“What’s wrong, dear?” Mother asked.
“As far as I can tell, everyone in Caerphilly is out here, except for the one person I need to talk to,” I said. “I’ll have to go into town to look for him.”
“I don’t suppose there’s anything I could do to help, dear,” Mother said.
“Actually, there is,” I said. “Find me some Hummel.”
“Hummel?”
“You know, those little china figurines? Little girls with rosy cheeks, little boys in lederhosen, puppies, lambs, kittens—”
“Yes, dear, I know what Hummel is,” Mother said, with a touch of asperity. “I just didn’t know you liked it. And it doesn’t really go with that Shaker/Japanese décor your house has been requesting, does it, dear?”
“I don’t like it,” I said, hastily. “Loathe the stuff, and so does the house. Couldn’t pay either of us to keep it around. But, at the moment, I need some. To bribe an informant.”
“Ah,” she said, nodding. “An informant with a certain amount of taste.”
“Well, not my taste, but to each his own,” I said. “So do you think you could get hold of some Hummel?”
“Ye-es,” Mother said, nodding slowly. “I remember several shops in town that might have quite a lot of it.”
“I don’t need quite a lot of it,” I said. “Just a couple of pieces. Maybe three, if you get a real bargain on them. Preferably not brand new. They don’t have to be in perfect condition, either, as long as they’re Hummel.”
“Leave it to me, dear,” Mother said, and turned to leave. Then she paused and remained staring thoughtfully at something.
At Rose Noir’s booth. I winced. The booth décor suited Rosemary’s business splendidly. Lots of ethereal flowers and little lace frou-frous, and great swaths of pink and lavender tulle hanging overhead. A nice environment for buying prettily scented cosmetics, but I couldn’t see anyone living in it day in, day out, and I had the sinking feeling Mother could.
“Rosemary’s new name,” she said finally—and cryptically.
“What about it?”
“Shouldn’t noir be noir?”
“Is that an existential question?” I said. “If so, ask me later. I’m in a very mundane, literal mode today.”
“Sorry, what I meant was, shouldn’t the word ‘noir’ have an ‘e’ on the end?” she said. “‘Noire,’ with an ‘e.’ Because, grammatically speaking, ‘rose’ is feminine in French.”
“You expect correct French grammar from someone who renames herself more often than she cuts her hair?” I asked.
“True,” she said. “But someone should enlighten her.”
“Don’t look at me,” I said. “I can’t even get her to sell me the cosmetics I want. She doesn’t think I’m a rose or lavender sort of person.”
Mother studied me thoughtfully.
“No, dear,” she said. “But you try.”
I didn’t even want to figure that one out.
“I’m going to town,” she announced, as she strode away.
“So am I,” I said. “Want a ride?”
“No, dear,” she called back over her shoulder. “I think I’m better on my own. Or perhaps Michael can take me; he’s not as busy as you are.”
And also not as immune to your charm, I thought with a sigh, but I let her go. I strolled over to Rose Noir’s booth to see if I could enlist her to help poor Horace.
“I have a favor to ask you,” I said. “It’s about Darlene.”
“She went home,” Rose Noir said, shaking her head. “She’s still upset about the owl in her bedroom last night. I don’t want to sound judgmental, but …”
Her voice trailed off as she shook her head, apparently despairing of saying anything non-judgmental about Darlene.
“But she’s an idiot and Horace is better off without her,” I said.
“Poor Horace,” Rose Noir said, from which I deduced that she didn’t exactly disagree.
“Poor Horace, indeed,” I said. “A pity Darlene left. I was hoping you could ask her who she sold his gorilla suit to—after last night, I doubt if she’d tell me.”
“Oh, I don’t need to ask her,” Rose Noir said, her face growing cheerful again. “I bought it.”
“You? Why?”
“To give it back to Horace,” she said. “I think it’s terrible, trying to make someone give up a profound and meaningful part of his inner self.”
I nodded. I wasn’t sure how wearing a few yards of faded fake fur could be a profound and meaningful part of Horace’s inner self, but I could remember when several of my prissier aunts had tried to convince me that the blacksmithing I loved wasn’t a respectable career for a woman.