“I should’ve realized,” Obaday said, “that you’re arrivals, when I saw you talking to that ghost-boy. He hangs around, stealing, looking for strangers, but so far we’ve managed to get rid of him before he does anything terrible. You don’t want to make it into his phone book!”

“What?” said Zanna.

“In Wraithtown,” said Obaday. “They keep a list of all the dead. On both sides of the Odd!”

“Our phones don’t work,” Deeba said. “They’re bust.”

“You have phones? What in the abcity for? It’s too hard to train the insects. As far as I know there are about three working phones in UnLondon, each with a very carefully maintained hive, and all of them in Mr. Speaker’s Talklands.

“No wonder you’re confused. When did you get here? You must have been briefed? No? Not briefed? Hmmmm…” He frowned. “Maybe the Prophs are planning on explaining details later.”

“What Prophs?” Deeba said.

“And here we are!” said Obaday Fing, waving at his stall.

Obaday’s assistants looked up from their stitching. One or two had a few needles and pins wedged into their heads, in among plaits and ponytails. At the rear of the stall sat a figure writing at a huge sheet of paper. Where its head should be was a big glass jar full of black ink, into which it dipped its pen.

“Simon Atramenti,” Obaday said. The inkwell-headed person waved with stained fingers and returned to its writing. “For clients who insist on bespoke copy.”

The stall looked as if it was only about six feet deep, but when Obaday swept aside a curtain at the back there was a much larger tent-room beyond.

It was silk-lined. There was a table and chairs, a cabinet and a stove, hammocks hanging from the ceiling. Plump pillows were everywhere.

“Just my little office, just my little office,” Obaday said, sweeping off dust.

“This is amazing,” said Zanna. “You’d never know this was here.”

“How come there’s space?” said Deeba.

“I beg your pardon?” Obaday said. “Oh, well, I stitched it myself. After all my years I’d be embarrassed if I hadn’t learnt to stitch a few wrinkles in space.” He looked expectant. He waited.

Eventually Zanna said: “Um…That’s brilliant.” Obaday smiled, satisfied.

“No, it’s nothing,” he said, waving his hands. “Really you embarrass me.”

He picked things up and put them down, packing and unpacking a bag, talking all the time, a stream of odd phrases and non sequiturs so incomprehensible that they quickly stopped hearing it, except as a sort of amiable buzzing.

“We have to go home,” Zanna said, interrupting Obaday’s spiel.

Obaday frowned, not unkindly.

“Home…? But you have things to do, Shwazzy.”

“Please don’t call me that. I’m Zanna. And we really do have to go.”

“We have to get back, ” said Deeba. The little milk carton whined air at her miserable voice.

“If you say so…But I’m afraid I’ve no idea how to get you back to, to what’s it called, to Lonn Donn.”

Zanna and Deeba stared at each other. Seeing their faces, Obaday continued quickly. “But, but, but don’t worry,” he said. “The Propheseers’ll know what to do. We have to get you to them. They’ll help you back after…well, after you’ve done what’s needed.”

“Propheseers?” said Zanna. “Let’s go, then.”

“Of course— we’re just waiting for Skool with the necessary information. Traveling across UnLondon— well, it’s quite a thing to take on.” He disappeared behind a screen and flung his paper-and-print clothes one by one over the top. “Moby-Dick,” he said. “Even with small print, I have to wear too many undershirts.” He emerged, in a new suit of the same cut, but adorned with visibly larger letters. “The Other Side of the Mountain.” He smiled, flashing his cuff. “Considerably shorter.”

“Zann,” said Deeba urgently. “I want to go home. ”

“Mr. Fing, please,” Zanna said. “You really have to help us get out of here.”

Obaday Fing looked miserable.

“I simply don’t know how,” he said at last. “I don’t know how you got here. I don’t know where you live. There are plenty of people who don’t believe in Lonn Donn at all. I’m truly sorry, Shwazzy…Zanna. All I can do is take you to those who can help. As fast as we can. Believe me,I want you to…get started ASAP.”

“Get started?” said Zanna.

“With what?” said Deeba.

“The Propheseers’ll explain,” Obaday said.

“No,” shouted Zanna. “Get started with what ?”

“Well,” said Obaday hurriedly, “with everything. We have to get you out of here. There are those working against you. Working for your enemy.”

“My enemy?” said Zanna. “Who’s my enemy?”

Before Obaday could respond, the curtain was pulled back and there stood Skool, the figure in the diving suit, tapping its wrist urgently.

“Now?” Obaday said. “Already? Right, right, we’re coming, off we go.” He grabbed a few more things, hauled his bag over his shoulder, and ushered everyone out.

“Who?” Zanna said.

“What? Oh, honestly, Shwazzy, it’s really best you let those who know these things explain…”

“What enemy?” The two girls stared at Obaday, and he faltered, and was momentarily still.

“Smog,” he whispered. Then he cleared his throat and walked hurriedly on.