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room hung a painting of a woman with long dark hair and an absurd, frilled collar. A cluster of candles stood on a table beneath it, among plump puddles of dried wax.
    "My wife, Katie," said Kit Solent, when he saw Fever look at it. "She died of the blue flu soon after Fern was born."
    Fever could not think of anything to say.
    "She's our mummy," said Ruan importantly. The children had followed Kit and Fever in from the garden and stood now on either side of Fever to look up at the portrait. Ruan said, "We burn candles for her, so that she'll have some light down in the Sunless Country."
    Fever wondered if she should point out that there was no such place as the Sunless Country. She was shocked that the children's father let them believe such superstitious nonsense. And surely all those candles were a fire hazard? But she was a guest in this strange house, and she did not want to offend.
    Ruan went over to a small side table on which stood a little brass lantern with a pointed roof pierced by patterns of star-shaped holes. Fever wondered if this was another religious ritual, but then recognized the thing as a scent lantern; she had seen others like it in the windows of shops near the Head. Ruan chose a vial of perfume from a drawer beneath the table, opened the lantern's door, and let three drops fall onto a lint pad resting on a turntable inside. While he stoppered the vial and returned it to its drawer, his father took out a box of matches, reached into the lantern, and lit the wick beneath the turntable. The rising heat made it start to revolve, wobbling slowly around on its spindle. Ruan closed the door, and smiled shyly at Fever as the smell of the perfume began wafting from the holes in the lantern's roof.
    "That was Katie's favorite scent," said Kit Solent, looking kindly at his son as he shook out the match and laid it on a little shell-shaped dish beside the lantern. "Nocturne in Blue, by Eldritch Hooter. It's a sentimental old smell from Scriven times. Not like the stuff that gets into the scent parade these days; all those ghastly stinks by Prince Nez and Sniffa Dogg. Are you fond of scents, Fever?"
    Fever shook her head. She knew nothing about scents except that they were foolish and unnecessary and Londoners wasted a great deal of money on them. Even so, as the smell from the lantern grew stronger, she had to admit that it served to mask the odors of mold and mildew that hung about the old house. It was a subtle scent, and achingly familiar. For some reason it made her think of lawns at twilight, and big trees standing silent in that time at the end of a summer's day when the breeze fades and all is still. The lagoons, calm as mirrors, held the last of the light, and shadows stretched across her lawns....
    She shook her head to drive away the image, so intense that for a moment it had felt more like a memory than an imagining. How strange, she thought. She was not usually an imaginative girl. She hoped that her adventures on Stragglemarket had not disarranged her wits.
    Kit Solent, watching her, said, "Are you all right, Miss Crumb?"
    "Perfectly," said Fever quickly.
    "Tired from your journey, I expect. Come and sit down ..."
    The scent went with them as he led the way through into another room, a large conservatory with glass walls and a glass roof, looking out into a jungly garden behind the house. The room was littered with books, papers, cast-off clothes, and muddy shoes. A cat was sunning itself on a wooden table among plates that still held the remains of breakfast. "Sit down, sit down!" said Kit Solent amiably, dumping the cat on the floor and placing a kettle on a stove which stood in one corner. "I expect you'll want a cup of tea after your journey?"
    Fever shook her head, and tried not to feel shocked. "It is deeply irrational that dried leaves should be transported halfway around the world aboard ships and land barges simply to flavor water. Besides, tea is a stimulant, which leads to nervousness and