“TRUST YOU!” Comma bellowed. “Are you insane? You have to be.” She paced in anger as she spewed.
“Do you realise that you leave out half your letters when you speak? What kind of words are ‘aren’t’, ‘you’re’, ‘you’ll’ and ‘I’ll’? And what on Biblion does ‘hey’ mean?”
“Like I said,” he drawled in a matter-of-fact voice, leaning over Comma imposingly, “you’ll have to trust me.”
Comma automatically shrank backwards. Apostrophe was a fearsome Mark. Their images were identical in print, but their physical selves were so dissimilar that they could have been described as opposites. Apostrophe was taller, though in no way lanky. Unlike Comma, he had girth, though he was by no means portly. The added mass, his demeanour and his stride—a not-quite-swagger and a nearly-saunter—made him robust. He reeked of a different brand of power, one that gave him an aura of invincibility.
“Good Writer,” Comma said in consternation when the realisation hit her. “They are Slang words. You … you crossed over to Slang.”
“Technically, they’re contractions, not just words,” Apostrophe amended dryly, “and where I work is none of your business.”
Comma’s insides churned. Apostrophe was not just a wanderer. He was an outlaw—with potent connections to the Slang underworld.
