"We are aware of a whispering campaign," said Lowbeer, "while uncertain as to its origins." She glanced out again. "Oh dear," she said, and rose, reaching under the flap of her brown satchel. "I’m afraid we’ll have to be going now." She drew out a business card, passing it to the Michikoid, which had just then arrived, as if summoned. It accepted the card with two hands, bowed, smartly retreated. Lowbeer reached back into her satchel, producing what at first appeared to be a fussily ornate, gold-and-ivory lipstick, or perhaps atomizer, but which promptly morphed into a short, ceremonial-looking baton, its staff of fluted ivory topped with a gilt coronet. A tipstaff, evidently. Netherton had never actually seen one before. "Come with me, please," she said.