Going Postal

7¼.
    “There is a pair of boots with wings, too,” said Mr. Pump, “and some sort of elasticated—”
    “Don’t bother about that bit!” said Groat excitedly. “Where did you find that stuff? We’ve been looking everywhere! For years !”
    “It Was Under The Mail In The Postmaster’s Office, Mr. Groat.”
    “Couldn’t have been, couldn’t have been!” Groat protested. “We’ve sifted through there dozens of times! I seen every inch o’ carpet in there!”
    “A lot of mail, er, moved about today,” said Moist.
    “That Is Correct,” said the golem. “Mr. Lipvig Came Through The Ceiling.”
    “Ah, so he found it, eh?” said Groat triumphantly. “See? It’s all coming true! The prophecy!”
    “There is no prophecy, Tolliver,” said the Worshipful Master, shaking his head sadly. “I know you think there is, but wishing that someone will come along and sort this mess out one day is not the same as a prophecy. Not really.”
    “We’ve been hearing the letters talking again!” said Groat. “They whisper in the night. We have to read them the Regulations to keep ’em quiet. Just like the wizard said!”
    “Yes, well, you know what we used to say: you do have to be mad to work here!” said the Worshipful Master. “It’s all over, Tolliver. It really is. The city doesn’t even need us anymore.”
    “You put that hat on, Mr. Lipwig!” said Groat. “It’s fate, that turning up like this. You just put it on and see what happens!”
    “Well, if everyone’s happy about it…” Moist mumbled. He held the hat above his head, but hesitated.
    “Nothing is going to happen, is it?” he said. “Only I’ve had a very strange day—”
    “No, nothing’s going to happen,” said the Worshipful Master. “It never does. Oh, we all thought it would, once. Every time someone said they’d put the chandeliers back or deliver the mail, we thought, maybe it’s ended, maybe it really is going to work this time. And young Tolliver there, you made him happy when you put the sign back. Got him excited. Made him think it’d work this time. It never does, though, ’cos this place is curséd.”
    “That’s cursed with an extra ed?”
    “Yes, sir. The worst kind. No, put your hat on, sir. It’ll keep the rain off, at least.”
    Moist prepared to lower the hat, but as he did so he was aware that the old postmen were drawing back.
    “You’re not sure!” he yelled, waving a finger. “You’re not actually sure, are you! All of you! You’re thinking, hmm, maybe this time it will work, right? You’re holding your breath! I can tell! Hope is a terrible thing, gentlemen!”
    He lowered the hand.
    “Feeling anything?” said Groat after a while.
    “It’s a bit…scratchy,” said Moist.
    “Ah, that’d be some amazing mystic force leakin’ out, eh?” said Groat, desperately.
    “I don’t think so,” said Moist. “Sorry.”
    “Most of the postmasters I served under hated wearing that thing,” said the Worshipful Master, as everyone relaxed. “Mind you, you’ve got the height to carry it off. Postmaster Atkinson was only five feet one, and it made him look broody.” He patted Moist on the shoulder. “Never mind, lad, you did your best.”
    An envelope bounced off his head. As he brushed it away, another one landed on his shoulder and slid off.
    Around the group, letters started to land on the floor like fish dropped by a passing tornado.
    Moist looked up. The letters were falling down from the darkness, and the drizzle was turning into a torrent.
    “Stanley? Are you…messing about up there?” Groat ventured, almost invisible in the paper sleet.
    “I always said those attics didn’t have strong enough floors,” moaned the Worshipful Master. “It’s just a mailstorm again. We made too much noise, that’s all. C’mon, let’s get out while we can, eh?”
    “Then put those lanterns out! They ain’t safety lights!” shouted Groat.
    “We’ll be groping around in the dark, lad!”
    “Oh, you’d rather see by the light of a burning roof, would you?”
    The lanterns winked out…and by the darkness they now shed Moist von Lipwig saw the writing on the wall or, at least, hanging in the air just in front of it. The hidden pen swooped through the air in loops and curves, drawing its glowing blue letters behind it.
    Moist von Lipwig? it wrote.
    “Er…yes?”
    You are the Postmaster!
    “Look, I’m not the One you’re looking for!”
    Moist von Lipwig, at a time like this any