The Singer squints at him, then shrugs. "I'll babysit him if you like. Call it ten pence for a day?"

"Suits me!"

How much of that can he cover in advance? It's not like he has any better uses for his money at the moment.

He can easily cover a week, even though if all goes well he'll be out in a day or so.

He goes for four days just in case, and promises that if disaster strikes and he somehow runs longer than that he'll make it up when he gets back. Then he hands over Edward and the jar of mud he sleeps in. "I'll miss you," he says, patting the mandrake on its lumpy little head.

Edward purrs. The Singer takes Edward and the mud jar and places them both on a coffee table. "I'll keep up with his lessons too, of course. Would you like to stay until they come for you? I've got tea and Murgatroyd's fungal crackers."

"That sounds lovely!"

She makes some tea and sets out a plate of crackers. The tea is pleasantly mellow, and the crackers are quite nice if you like mushroom.

"I think Edward is going to outgrow my tutelage fairly soon," the Singer comments between sips. "He's got a fine ear, and unlike a human child he doesn't forget what I teach him five minutes after I've taught it."

"Aww," he says. "Well now I'm proud of him."

Edward preens. The Singer strokes one of his fronds with a finger, causing him to preen even more.

"When do you think they'll come?" she asks idly. "I'm trying to think of ways to pass the time, but I don't know if I should be thinking Pachisi or honey-dream."

"I'm really not sure. What are honey-dreams like, anyway? I've never tried the stuff."

"They're lovely. You're transported to an impossible place, and you see the most amazing things... We can share a few drops after Edward's graduation, how's that?"

"Sure!"

"That's settled, then. Until then, would you like me to teach you Pachisi?"

"I'd be delighted!"

She teaches him how to play Pachisi.

After a few hours of this and similar pursuits, there's a heavy knock on the door. "Open in the name of the law!" barks a gruff voice.

The Singer sighs. "I suppose that's a draw on this round. Don't stay away too long, alright? I can't be worrying about someone, it'll ruin my reputation as a coldhearted bitch."

"I'll do my best!" he promises.

"I said-" continues the voice, banging on the door some more.

The Singer opens the door. "Heard you the first time. He's in here."

"Your cooperation is appreciated," the constable says suspiciously. "You there! Come with me, you're under arrest."

"All right."

Off he goes.

Off he goes! He's transported by dirigible to a vast stalactite above the city and shown to his cell. This cell will be his home for the time he is here; it contains a cot, a hole in the ground, and not much else.

There's also a common area, where he can associate with other criminals.

There's also a large and mostly unexplored system of tunnels. He's warned to stay out of them if he prefers to live out his sentence.

Well, he is immediately sorely tempted to go poke around the tunnels, but he has a job to do and he should probably take care of that first. Who's he supposed to murder again? Maybe if he hangs around the common area he'll find them there eventually.

From conversations overheard in the common room, the Wretched Recidivist apparently stays in his cell most of the time, hoping to pass his brief sentence uneventfully. He comes out for meals, and not much else. His cell is actually fairly nearby, if an agent of the Provocateuse would like to pay him a visit.

He would, as a matter of fact!

The Recidivist's cell is unguarded. "What do you want?" he asks, wretchedly.

"Hello," he says, grinning. "I'm here to murder you."

He blinks a couple of times, then picks up a shiv and launches himself at his prospective murderer.