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With a warm smile of approval, Cerenise tapped out the names and dates on her keyboard.  So refreshing when people were original when naming the fruit of their loins, she thought.  Some of the family trees she’d done for friends and clients had been a veritable cesspit of endlessly repeated Johns and Marys, Williams and Elizabeths.  Despite suppressing a shudder when introduced to a modern human named River or Sky, or worse, the ridiculously creative spelling of a common name, some of the older examples of unusual names she found quite delightful. Especially, it had to be said, French ones.

Pierre Wenceslas Varlet born on the 28th of  September, 1824  in Clenleu, Pas-de-Calais, brother of Austreberthe Varlet, born two years previously on the 8th of June.  Wenceslas!   What would you call Wenceslas for short? she mused. Wence?

“An ’twere not as good a deed as drink to turn true man and to leave these rogues, I am the veriest varlet that ever chewed with a tooth”.

A cautious knock at the door interrupted Cerenise’s mental meanderings.

“Enter,” she called, and Laddie Bentry sidled in looking sheepish.

“Ah, it’s you, the veriest varlet of number 26. Well, what is it?  You look as though you accidentally dropped Helier’s trashy novel in the water butt.”

Taken aback by Cernice’s perspicacity, Laddie recoiled slightly and then squared his shoulders. “How did you know?” he asked.

“Oh just a lucky guess,” Cerenise replied breezily, tapping the side of her nose. “I suppose you want me to order you another copy from Amaflob before he notices?  I’ll arrange for an express delivery. Keep an eye out for the delivery man”

Waving away his thanks, she picked up the old document on her desk that Yvoise had kindly provided, albeit reluctantly, and squinted at it. She could make out the name Austreberthe, but what did the rest say?

Cerenise dozed off, dreaming of the Folies Bergere. The atmosphere was exciting and convivial at first, escalating into an eruption of approval when the new act came on the stage. Cerenise felt the energy of the crowd but her attention was drawn to the flamboyant figure of a man dressed as one of the three kings of the Magi, and he was making his way over to her. Why, it was Lazuli Galore! What on earth was he doing here? And who was that dumpy overly made up woman in the blue dress, Godfreda, who had tagged along with them?

Another knock on the door wakened her and she called out “Come in!” in an irritable tone. She’d been having such fun in the dream.  “Oh it’s you, oh good, the book has arrived.”

Laddie shifted his feet and replied, “Well yes, a Liz Tattler novel has arrived.”

“Oh, good, well be off with you then so I can get on with my work.”

“But it’s not The Vampires of Varna.  It’s The Valedictorian Vampires of Valley View High.”

“Jolly good, I expect you’ll enjoy it,”  Cerenise said, picking up the old document again and peering at it.  Perceiving that Laddie had not yet exited the room, she looked up.  “Helier won’t notice, those books are all the same. Now get off with you.”

As soon as Boothroyd had gone, Laddie Bentry, the under gardener, emerged from behind the Dicksonia squarrosa that was planted in a rare French Majolica Onnaing dragon eagle pot.  The pot, and in particular the tree fern residing within it, were Laddie’s favourite specimen, reminding him of his homeland far away.

Keeping a cautious eye on the the door leading into the house, Laddie hurried over to the cast iron planter and retrieved the Liz Tattler novel hidden underneath.  Quickly he tucked in into the inside pocket of his shabby tweed jacket and hastened to the door leading to the garden. Holding on to his cap, for the wind was cold and gusty, he ran to the old stable and darted inside.  Laddie reckoned he had an hour or two free without Boothroyd hovering over him, and he settled himself on a heap of old sacks.

The Vampire Hoarders of Varna.  It wasn’t the first time Laddie had seen Boothroyd surreptitiously reading Helier’s books, and it had piqued his curiosity.  What was it the old fart found so interesting about Helier’s novels? The library was full of books, if he wanted to read. Not bothering to read the preface, and not having time to start on page one, Laddie Bentry flicked through the book, pausing to read random passages.

….the carriage rattled and lurched headlong through the valley, jostling the three occupants unmercifully. “I’ll have the guts of that coachman for garters! The devil take him!” Galfrey exclaimed, after bouncing his head off the door frame of the compartment. 

“Is it bleeding?” asked Triviella, inadvertently licking her lips and she inspected his forehead. 

“The devil take you too, for your impertinence,” Galfrey scowled and shook her off, his irritation enhanced by his alarm at the situation they found themselves in.

Ignoring his uncharacteristic bad humour, Triviella snuggled close and and stroked his manly thigh, clad in crimson silk breeches.  “Just think about the banquet later,” she purred. 

Jacobino, austere and taciturn, on the opposite seat, who had thus far been studiously ignoring both of them, heard the mention of the banquet and smiled for the first time since…

Laddie opened the book to another passage.

“……1631, just before the siege of Gloucester, and what a feast it was!  It was hard to imagine a time when we’d feasted so well. Such rich and easy pickings and such a delightful cocktail.  One can never really predict a perfect cocktail of blood types at a party, and centuries pass between particularly memorable ones. Another is long overdue, and one would hate to miss it,” Jacobino explained to the innocent and trusting young dairy maid, who was in awe that the handsome young gentleman was talking to her at all, yet understood very little of his dialogue.

“Which is why,” Jacobino implored, taking hold of her small calloused hands, “You must come with me to the banquet tonight.” 

Little did she know that her soft rosy throat was on the menu…..

Floviana sunk her yellowed fangs into the milky white throat of the village wench and slurped the revitalising iron rich nectar, relishing the immediate surge of strength.  The buxom peasant girl swooned, faint with shock and loss of vital fluids, and Floviana struggled to hold her upright as she drank her fill. Sated at last, Floviana unceremoniously dropped the girl on the leaf covered mulch of the forest floor, carelessly leaving her body in a shameful disarray with her coarse woollen stockings and plump white thighs exposed.

Boothroyd grunted with pleasure as he imagined the scene and then quickly snapped Helier’s book closed when he heard the door to the conservatory open.  Dropping the book and kicking it under a cast iron jardiniere, he rose as Spirius entered the room.

“Ah, there you are Boothroyd. If you’re not too busy,” Spirius cast his eyes around in a fruitless manner attempting to discover what exactly the gardener had been busy with, “I’d like you to accompany me down the cellar.  Bring some weapons.”

“Weapons, sire?” Boothroyd scratched his head.

“Yes, Yes, weapons! Are you deaf? A long spear and perhaps a musket.  And a small inflatable dinghy.”

“A dinghy, sire?”

Spirius sighed. “Yes, a dinghy. And a big net. Meet me at the top of the cellar steps in an hour.  I’ll go and get the bottles.”

Boothroyd sighed and glanced wistfully at the cast iron planter, haunted by the vision of plump white thighs.

“Quite fitting that I should get her sleeves,” Cerenise said with satisfaction. “And what a relief that she left the wolf to you, Spirius. I’d not have been able to manage a wolf.”  Cerenise popped another cashew nut into her mouth.

Spirius looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “My guess is you’d have managed just fine,” he replied drily. He’d heard all the noise she made behind those locked doors.  He’d seen her prancing around the orchard in the moonlight when she thought nobody was watching, naked as the day she was born all those centuries ago. He hadn’t lingered at the window, but he had put two and two together years ago, many years ago, just after the seige of Gloucester.   If truth be told, Cerenise’s  secret was known to them all, but they hadn’t interfered with her delusion.

“There’s going to come a point, and very soon, when we will have to deal with the water leak, you know,” Yvoise interrupted the inconsequential chatter.  “Holy and healing as it may be, it will be the ruin of my collection if it reaches the upper floors.”

“And what do you propose?” asked Helier.

“I suggest we call a plumber!” snapped Yvoise. “This is the 21st century is it not? I know tradesmen are in short supply, and I know this isn’t an ordinary leak, but we should start with the obvious, and then adapt accordingly.”

“I must bottle as much of the holy water as possible before we stop the leak,” Spirius said, standing up abruptly in agitation.

Helier put a calming hand on the old boy’s shoulder. “There’s no rush, Spirius, there’s plenty of water in the cellars, it’s already waist deep down there.”

“And the saints only know what has floated into the cellars by now from the tunnels.  Be careful down there, Spirius.   Take Boothroyd the gardener with you,” Yvoise advised.

Spirius was looking decidedly ill at ease, which struck Cerenise as far from unusual, and as such, struck her not at all at the time. It wasn’t until later that she became aware of the cause of the discomfiture of her centuries old companion.  Spirius had always been a bit of a dark horse, although that wasn’t really the right expression. A character of hidden depths and mysteries, perhaps with a penchant for bottling things up and labeling them,and then shelving them. Nobody knew for sure.  A good kind well meaning saint, as saints go. She smiled at him fondly.

I hope they’re recording this will reading, Cerenise thought again, not having been listening to the seemingly endless drone of items.

Some ideas for the background thread and character profiles for “The Hoards of Emporium 26.”

The Setting: Emporium 26

They live in Gloucester (ancient Glevum), a city built on Roman bones where the layout of the streets still follows the legions’ sandals. They inhabit a sprawling, shared Georgian townhouse complex that has been knocked through into one labyrinthine dwelling—Number 26.

To the outside world, it looks like a dilapidated heritage site. Inside, it is The Emporium: a geological stratification of history, where layers of Roman pottery are mixed with 1990s Beanie Babies and medieval reliquaries.

The Background Thread: “The Weight of Eternity”

Why do they hoard? Because when you live forever, “letting go” feels like losing a piece of the timeline. Hoarding objects is for them an accumulation of evidence of existence.

• The Curse: They cannot die naturally, but they can fade if they are forgotten. The “stuff” anchors them to the physical plane.
• The “Halo” Effect: Occasionally, when they are arguing over whose turn it is to do the dishes, or when they find a lost treasure, the stained-glass light of their old divinity flickers behind their heads—a neon halo of forgotten holiness.

The Hoarders & Their Stashes

1. Helier ( The Hermit / The Dreamer)

• Saintly Origin: Based on St. Helier (Jersey/Normandy). He was an ascetic hermit who lived in a cave and was eventually beheaded.
• Modern Persona: A soft-spoken agoraphobe who hasn’t left the house since the invention of the internet. He wears oversized cardigans that smell like old library books.
• The Mania: Escapism & Communication.
• Because he spent centuries in silence on a rock, he is now obsessed with human stories and noise.

• The Hoard: ” The Media Mountain.”
• His wing of the house is a fire hazard of pulp fiction, towering stacks of National Geographic (dating back to the first issue), thousands of VHS tapes (he has no VCR), and tangled knots of ethernet cables that he refuses to throw away “in case they fit a port from 1998.”
• The Secret Stash: Beneath a pile of “The Hoarder Vampires” novels lies his true relic: The Stone Pillow. The actual rock he slept on in the 6th century. He still naps on it when his back hurts.

2. Spirius (The Bishop / The Container)

• Saintly Origin: Evocative of St. Exuperius (Bayeux). A driver-out of demons and a man of grand gestures.
• Modern Persona: A nervous, fidgety man who is convinced the world is leaking. He is the “fixer” of the group but usually makes things worse with duct tape.
• The Mania: Containment & Preservation.
• In the old days, he bottled demons. Now, he’s terrified of running out of space to put things.

• The Hoard: “The Vessel Void.”
• Spirius hoards anything that can hold something else. Empty jam jars (washed, mostly), Tupperware with no matching lids, biscuit tins, and thousands of plastic carrier bags stuffed inside other carrier bags (the “Bag of Bags”).
• The Secret Stash: In a locked pantry, he keeps a shelf of sealed mason jars labeled with dates like “1431” or “1789.” He claims they contain the “Sigh of a King” or “The smell of rain before the Plague.” It’s actually just dust, but the jars vibrate slightly.

3. Cerenise (The Weaver / The Mender)

• Saintly Origin: Evocative of St. Ceneri or St. Cerneuf. A saint of travelers, or perhaps needlework.
• Modern Persona: She is the “Wheelchair Girl’s” friend mentioned in the intro? Or perhaps she is in a wheelchair now—not because she can’t walk, but because she’s too tired from walking for 1,500 years. She is sharp-tongued and fashionable in a “crazy bag lady” sort of way.
• The Mania: Potential & Texture.
• She sees the soul in broken things. She cannot throw away anything that “could be fixed.”

• The Hoard: “The Fabric of Time.”
• Her rooms are draped in layers of textiles: velvet curtains from a 1920s cinema, moth-eaten tapestries depicting her own miracles (she thinks the nose is wrong), and buttons. Millions of buttons. She also hoards broken appliances—toasters, lamps, clocks—insisting she will repair them “next Tuesday.”
• The Secret Stash: A mannequin dressed in a perfectly preserved Roman stola, hidden under forty layers of polyester coats. It’s the outfit she wore when she performed her first miracle. She tries it on every New Year’s Eve.

4. Yvoise (The Advocate / The Bureaucrat)

• Saintly Origin: Evocative of St. Yves (Patron of Lawyers/Brittany/Normandy). The arbiter of justice.
• Modern Persona: The “Manager” of Emporium 26. She wears power suits from the 80s and is always carrying a clipboard. She loves rules, even if she invents them.
• The Mania: Proof of Truth.
• She is terrified of being forgotten or cheated. She needs a receipt for everything.

• The Hoard: “The Archive of Nothing.”
• Yvoise hoards paper. Receipts from a coffee bought in 1952, bus tickets, expired warranties, junk mail, and legal disclaimers torn off mattresses. Her room looks like the inside of a shredder that exploded. She claims she is building “The Case for Humanity.”
• The Secret Stash: A filing cabinet labeled “Do Not Open.” Inside is not paper, but Seeds. Seeds from the trees of ancient Gaul. She is saving them for when the paper finally takes over the world and she needs to replant the forest she misses.

Starter: The Reading of Austreberthe’s Will

The story kicks off because Austreberthe (The Saint of Washing/Water) has died. Her hoard was Soap and Water.

• The house is now flooding because her magical containment on the plumbing has broken.
• The remaining four must navigate her “Tsunami Wing”—a treacherous dungeon of accumulated bath bombs, stolen hotel towels, and aggressive washing machines—to find her Will.
• The Will is rumored to reveal the location of the “Golden Key,” an object that can legally terminate their lease on Emporium 26, which none of them want, but all of them crave.

“Whatever happened to Miss Mossy Trotter, Finnley?” Liz asked, conversationally. She had a good idea what had happened to that innovative story writer, but she wanted to hear what Finnley had to say, before she mentioned it to Godfrey.

“What to YOU think happened to her?” Finnley responded, in her customary rudely intuitive manner.

“Sit down on that stool for a minute, and put the feather duster down,” Liz instructed, “And let’s have a talk about this because we both know that the possible ramifications don’t bear thinking about. Now then, sit still for five minutes and tell me everything.”

Unseen by either of them, Roberto had sidled up to the French windows and was peering inside, listening.

“You’ll never guess what the gazebo landed on! The Lost City of Zed!” Breathlessly, Amy told her father the exciting news of Chico’s successful mission.

“Saddle my horse, Crumpet, we must go at once. The Gazeba must stay there, and we go there for the character building, ” Sir Humphrey replied, struggling to his feet.  “Tell everyone to pack.”

“Padre, calm yourself, there’s no rush. Did you just say Gazeba?”

“Of course I said Gazeba, don’t be dense, girl,” Humphrey said irritably, “Your mother was dense.”

I don’t even want to know.  Amy shuddered, and went outside to look for Kit.

“Ricardo!” Amy said with a raised eyebrow and a note of surprise in her voice. “All I’ve ever seen you do so far is lurk in bushes sending secret messages. But I admire your bold assertiveness, I can see you are on a sudden quest to discover your true potential.”   Amy smiled encouragingingly and patted his shoulder.  “The sooner we get the gazebo back the better, The Padre is recovering and anxious to host The Character Building Party.”

His chest swelling with pride, Ricardo replied that he was very grateful for her support and attention, and would do his best to restore both the gazebo and his independence, but that he was in a quandary about the conflict of interests between his role in the story, and his value fulfilment as a developing character.

“Yeah that’s a tough one,” Amy said, “But it’s a good question to ask at the party in the gazebo. Hurry and get the gazebo back!”

The Cofficionados Theme Song “Dont Trust a Goat with a Plan”

[Verse]
Goat in a bow tie whispers
“Trust me
My dear”
A plan in its hooves but intentions unclear
Guard the coffee belt like a treasure map’s end
Four bandits are plotting to twist and upend

[Chorus]
Don’t trust a goat with a plan
My friend
They’ll sip your dreams while you defend
Lucid nights sabotaged mid-spin
By cofficionados sneaking in

[Verse 2]
Carob in shadows
No cocoa in sight
Thiram with whispers that steal your midnight
Amy’s sweet smile hides beans of deceit
Chico grinds chaos
The bitter elite

[Bridge]
Sleep-parachute breaches
Reverse dreams collide
They’ve hijacked your pillow for the wildest ride
Beware the saboteurs that seep in deep
Between dripping espresso and REM sleep

[Chorus]
Don’t trust a goat with a plan
My friend
They’ll sip your dreams while you defend
Lucid nights sabotaged mid-spin
By cofficionados sneaking in

[Verse 3]
Pour your resistance in a steaming haze
Shield the roast aroma from their forking ways
The bandits want dominion over your grind
But you’ll wake alert with their schemes left behind

Chico Ray

Chico Ray

Directly Stated Visual and Behavioral Details:

• Introduces himself casually: “Name’s Chico,” with no clear past, suggesting a self-aware or recently-written character.

• Chews betel leaves, staining his teeth red, which gives him a slightly unsettling or feral appearance.

• Spits on the floor, even in a freshly cleaned café—suggesting poor manners, or possibly defiance.

• Appears from behind a trumpet tree, implying he lurks or emerges unpredictably.

• Fabricates plausible-sounding geo-political nonsense (e.g., the coffee restrictions in Rwanda), then second-guesses whether it was fiction or memory.

Inferred Traits:

• A sharp smile made more vivid by betel staining.

• Likely wears earth-toned clothes, possibly tropical—evoking Southeast Asian or Central American flavors.

• Comes off as a blend of rogue mystic and unreliable narrator, leaning toward surreal trickster.

• Psychological ambiguity—he doubts his own origins, possibly a hallucination, dream being, or quantum hitchhiker.

What Remains Unclear:

• Precise age or background.

• His affiliations or loyalties—he doesn’t seem clearly aligned with the Bandits or Lucid Dreamers, but hovers provocatively at the edges.

Key Themes and Narrative Elements

Metafiction & Self-Reference: Characters frequently comment on their own construction, roles, and how being written (or observed) defines their reality. Amy especially embodies this.

Lucid Dreaming & Dream Logic: The boundary between reality and dream is porous. Lucid Dreamers are parachuting onto plantations, and Carob dreams in reverse. Lucid Dreamers are adverse to Coffee Plantations as they keep the World awake.

Coffee as Sacred Commodity: The coffee plantation is central to the story’s stakes. It’s under threat from climate (rain), AI malfunctions, and rogue dreamers. This plays comically on global commodity anxiety.

Technology Satire & AI Sentience: Emotional AI, “Silly Intelligence” devices, and exasperation with modern tech hint at mild technophobia or skepticism. All fueled by hot caffeinated piece of news.

Fictionality vs. Reality: Juan and Dolores embody this—grappling with what it means to be real. Dolores vanishes when no one looks—existence contingent on observation.

Rain & Weather as Mood Symbol: The rain is persistent—setting a tone of gentle absurdity and tension, while also providing plot catalyst.

Amy supposed everyone was blaming her, for what she couldn’t say, but they had clearly been avoiding her. There was plenty of coffee here anyway, even if the rest of the world was suffering. Don’t even think it, she told herself sternly. We don’t want people flocking here in droves once they realise.

So, do I want people or not? she asked herself. One minute I’m wondering where everyone is, and then next minute I’m wanting everyone to stay away.

“You on the spectrum too, are you?” asked Carob, reading her mind.  “It’s ok,” she added, seeing the look of alarm cross Amy’s face, “Your secret’s safe with me. I mean about being on the spectrum. But be careful, they’re rounding people like us up and sending them to a correctional facility.  We’re quite lucky to be here, out of the way.”

“Have you been avoiding me?” Amy asked, which was more immediately concerning than the concentration camps.  “Because I’ve been here all alone for ages, nothing to do but read my book,  draw in my sketch pad, and work on my needlepoint cushion covers. And where are the others? And don’t read my mind, it’s so rude.”

“Needlepoint cushion covers? Are you serious?” Carob was avoiding the questions, but was genuinely curious about the cushion covers.

Amy blushed.  “No, I made that up. In fact, I don’t know what made me say that. I haven’t started any sketching either, but I have thought about starting sketching. And I’ve been reading. It’s an old Liz Tattler; the old ones were the best. Real old school Lizzie Tattie, if you know what I mean. Risque romps with potting sheds and stuff.  None of that ghastly sci fi she started writing recently.”

“Which one?” Carob asked, and laughed when Amy held it up.  “I read that years ago, T’Eggy Gets a Good Rogering, can I borrow it after you? God knows we could all do with a laugh.”

“How do you know the others need a good laugh?” Amy asked, peering at Carob with an attentive squint in order to catch any clues. “You’ve seen then, then?”

Carob smiled sadly and replied, “Only by remote viewing them.”

Amy asked where they had been and what they were doing when they were viewed remotely. Has she been remote viewing me? What if they ask her if she’s been remote viewing me, and she tells them?  “Oh never mind,” Amy said quickly, “No need to answer that.”

Carob snorted, and what a strangely welcome sound it was. “I didn’t really remote view them, I made  that up.  It never works if I try to spy on people. Fat lot of good it is really, it never works when I really really need to see  something. Or maybe it works, but I never believe it properly until later when I find out it was right.”

“Yeah,” Amy said, “It’s fun though, I haven’t done it in ages.”

“You should, it would give you something to do when everyone’s avoiding you.”

“Well, I’ll give you a point for that, Thiram,” Amy said, wondering, not for the first time, about his unusual name. Was it a play on the word theorem? I must ask him about it.  “But if Florida doesn’t exist anymore, which I am willing to admit it does not, then what is it doing on that map?”

“What was the population of Florida before it was submerged? Twenty four million or so?” asked Chico, appearing from behind a trumpet tree. “That’s 24 million less people drinking coffee, anyway, 144 million cups saved per day (assuming they drank 6 cups per day), which is a whopping 54.5 billion cups a year.”

“Chico! How long have you been hiding behind that trumpet tree?” asked Amy, but Chico ignored her.  Nettled, Amy continued, “That would be true if all the people in Florida were submerged along with the land, but most of them were resettled in Alabama.  There was plenty of room in Alabama, because the population of Alabama was relocated.”

“Yes but the people of Alabama were relocated to a holding camp in Rwanda, and they’re not allowed any coffee,” replied Chico crossly, making it up on the spot.

“Yeah I heard about that,” said Carob, which made Chico wonder if he had actually made it up on the spot, or perhaps he’d heard it somewhere too.

“I’m going back behind the trumpet tree,” announced Chico, flouncing off in high dudgeon.

“Now look what you’ve done!” exclaimed Carob.

“Why is it always my fault?” Amy was exasperated.

“Maybe because it usually is,” Carob replied, “But not to worry, at least we know where to find Chico now.”

“Look, don’t get upset, ok?” Amy felt she had to nip this in the bud.  “There’s something glaringly wrong with the map.  I mean, yes, it does make a nice picture. A very nice picture,” she added, and then stopped.  Does it really matter? she asked herself. Am I always causing trouble?

Amy sighed. Would life be easier for everyone if she stopped pointing things out and just went along with things?  Was there any stopping it anyway? It’s like a runaway train.

“You were saying?” Ricardo asked.

“Pray, continue,” added Carob with a mischeivous gleam in her eye.  She knew where this was leading.

“Who is he?” Amy whispered to Carob. “Well never mind that now, you can tell me later.”

Amy cleared her throat and faced Ricardo (noting that he was dark complexioned and and of medium height and wiry build, dressed  in a crumpled off white linen suit and a battered Panama hat, and likely to be of Latino heritage)  noticing out of the corner of her eye a smirk on Thiram’s face who was leaning against a tree with his arms folded, looking as if he might start whistling Yankee Doodle any moment.

“According to your map, my good man, nice map that it is, in fact it’s so nice one could make a flag out of it, the colours are great and….”   Amy realised she was waffling.  She cleared her throat and braced her shoulders, glaring at Carob over her shoulder who had started to titter.

Speak your mind even if your voice shakes, and keep the waffling to a minimum.

“My dear Ricardo,” Amy began again, pushing her long light brown hair out of her sweaty hazel eyes, and pushing the sleeves of her old grey sweatshirt up over her elbows and glancing down at her short thin but shapely denim clad legs. “My dear man, as you can see I’m a slightly underweight middle aged woman eminently capable of trudging up and down coffee growing mountains, with a particular flair for maps, and this map of yours begs a few questions.”

“Coffee beans don’t grow in Florida,” Carob interjected, in an attempt to move the discourse along.

“Nor in Morocco,” added Amy quickly, shooting a grateful glance at Carob.