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There was a creek behind the cottage, towards which Widdershins was presently wandering, clad in a set of waders. He stripped off his shirt and stepped into the moonlit creek, his colander still on his head.

“He hasn’t got any nipples,” noticed Osric. To Widdershins, he called, “Why haven’t you got any nipples?”

“You can’t just ask people why they haven’t got nipples,” said Fairhrim.

“Lost them in the fire,” said Widdershins.

He splashed about in the creek.

“Mr.Widdershins, what are you doing?” asked Fairhrim. There was concern in the question.

“Tadpoling.Obviously.”

“It’s the middle of the night,” said Fairhrim.

“Best time for it. Also, fuck off.”

“We want a copy of your article; then we’ll gladly fuck off,” said Osric. “Have you still got one?”

“It doesn’t exist anymore,” said Widdershins, splashing about. “Burnt everything.”

“Then what did it say?” asked Fairhrim. “What were your findings on the Stone?”

Widdershins ignored them.

“Leave off the pollywogs and answer the questions,” said Osric.

Widdershins’ expression went vacant again. “Pollywogs. Frompoll, head, andwiglen, wiggle. A wiggling head.”

“You suspected that the language on the Stone was a fairy tongue,” pressed Fairhrim. “Had you managed to translate it?”

Widdershins addressed a point next to her shoulder. “Translate. From the Latintransferre, a carrying across. There is also the Greek version,metaphrasis. A speaking across—as these things do, you know; they speak to us from across the gulfs of time and tongues long forgot.”

Widdershins removed the colander from his head and plunged it into the creek.

Osric lost his patience. “If this dotard gives us one more bloody etymology—”

“Dotard,”said Widdershins. “From Middle Dutchdoten, to be foolish.Ardindicates a particular quality, usually pejorative. And so we also havedrunkardandcowardanddullardandlaggard.” Widdershins’ dreamy gaze refocused. He looked Osric dead in the eye. “And, of course,bastard, but you’re well acquainted with that one, boy, being such a stellar example yourself.”

Osric turned to Fairhrim and said, informatively: “I’m a cock hair away from murdering this man.”

“I’m not familiar with that unit of measurement,” said Widdershins. He, too, turned to Fairhrim. “How imminent is my demise? What’s the length of a standard cock hair?”

Osric was interested in Fairhrim’s answer—she probably had a cock-hair almanac with data and averages and things—but she did not respond to the query. She brushed past Osric and stood on the bank of the creek. “If we could return to the translation—”

“I’ve caught one,” said Widdershins. He showed Fairhrim the colander, in which a tadpole wiggled.

“Very nice,” said Fairhrim. “Lovely tadpole. But to return to your article—what if we use your findings and prove that you were right?”

“Oh? And how will you do that?” asked Widdershins. “Summon a fairy to corroborate?”

“If you’d tell me what you thought the Stone said—”

“She didn’t say. She may haveconveyed, in the most abstract of senses.”

“Right, what it—she—conveyed. The healing ritual—the pattern. If I was to discover that there was some truth to it—that you weren’t wrong, or deluded, or barmy—we could undo some of the misfortunes you’ve suffered. Reverse the retraction. Have you reinstated as a professor.”

Widdershins said, “You poor, stupid creature,” but it wasn’t clear whether this was addressed to Fairhrim or the tadpole. “I’ve got a bucket for you.”