“May I ask, what is a court reporter, Mr. Brrr?” Sister Hospitality pushed the drapes back to let in sunlight the color of old bandages.

“Sir Brrr, when I’m at home,” he corrected apologetically. “Title awarded by Lady Glinda herself, at the conclusion of that little Matter of Dorothy.”

“Beg pardon,” said Sister Hospitality, no tone of regret to stain her inflection.

“Not that I use it,” he hurried on. “The house has fallen on hard times. I do pickup secretarial work to make ends meet. Now, to business. I am dispatched by the Lord High Magistrate of the Emerald City to make enquiries of a member of your-tribe? Flock? Whatever it is a body of maunts calls itself. You know, like a swarm of bees, a murder of crows, a parliament of owls.”

“I’ve heard that lions consort together in a pride,” said Sister Hospitality.

“Those that let others join,” interjected Brrr. “Let’s not go there.”

“Call us a deference of maunts, if you must. And deferential, then, within reason, we’ll try to help. Do you know the name of the maunt you have come to ask about? Though we take new names as our obligations require, most of us remember what our original names were.”

The Lion steadied the spectacles on his nose. Dander flecked the lenses; no wonder he peered and blinked at the small notebook in his paw. “I can’t read my own writing. Jackal?”

“We have no Sister Jackal.”

“Sister Quackle? No, perhaps a C. Cackle?”

Sister Hospitality said carefully, “Oh, dear. I wonder if you could mean Yackle. She was laid to rest over a year ago.”

“Was she an oracle?”

“Sir Brrr. We are a convent of holy women. We don’t trade in prophecies. What would a seer be doing in a mauntery?”

“You haven’t answered my question. Was she an oracle?”

“I can’t possibly answer that question. I was not her confessor.”

“Who was?”

Sister Hospitality thought. “Actually, she didn’t have one. She wasn’t professed, I think.”

“Would someone here know if Yackle was an oracle?”

“The old Superior Maunt might have, but she’s gone too.”

“Holiday?”

“The Final Holiday.”

“Sheesh. Occupational hazard in this place?”

“Growing old? Yes.”

Brrr explained. A knotty little concern in the courts had prompted a senior magistrate to call for a finding. Brrr had been dispatched by order of the Stamp of the Emperor to pursue the matter in any direction. From a side pocket he produced a notarized writ of entry flecked with bits of bread crust. He flattened it with a paw. The legal penmanship crosshatched the vellum into illegibility. “This authorizes any enquiry I want to make, as it happens.”

“Are you bullying me, sir?”

“I don’t need to bully the likes of you,” he replied, tapping the paper. “This is the bully.”

“I haven’t the mind for this, nor the time,” said Sister Hospitality. “Nor am I the authority in the House; we are governed by a Council. But I can and must report to them what you say. Why don’t you tell me precisely what brings you here?”