The girl said, “I don’t know how to find it.”

“It is a printed journal. It wil say ‘Prettibels Galore’ in the headline, or something like that. Get up when I speak to you.” She stood, but shrugged. “I don’t know how to read, Mum.”

“I can find it,” caled Miss Murth.

“She’l do it,” said Glinda tartly. “Child, there is an engraving on the page just under the masthead. You do know what a prettibel looks like, don’t you? A blossom like a kind of grubby little chewed sock?” Cherrystone was laughing. “They are your passion. You speak with the sour affection of the convert.”

“Do as I say, Rain.” Glinda felt herself flushing and hoped it didn’t show in the lamplight. “I tel you, Traper, you abuse my ability to entertain when you reduce me to such a staff.”

“Your prettibels wil likely suffer this year,” he admitted. “Sorry about that. Where are they in the garden, so we can avoid them?” He almost had her there. “I can’t discuss it any longer. It’s too vexing to think of them in extremis. There’s a dormant polder of them out beyond the little vilage of Zimmerstorm. Won’t you alow Puggles to escort me to check on them?” There was no such polder. But if she could get out for a day on a false pretense, she might gain a better sense of what was going on.

“It may be possible. Depending.”

Rain clambered back over the sil with several papers. “Not sure which one you want, so here is the lot.”

“I don’t want to look at them anymore. I’ve become distressed by the thought of them. You may return these.”

“No, wait,” said Cherrystone. He took several papers from Rain and studied the headlines. Then he turned the front page so the girl could see it and said, “Do you know your letters?”

“No, sir. I don’t, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Never had none to teach me, sir.”

“Your mother doesn’t know how to read?”

“If you remember, Cherrystone,” said Glinda, “you required me to dismiss almost everyone.”

“You kept a girl from leaving with her mother?”

“Wel. Actualy, the child is an orphan. I look after her out of charity. Don’t pick your fingernails, Rain.”

“But you don’t teach her the alphabet.” Cherrystone sounded incredulous.

“I can’t do everything. I have prettibels to propagate. Until recently I didn’t know this girl by name, so how could I know if she could read or not? Perhaps it’s time for the cheese board. Rain, clear the plates.”

“I’l take them through,” caled Miss Murth, stifling a shadowed yawn.

“My granddaughter is learning her letters,” said the General. “Letters are a kind of magic, Rain. Coming together, they spel words, and words then are a kind of spel, too.”

“She doesn’t want to learn to read. She wants to carry those plates to the window. Leave her be, Traper.” But Glinda was now on this. Could she play the hand? She’d never been good at bluffing when the local gentry came by for a couple of rubbers of Three-Hand Snuckett.