Calvin did not answer. Instead he sent his doodlebug over the surface of his own body, ejecting all the dirt and grime, the dried-on urine and sweat, the dust and ashes in his hair. It took only moments, for once he had shown his doodlebug what to do, it could finish on its own without his directing it, just as his hand could keep sawing without him thinking of the saw, or his fingers tie a knot without him even looking at the string.

Honoré’s eyes grew wide. “Why have you made your underwear disappear?”

Only then did Calvin realize that every foreign object had been pulverized and ejected from his body. “Who cares? I’m cleaner right now than you’ll ever be.”

“While you are using your powers to beautify yourself, why not change your odor? To a flower, perhaps. Not a nasturtium—those already smell like unwashed feet. What about a lilac? Or a rose?”

“Why don’t I change your nose to a cauliflower? Oops, too late, someone already did.”

“Aha, you are insulting me with cabbages.” Honoré pulled the string that would ring a bell in the servants’ quarters.

Calvin pulled on some clean clothes—cleanish, anyway—and was just leaving the room when a slave arrived in response to Honoré’s summons. Honoré was buck naked now, without even shirttails to conceal nature’s modest endowment, but he seemed utterly unaware; and, for that matter, the slave might not have seen him, for her gaze never seemed to leave the floor. Honoré was still specifying exactly how many kettles of hot water he wanted in his tub when Calvin started down the stairs and could hear the Frenchman’s voice no more.

Lady Ashworth’s door was opened by a wiry old slave in close-fitting livery. “Howdy,” said Calvin. “I heard tell that my sister-in-law Peggy Smith was visiting here and—”

The slave walked away and left him standing at the door. But the door was still open, so Calvin stepped inside onto the porch. By habit he sent his doodlebug through the house. He could see from the heartfires where everybody was; unlike Peggy, though, he couldn’t see a thing in the heartfires, and couldn’t recognize anyone in particular. All he knew was a living soul was there, and by the brightness of it, whether it was human or not.

He could guess, though. The heartfire moving slowly up the back stairs must be the slave who had opened the door for him. The heartfire on the porch above Calvin, toward which the slave was moving, had to be Lady Ashworth. Or Lord Ashworth, perhaps—but no, he was likely to be as close as possible to the King.

He set his doodlebug into the floor of the upstairs porch, feeling the vibration caused by their talking. With a little concentration, it turned into sound. The slave sure didn’t say much. “Gentleman at the door.”

“I’m expecting no callers.”

“Say he sister be Peggy Smith.”

“I don’t know anyone by such a... oh, perhaps Margaret Larner—but she isn’t here. Tell him she isn’t here.”