Shades of Grey

The DeMauves

Violet had scored 28 percent Red and 64 percent Blue, which made her Purple enough to one day become head prefect. She was delighted when my father got word to her of developments, and quickly broke off with Doug, much to his relief. She was well mannered enough not to comment on Jane’s and my misfortune, and we sat side by side on the sofa in the living room of their house, one of the largest on the main square. They had two servants, three Titians and not a spot of synthetic purple anywhere in the house. They had breeding, after all, and the overly ostentatious expression of one’s hue was not the done thing at all.

My father was there, and he had been chatting to Mrs. deMauve, who was as delighted and relieved as Violet over the change of circumstances.

“More tea?” said Violet.

“No, thanks.”

The door opened, and deMauve walked in. I knew almost immediately that he had bribed the Colorman, as he had the faint smile on his face of someone who had just turned up a winning ace.

“So,” he said to my father, “I understand things did not work out as expected?”

My father explained that, due to an “unforeseen incident,” his son was once more available, and wondered if deMauve would care to enter his daughter into an arrangement.

“At the same rate?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Dad.

“No,” said I.

“It seems as though your son has issues with authority,” said deMauve, “an ugly trait, and not one we should encourage.”

“I would like to work for National Color,” I said, “but I need you to endorse my application.”

“Absolutely not,” replied deMauve crossly. “Yewberry is the worst Red sorter we’ve ever had, and with High Saffron a washout, we’ll need you in the Pavilion to even have a chance of meeting scrap-color targets.”

“What if I were to make East Carmine the spoon capital of the Collective?”

“We can’t make spoons,” he replied gruffly. “It’s not allowed.”

“But what if I can get around the Rules? Can you imagine the riches such loopholery might bring to the community?”

DeMauve stared at me. Like it or not, I was an adult now, and at 86 percent, almost an equal.

“Keep talking.”

I showed him the utensil that had been embedded in my backside when I was thrown into the yateveo. It wasn’t really a spoon, but then it wasn’t a fork, either. It had a spoonlike shallow scoop, but with the addition of three tines of a fork. I handed it to deMauve, who stared at it intently.

“I call it a spork,” I said.

“How ingenious,” remarked Violet, who was eager to have the pretense of a strong and supportive marriage, and was resolved to start as she meant to continue. “Whatever made you think of a brilliant name like that?”

“It’s engraved on the back.”

“Oh.”

DeMauve turned the instrument around in his hands. It was mildly corroded from where it had lain inside the tree, but none the worse for that.

“Redundant production-line space at the linoleum factory could churn these out by the thousands,” I said.

“We’d be on full grid color by next year, and hosting Jollity Fair in three.”

The head prefect nodded to himself. “I think you might be right. If the other prefects agree, we will do a trial batch for peer review of Rule Compliance. If it passes, you can have your endorsement to National Color.”

The marriage deal was duly completed, and although expected to kiss Violet in front of them all, I didn’t, which caused only minor consternation. I was still a good catch, even if the marriage was a sham. The meeting ended with the nuptials fixed for tomorrow at ten, with a week’s honeymoon at Purple Regis, paid for by the deMauves. There was also the question of surname, and it was decided that I would abandon the Russett name, but that it would become a middle name for the infant. There were other wrinkles to iron out, but nothing too onerous—or nothing that seemed onerous, given that I was marrying Violet.