For several days following his unfortunate encounter with the scholarly volume ‘The Lexicon Progressive’, Neville Moore was managing  to speak in perfectly ordinary English. This came as an immense relief to everyone, especially Neville.

“I never realised how tiring it was,” he confessed over breakfast. “Every sentence felt as though I had to climb into it.”

“That’s because you were speaking in tongues,” said Philomena.

“I was?”

“Mostly.”

“Oh… I thought they were sentences.”

Lenore, meanwhile, had retained one souvenir of the affair.

“Nevermore,” she remarked brightly from her new perch, which happened to be the hatstand in the corner.

“Yes?” responded Neville automatically.

“I suppose,” Philomena observed, “there are worse curses.”

“No there aren’t,” muttered the Tomte, whose work had increased exponentially due to Lenore’s stubborn refusal to become house-trained.

Durosimi O’Stoat, who was being worryingly affable these days, appeared that afternoon carrying the Lexicon Progressive beneath one arm.

“I thought you should know,” he declared importantly, “I’ve come to remove the offending article from Hopeless once and for all.”

Philomena still didn’t trust the sorcerer, but thought it best to play along with whatever he was up to. She handed him a slice of fruit cake, which he accepted gratefully. 

“It belongs,” he explained, through a mouthful of cake, “in a place where curious people are never going to find it.”

“Does such a place exist?” asked Tenzin.

“I sincerely hope so.”

Neville looked apologetic.

“I’m terribly sorry about all this.”

“My dear fellow,” said Reggie, “you are hardly to blame.”

“On the other hand,” pointed out Rhys, less charitably, “you did make it your business to read it.”

“I’ve always been rather fond of books,” Neville said, defensively.

“Yes,” sighed Philomena. “That’s the problem.”

Durosimi slipped the volume into his satchel.

“It has caused similar difficulties before.”

“It has?” asked Tenzin.

“Oh yes.”

“What happened?”

“According to my sources, this book had for many years been secured in a sealed box, and was brought to America by one John Washington, the paternal great-grandfather of the country’s first president. Despite dire warnings in the family archives that no one should attempt to open the box and examine the contents, George could not resist when it eventually passed into his hands. Being a curious young man he delved deeply into the book, and spent three weeks speaking entirely in Chaucer.”

“Well, we know he survived,” said Reggie. “So how was he cured?”

Durosimi smiled thinly.

“Physicians of the time had no idea what to do. They had him biting down on dictionaries and all sorts of rubbish like that. It ruined his teeth for good. Then one day his wife had him read aloud one of his own early works, called ‘The Rules of Civility.’ That did the trick.”

“Dashed shame,” said Reggie. “If she hadn’t done that America might still be British.”

“There is,” said Durosimi, ignoring him, “a reason that modern English became modern.”

He looked thoughtfully around the bar.

“Language, like people, prefers to keep moving.”

For a little while nobody spoke.

Outside, rain tapped gently against the windows.

Drury snored by the fire and Lenore flew down onto Neville’s shoulder.

“Nevermore.”

“Quite,” said Neville.

“So what are you going to do with the book?” asked Rhys.

Durosimi paused at the door.

“Oh… you recall from your Night Soil days that there is a sinkhole at the end of the Night-Soil Man’s garden. I’ve spoken with young Winston Oldspot… “

“Is that safe,” broke in Rhys, suddenly alarmed.

“Nothing ever returns, if that’s what concerns you,” Durosimi said smoothly, and with that he disappeared into the gathering mist. 

There was a long silence.

Finally Reggie cleared his throat.

“You know,” he said, “sometimes I suspect Durosimi enjoys leaving conversations before anybody can ask the sensible questions.”

“I’ve noticed that,” agreed Philomena. 

She looked at Drury who, although sleeping, had tensed uneasily at Durosimi’s words. Why did that worry her so?

The room fell quiet.

Outside, somewhere beyond the rain, a raven called.

“Nevermore,” replied Lenore.

“I hope not,” thought Philomena.