on its jaunty walk. Mr. Grey felt he’d said something ill, but didn’t know what.
“I’m intrigued with who or what I might see out there,” he said. “Perhaps the other moats have their own special wheelhouses.”
She smiled at him, though not broadly, and nudged his shoulder with a fist. “I’m happy for you. It’ll do you good.”
The rest of their return trip to the rental stand passed introspectively. Mr. Grey and Honeydew shared nothing beyond the space they occupied. When they reached the swan stand the rental agent helped them disembark. The pair climbed gladly from the cab of their gangly, awkward bird. Mr. Grey paid the treasure bill with seven calcified bugs and a shiny pebble. Mr. Grey and Honeydew each said goodbye, and Honeydew began walking back the way they’d just come, towards her job at the wheelhouse.
Mr. Grey set out for home. The umbrella hat kept the jelly rain from his head, though The Wind brought denser clouds and thicker jelly to the park after feeling left out of the conversation. As he left Mr. Grey looked for the children with their kite, but they’d given up under the heavy storm.