Jasper Fforde: Shades of Grey

“Have you heard the rumor?” said Tommo, striding up. “Dorian’s going to elope with Imogen on the fifteen forty-three.”

“And speaking of marriage,” he added, turning to Doug, “hold out for at least three grand from the deMauves. Barring any sleepers, Violet’s pretty much in the bag.”

“Three grand?” he said in a quivering voice. “I can’t ask that much!”

“Believe me,” said Tommo, laying a hand on his shoulder, “deMauve will definitely pay that to have his daughter in the Green Dragon’s bridal suite by Monday night. I’ll negotiate for you if you want—I need the merits after Eddie’s little disappointment.”

“Would you?” asked Doug. “I’d really appreciate it.”

Doug walked off to speak to his family, and I was left alone with Tommo. We were silent for a while. I was going to be a prefect, and I needed Tommo on my side. He could never know what I was up to, but his skills at wily artifice might be an asset.

“How are your ribs?”

“You broke two.”

“I’m sorry.”

“And I’m sorry about that whole leaving-you-to-starve-to-death deal. It was Courtland.”

“I know.”

We shook hands and smiled uneasily. The friendship wasn’t yet healed, but would be, given time.

“Good morning.”

I turned. Jane was dressed in her best Grey formal wear, with her hair plaited and interwoven with wildflowers. She looked quite lovely—radiant, in fact—and was accompanied by her parents, who were grinning like mad. I shook hands with Stafford and was introduced to her mother, who was a small, chirpy-looking woman with only one ear.

“Very pleased to meet you,” I said.

“Pardon?” she replied, cupping her hand to her missing ear before bursting into laughter, for it was a joke.

“Mother!” implored Jane. “Please don’t embarrass me.”

“I’m sorry I was unable to ask you for your daughter first,” I said to Jane’s parents, “but the conditions of our courtship were somewhat onerous.”

A bell sounded.

“You’re wanted,” said Jane’s mother, kissing us both. “Good luck.”

We made our way to the Chapter House, where Yewberry was ringing the hand bell. We filed into the anteroom behind the Council Chamber and took a seat, whereupon Yewberry read brief instructions regarding protocol and told us to just relax and enjoy it. At the end he made a lame joke, which wasn’t funny, but we laughed to break the tension. All eyes, however, were soon riveted on the door that led to the Council Chamber. You would walk out of this room a youth and enter the village twenty minutes later an adult. You were even allowed to exit the Chapter House by way of the prefects’ entrance. It was quite an honor.

6.3.01.01.225:The Ishihara test is final and can be neither reviewed nor retaken.

At ten o’clock precisely, the first person was seen. It was Violet, and she went to the Colorman with a spring in her step. We all sat silently under Yewberry’s watchful eye, and after twenty minutes it was Doug’s turn. He gave us all a bow before vanishing next door, and after half an hour, Jane was called.

She caught my eye as she went in, and gave a half smile. We’d brought books, but none of us read them.

For the most part we all just sat and stared blankly into space, shuffling down a place every twenty minutes, so that the next person to go was always sitting nearest the door.

“Edward Russett?”

“Yes?”

“You can go in now.”

I got up and entered the Council Chamber, carefully closing the door behind me. There were two people in the room: my erstwhile father-in-law and the Colorman, who was dressed in long robes that had no color in them at all, but were fastened by a long series of buttons that reached from his throat to his feet and shone brightly in the broad beam of light that descended from the skylight.

“Hello, Eddie,” said the Colorman in a friendly voice. “Take a seat. Do you have your merit book? I know you’ve already been verified, but I need to check again.”

So I did, and once satisfied that I was who I said I was, he shuffled to get comfortable and cleared his throat. “It’s very simple. All you have to do is tell me what you can see in the pictures.”

There was a big book on the reading stand in front of me, and deMauve positioned himself on my right, ready to turn the pages. At a signal from the Colorman, he opened the book.

The page was a mass of grey dots, which ranged in size from a period to the width of a pencil. But interspersed within this grey mass were colored dots, and they made up a picture.

“What do you see?”

“A swan.”

“And in its beak?”

“There’s nothing in its beak.”

“Quite right. Would you turn to page seven, please, Mr. deMauve?”

There were more dots on this page, but it wasn’t a swan, it was a number.

“Twenty-nine,” I said.

“Good,” said the Colorman. “And what about page eighteen?”

It was the outline of a bouncing goat. And after that, a wavy line, then nothing, then another number.

After each answer the Colorman referred to his chart, scribbled a score and gave Mr. deMauve a new page number. After fifteen minutes of this I was shown a chart that carried no numbers, or a picture of any sort—just a mass of differently hued dots. I was about to admit that I couldn’t see anything when the number sixteen popped into my head. My conscious mind wasn’t seeing the color, but my unconscious mind was. “Sixteen.”

“Hmm!” said the Colorman, uttering the first response that gave away any opinion. “Page two hundred and four.”

Again, I could see nothing, but felt it was a horse.

“It’s a horse.”

“Quite right.”

We went through twenty more plates, some of which I could sense, and others I couldn’t. But I could tell the process was almost done. The Colorman was starting to relax. Finally, after three images in which I could see nothing at all, he added up the score, scribbled in my merit book and stood up.

“Welcome to the Collective, Mr. Russett,” he said, shaking my hand. “You have much to contribute and an obligation to fulfill. Do it wisely, do it fairly, do it by the Rules. Remember: Apart, we will always be together.”

I turned smartly and walked out of the chamber and into the sunshine, much relieved. My father was there, waiting to greet me, and a little way away was Jane, sitting on the color garden wall.

“Well?” said Dad, and I opened the book with a thumping heart and trembling fingers.

“Eighty-six-point-seven-percent Red,” I said, reading the figures, “and negligible across the Blue and Yellow fields.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

He gave me another hug, then said Jane wanted to speak to me. I walked over with something akin to a stupid grin on my face. If I didn’t defer my prefectural duties, I would be sworn in just as soon as I did the traditional “knocking on the Council Chamber door.” We could make a start, Jane and I, and perhaps even travel to Emerald City on a fact-finding tour of the faculty or something. But as I walked up, my grin was not returned. Quite the opposite, in fact.

“Problems?” I asked, sitting down next to her.

“Only of a personal nature. It won’t alter our Grand Plan. It’s just that, well . . I turned out twelve percent Yellow.”

I laughed. It was only 2 percent above threshold, so was as good as nothing, and for Jane’s huge dislike of Yellows, there was the nub of a fine joke about it.

“You’re no longer a Grey. That must make you a Primrose, minimum. Has Bunty asked you to spy on anyone yet?”

“Eddie,” she said with a serious look that I didn’t much like, “there’s something else. I’ve also got fourteen percent Blue.”