“Hmm,” I mused, half in jest, “no Blues you can think of for me to start a Purple dynasty with?”

He shook his head.

“DeMauve and the Council would never allow it. But if you’re considering abandoning your birth hue, Violet deMauve is still available. She’s in need of some Red seed to bring the deMauves back to mid-Purple rather than the Bluey-Red they are at present. But you’d have to be so utterly, utterly desperate for social advancement you’d be willing to ignore the fact that she’s the most poisonous female in the village.”

“I thought you said that accolade belonged to Bunty McMustard?”

“I think they’re on some sort of rotation. In any event, I decided in your best interests to leave Violet deMauve out of the equation. Unless, of course, you want to spend the rest of your life being told what to do and when to do it?”

I thought about Constance. There was, I had to admit, something of a similarity. “In your own stupid pretend world, no, I wouldn’t fancy that.”

“I agree. You’d have to be insane to marry into the nest of vipers. The only other girl off-limits is Lucy Ochre. She’s reserved.”

“Reserved?”

“For me. So paws off.”

“Does she know this?”

Tommo shrugged. “Not really.”

“Eight is still a pretty good choice.”

“Not quite right,” he replied, counting off my potential choices on his fingers. “Simone Russo is the low-percepting product of the head plumber and a Grey— quite unsuitable. Rose Madder is on a promise, and Lisa as good as. Tabitha is on a half promise to Lloyd Bluto. Lisa Scarlet is a bit low on the social scale, what with her father being sent off to Reboot. Cassie is hideously weird, and Jennifer declared herself last week with a Grey named Chloe.”

“Ah.”

“So that leaves my sister Fran and Daisy Crimson.”

“Choice of two? Generous of you, Tommo.”

“Not so fast. Since I’ll thump you painfully between the eyes if you even think about placing any part of your grubby person on my dear Francesca, whom I’ve sworn to protect from all life’s unpleasantness, I’m afraid that leaves only Daisy Crimson. I hope you’re very happy together.”

“You’ve got this all worked out, haven’t you?”

“I think of little else.”

While we had been talking, every last vestige of natural light had vanished. The sky was like ebony, and the only illumination was the harsh white light of the central streetlamp, which cast shadows so hard it seemed you might cut yourself on them. Just as I was telling Tommo what complete rubbish his fantasy marriage league was, a figure dressed in an overcoat and carrying a valise walked out of a nearby house.

I didn’t realize the figure was Travis Canary until he was quite close.

“Hullo!” he said when he saw me. “How are you settling in?”

“Pretty well,” I replied. “Have you met Tommo?”

They shook hands, and Tommo looked at the Yellow suspiciously.

“You’re not wearing your spot,” he said.

“I’m not going to need one where I’m going.”

I thought he meant Reboot, but he didn’t. Before we could say anything more, he tipped his hat and walked into the night. In a few seconds the darkness had swallowed him up, and he was gone.

Tommo and I could hardly believe what we had just witnessed, and stared at each other in astonishment.

I looked around, but though the square still had a dozen or so people out for a nighttime perambulation, no one else had noticed.

I walked across to press the Nightloss alarm, but Tommo stopped me.

“Wait, wait, Eddie. He’s a Yellow —one less is no big deal. Besides, he’s up for Reboot, and more important, it’s nothing to do with us.”

“You never leave anyone out at night,” I retorted pompously, “not even a Yellow.”

I pressed the Nightloss alarm, and the klaxon sounded three shrill blasts.

The square was suddenly deathly quiet, and within a few seconds, empty. When there was a shout on, most people found something else to do and somewhere else to be. Nightloss was a sorry, tragic affair, and trying to rescue someone could have doubly tragic consequences. The custom was to not get involved—or at least, not until the morning, when the search took place. We walked to the limit of the falloff and peered into the darkness, which swirled like an angry black fog. We were right on the edge of the village. Beyond the houses to our left and right was only the lumpy grassland.

“Who’s out there?” came a voice.

It was Prefect Sally Gamboge, and she looked as though I had interrupted her dinner. I explained that it was Travis Canary who had just walked out, and she looked at me with an expression of supreme indifference. “Reboot or Nightloss,” she said, “it’s all the same to us. Isn’t that right, Tommo?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But he’s Yellow,” I persisted.

“In color, but not in spirit,” she replied. “His selflessness just saved us a train fare out of here, so in that respect we should be grateful.”

“So you’re not going to do anything?”

She looked at me, and her eyes flashed dangerously. “No.”

And without giving me another look, she walked back toward her house.

I stood there, staring into the darkness. He had been Rebooted only for his attempt to improve things, and despite Travis’ flawed hue, he had offered a friendship, and I had accepted it.

I opened the cabinet below the Nightloss button. The reel of string and the belt clips were there, but the emergency Daylighter magnesium flare was missing. I looked into the darkness and tried to visualize where Travis might be. Although I couldn’t see anything, the road in front of me led past the flak tower, through the empty grassland, past the bridge and, beyond that, to the linoleum factory.

And then I heard him. A series of short cries as the night terrors began to take hold. No one was immune, not even the wisest prefect or sagest Colorman. We all knew what it was like—even indoors the absence of light has an effect upon the senses that brought forth a multitude of terrifying apparitions.

But only if you panicked, and let the terror get a hold. Once you were in the grip of a night terror, it would take nerves of steel to get you out.

Without thinking, I slipped off my shoes and socks and felt the warmth of the Perpetulite on my feet. If I didn’t stray from the roadway, I would have nothing to fear.

“What are you doing?” asked Tommo, as surprised as I was by my actions.

“He sounds like he’s at the Faraday cage,” I replied, attaching the clip to my belt, looping the string around it and handing him the reel. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

“Without a flare? Wait—” But I ignored him and stepped forward into the wall of darkness. Although I was initially without panic, after thirty paces or so the enormity of what I was doing caught up with me, and I suddenly felt my chest tighten and my mouth go dry as the swirling darkness started to heap into shapes. I could tell the onset of a night terror, and from long practice simply closed my eyes and breathed deeply until the panic subsided. It didn’t help that Travis gave out the occasional cry. Annoyingly, though, he hadn’t stopped walking, and his cries were becoming fainter by the minute. After I had walked fifty yards or so and kept to the road by the feeling of the smoother and colder central white line beneath my feet, I heard the Nightloss siren sound again, which was unusual in the extreme—some other fool must have gotten himself lost on the other side of the village.

I walked on for another ten paces, but slower this time, as I was beginning to feel disoriented, and the excited chatter of fresh observers reached my ears, doubtless drawn from their houses by the news of a double Nightloss. It was only when the string went tight, stopping me from going farther, that I realized that the second Nightloss alarm had been for me.