After a few days convalescing in The Squid and Teapot, there was no
denying that Neville Moore was feeling considerably better.

Unfortunately, he was also sounding considerably older.

“Good morrow,” he announced cheerfully as Rhys entered the kitchen.

“It’s nearly lunchtime,” replied Rhys.

“Then good morrow somewhat advanced, my liege,” Neville said with a
gracious smile.

Philomena sighed.

By now everyone at The Squid and Teapot had become accustomed to
Neville’s increasingly antique vocabulary.

Breakfast had become “breaking of the fast.”

Tea was now “a restorative infusion.”

The stairs had become “the upper ascent.”

Nobody was entirely certain what the privy had become, but Reggie was
heard to remark that it sounded “frankly mediaeval.”

“I perceive,” said Neville over his porridge, “that this pottage is
most excellent.”

“It’s porridge,” said Philomena.

“So it is, dear lady”

“And it was porridge yesterday,” pointed out Philomena.

“Aye, but today it hath become excellent pottage.”

Philomena glanced heavenwards.

“I hope that book wears itself out before I do.”

It surprised no one that it did not.

By mid-afternoon Neville had taken to describing the weather as
“clement”, Drury as “a most faithful hounde” and Lenore as “my sable
familiar.”

“Is he getting worse?” whispered Tenzin.

“I think,” replied Reggie thoughtfully, “he has now reached
approximately the reign of Good Queen Bess.”

Meanwhile, Lenore continued her occupation of Trickster’s chair with
the unwavering determination of a bird who had discovered the finest
perch on Hopeless.

Trickster, deprived of his customary seat, had taken to leaning his
semi-opaque tulpa elegantly against the mantelpiece.

“I should like it recorded,” he remarked, “that I am displaying a
great deal of restraint.”

“No one asked you to,” said Rhys.

“I am making a personal sacrifice,” replied Trickster, testily.

“You’re standing up,” said Rhys. “What sort of sacrifice is that
supposed to be?”

“I dislike standing.”

“You don’t even have legs,” observed Rhys. “Not real ones, anyway.”

“I dislike the principle of standing.”

Lenore looked down.

“Nevermore.”

“Yes?” said Neville, looking up from his book.

Trickster buried his face in his hands.

The Tomte, who had just finished polishing the chair for the sixth
time that day, emitted a sound somewhere between a groan and a prayer. Philomena folded her arms.

“Right,” she declared. “That’s enough.”

“Of what?” asked Rhys.

“All of it.”

She pointed at Neville.

“The Shakespeare.”

Then at Lenore.

“The raven.”

Finally at Trickster.

“And especially the sulking.”

“I am not sulking,” said Trickster, sulkily.

“For goodness sake, you’re radiating sulkiness.”

“I merely have an expressive aura,” explained Trickster.

Philomena gave him a withering look.

“Fair point,” he admitted.

“Much against my better judgement,” Philomena declared, “I’m going to
have to consult with Durosimi O’Stoat.”

“You think he’ll know?” asked Tenzin.

“He knows all sorts of things that nobody ought to know.”

“That is, broadly speaking, my area of expertise,” came a familiar
voice from the doorway.

Durosimi wandered into the inn carrying three books, a rolled-up map
and an astrolabe.

“I was just passing…”

“You’re never just passing,” said Rhys.

“Quite true,” agreed Durosimi, with a nod.

Without any explanation, Philomena placed Neville’s mysterious volume
into his hands.

Durosimi examined the cover.

“Oh dear.”

“You know what it is?” asked Philomena.

“Oh, indeed yes.”

“And?”

“It should have remained lost.”

There followed the sort of silence that only Durosimi could produce.

“Well?” said Rhys, impatiently.

“It is,” Durosimi explained, “a Lexicon Progressive.”

“A what?”

“A teaching aid.”

Philomena blinked.

“It teaches people to speak like that?”

“It teaches them to speak as language once was.”

“That seems a daft idea,” said Rhys. “What’s the point of that?”

“None whatsoever. In my opinion it is casting pearls before swine,”
Durosimi said, carefully opening the book.

Rhys wasn’t sure whether he should be offended by this.

“It was compiled by an order of scholars who believed the modern world
was steadily murdering perfectly respectable words.”

“They may have had a point,” murmured Reggie.

“They also believed that the cure was complete linguistic immersion,”
said Durosimi. “Unfortunately, prolonged exposure results in the
reader travelling steadily backwards through the history of English.”

“How far backwards?” asked Tenzin.

Durosimi considered.

“If left unchecked… probably Anglo-Saxon by next Tuesday.”

Reggie brightened visibly.

“Oh splendid!” he exclaimed.

“No,” said everyone else.

“But… you can cure him?” Philomena asked, apprehensively.

“Certainly.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” said Philomena, suddenly experiencing the
feeling of a rare spark of warmth towards Durosimi.

The sorcerer reached into his satchel and withdrew a remarkably
dull-looking booklet.

Its cover read:

‘The Complete Illustrated Catalogue of Modern Plumbing Components and Domestic Fittings’

Neville recoiled.

“What monstrous volume is this?” he asked, alarmed.

“The antidote.”

“I protest.”

“As did everyone else,” said Durosimi. “Now start reading…”

“You cannot expect me to peruse… compression elbows.”

“You have no choice.”

With the air of a martyr approaching the scaffold, Neville opened the catalogue.

“’Metric adaptor…’”

He winced.

“’Polypropylene waste connector…’”

His shoulders sagged.

“’Push-fit coupling…’”

He looked physically uncomfortable.

“’Flexible tap tails…’”

The room seemed to brighten, and Neville blinked several times.

“My word…!” he exclaimed

Philomena smiled.

“How do you feel?” asked Rhys.

“More than a little disappointed in plumbing.”

“No,” laughed Rhys, “I mean your speech.”

Neville frowned.

“My speech?”

“Yes.”

He thought for a moment.

“Oh.”

Then, following another long pause,

“Oh!”

Reggie looked crestfallen.

“I was rather hoping we’d reach Anglo-Saxon.”

“You can read the catalogue next,” suggested Durosimi.

“I withdraw my enthusiasm,” said Reggie, hurriedly.

The old book snapped shut of its own accord.

Its pages settled, its cover sighed, and then it became, as far as
anyone could tell, entirely ordinary. Durosimi quietly dropped it into
his satchel.

“Well,” said Philomena. “That’s that.”

“Not quite,” observed Trickster.

Everyone looked towards the snug.

Lenore still occupied the chair.

“Nevermore,” she remarked.

As evening fell, Neville whistled softly.

Lenore launched herself into the air and settled happily upon his shoulder.

The chair stood empty, and the Tomte’s eyes widened with joy. He
fetched his polish and buffed every inch of the leather until it
gleamed, then stepped back to admire his handiwork.

Trickster sat down, and the chair creaked contentedly.

The Tomte groaned, and stared at the ceiling.

Trickster glanced over his shoulder.

“What’s the matter now?” he asked.

The little fellow turned away, muttering darkly to himself in his own language.

Whatever he said, it caused even Trickster to look faintly
embarrassed… for almost three seconds.