‘You have a better idea?’
   I said nothing.
   ‘Then you had better follow me. The sooner this menace is out of my book the better!’
   All except Grace Poole and the madwoman had been removed from the house, and Mrs Poole had been entreated not to open the door to anyone until the morning on any account, not even to Mr Rochester. Rochester and I started at the library and moved through to the dining room and then the afternoon reception room. After this we searched the morning reception room and then the ballroom. All were empty. We returned to the staircase where we had placed John and Mathew, who both swore no one had passed them. Night had descended by this time; the men who stood guard had been given torches and their meagre light flickered in the hall. The stairs and panelling of the house were of a dark wood which reflected light poorly; the belly of a whale would have been brighter. We reached the top of the stairs and looked left and right, but the house was dark and I cursed myself for not bringing a good flashlight. As if in answer to my thoughts a gust of wind blew out the candles and somewhere ahead a door banged. My heart missed a beat and Rochester muttered an oath as he stumbled into an oak chest. I quickly relit the candelabrum. In the warm glow we could see each other’s timorous faces, and Rochester, realising that my face was a reflection of his own, steeled himself to the task ahead and shouted:
   ‘Coward! Show yourself!’
   There was a loud concussion and a bright orange flash as Rochester fired off a shot in the direction of the staircase leading to the upper rooms.
   ‘There! There he goes, like a rabbit; I fancy I winged him too!’
   We hurried to the spot but there was no blood; merely the heavy lead ball embedded in the banister rail.
   ‘We have him!’ exclaimed Rochester. ‘There is no escape from up here except the roof and no way down without risking his neck on the guttering!’
   We climbed the stairs and found ourselves in the upper corridor. The windows were larger up here but even so the interior was still insufferably gloomy. We stopped abruptly. Halfway down the corridor, standing in the shadows and with his face lit by the light of a single candle, was Hades. Running and hiding were not his style at all. He was holding the lighted candle close to a rolled-up piece of paper that I knew could only be the Wordsworth poem in which my aunt was imprisoned.
   ‘The code word, if you will, Miss Next!’
   ‘Never!’
   He placed the candle closer to the paper and smiled at me. ‘The code word, please!’
   But his smile became an expression of agony; he let out a wild cry and the candle and poem fell to the ground. He turned slowly to reveal the cause of his pain. There, on his back and clinging on with grim determination, was Mrs Rochester, the madwoman from Jamaica. She cackled maniacally and twisted a pair of scissors that she had buried between Hades’ shoulder blades. He cried out once again and fell to his knees as the flame from the lit candle set fire to the layers of wax polish that had built up on a bureau. The flames greedily enveloped the piece of furniture and Rochester pulled some curtains down in order to smother them. But Hades was up again, his strength renewed: the scissors had been withdrawn. He swiped at Rochester and caught him on the chin; Edward reeled and fell heavily to the floor. A manic glee seemed to overcome Acheron as he took a spirit lamp from the sideboard and hurled it to the end of the corridor; it burst into flames and ignited some wall hangings. He turned on the madwoman, who went for him in a blur of flailing limbs. She deftly whipped Mycroft’s battered instruction booklet from Hades’ pocket, gave a demonic and triumphant cry and then ran off.
   ‘Yield, Hades!’ I yelled, firing off two shots. Acheron staggered with the force of the slugs but recovered quickly and ran after Bertha and the book. I picked up the precious poem, and coughed in the thick smoke that had started to fill the corridor. The drapes were now well alight. I dragged Rochester to his feet. We ran after Hades, noticing as we did so that other fires had been started by Acheron in his pursuit of the instruction manual and the insane Creole. We caught up with them in a large back bedroom. It seemed as good a moment as any to open the portal; already the bed was ablaze and Hades and Bertha were playing a bizarre game of cat-and-mouse with her holding the booklet and brandishing the scissors at him, something he seemed to be genuinely fearful of.
   ‘Say the words!’ I said to Rochester.
   ‘And they are?’
   ‘Sweet madness!’
   Rochester yelled them. Nothing. He yelled them even louder. Still nothing. I had made a mistake. Jane Eyre was written in the first-person narrative. Whatever was being read by Bowden and Mycroft back home was what Jane was experiencing—anything that happened to us didn’t appear in the book and never would. I hadn’t thought of this.
   ‘Now what?’ asked Rochester.
   ‘I don’t know. Look out!!’
   Bertha made a wild lunge at us both and ran out of the door, swiftly followed by Hades, who was so intent on regaining the instruction manual that the two of us seemed of secondary importance. We followed them down the corridor, but the stairwell was now a wall of flame and the heat and smoke pushed us back. Coughing and with eyes streaming, Bertha escaped on to the roof with Hades, myself and Rochester not far behind. The cool air was welcome after the smoky interior of Thornfield. Bertha led us all down on to the lead roof of the ballroom. We could see that the fire had spread downstairs, the heavily polished furniture and floors giving the hungry flames plenty of nourishment; within a few minutes the large and tinder-dry house would be an inferno.
   The madwoman was dancing a languid dance in her nightclothes; a dim memory, perhaps, from the time when she was a lady, and a far cry from the sad and pathetic existence she now endured. She growled like a caged animal and threatened Hades with the scissors as he cursed and entreated the return of the booklet, which she waved at him in a mocking fashion. Rochester and I watched, the shattering of windows and the crackle of the fire punctuating the silence of the night.
   Rochester, annoyed at having nothing to do and tiring of watching his wife and Hades dance the danse macabre, loosed off the second pistol and hit Hades in the small of the back. Hades turned, unhurt but enraged. He drew his own gun and fired several shots in return as Rochester and I leaped behind a chimney stack. Bertha took full advantage of the opportunity and plunged the scissors deep into Hades’ arm. He yelled in pain and terror and dropped his gun. Bertha danced happily around him, cackling wildly, as Hades fell to his knees.
   A groan made me turn. One of Acheron’s shots had passed straight through Rochester’s palm. He pulled out his handkerchief and I helped him wrap it around his shattered hand.
   I looked up again as Hades knocked the scissors from his arm; they flew through the air and landed close by. Powerful again and as angry as a lion, he leaped upon Bertha, held her tightly by the throat and retrieved the booklet. He then picked her up and held her high above his head, she all the while uttering a demented yell that managed to drown out the sound of the fire. For a moment they were silhouetted against the flames that even now licked up against the night sky, then Hades took two quick steps to the parapet and threw Bertha over, her yell only silenced by the dull thud as she hit the ground three storeys below. He stepped back from the parapet and turned to us with eyes blazing.
   ‘Sweet madness, eh?’ He laughed. ‘Jane is with her cousins; the narrative is with her. And I have the manual!’
   He waved it at me, deposited it in his pocket and picked up his gun.
   ‘Who’s first?’
   I fired but Hades clapped his open hand on the approaching bullet. He opened his fist; the slug was flattened into a small lead disc. He smiled and a shower of sparks flew up behind him. I fired again and he caught the slug once more. The slide on my automatic parked itself in the rearward position, empty and ready for the next clip. I had one but I didn’t think it would make much difference. The inevitable presented itself: I’d had a good run, survived him more than any other living person and done all that was humanly possible. But luck doesn’t always walk in your favour—mine had just run out.
   Hades smiled at me.

   ‘Timing is everything, Miss Next. I have the password, the manual, and the upper hand. The waiting game, as you can see, paid off.’
   He looked at me with a triumphant expression.
   ‘It may come as some consolation that I planned to bestow upon you the honour of being Felix9. I will remember you always as my greatest adversary; I salute you for it. And you were right—you never did negotiate.’
   I wasn’t listening. I was thinking about Tamworth, Snood and the rest of Hades’ victims. I looked across at Rochester, who was cradling his blood-soaked hand; the fight had gone out of him.
   ‘The Crimea will make us a fortune,’ went on Hades. ‘How much profit can we make on each plasma rifle? Five hundred pounds? A thousand? Ten thousand?’
   I thought of my brother in the Crimea. He had called for me to come back for him, but I never did. My APC was hit by an artillery shell as I returned. I had to be forcibly restrained from taking another vehicle and returning to the battlefield. I never saw him again. I had never forgiven myself for leaving him.
   Hades was still rambling, and I found myself almost wishing that he’d get on with it. Death, after all I had been through, suddenly seemed like a very comfortable option. At the height of any battle some say that there is a quietness where one can think calmly and easily, the trauma of the surroundings screened off by the heavy curtain of shock. I was about to die, and only one seemingly banal question came to mind: Why on earth did Bertha’s scissors have such a detrimental effect on Hades? I looked up at Acheron, who was mouthing words that I could not hear. I stood up and he fired. He was merely playing with me and the bullet flew wide—I didn’t even blink. The scissors were the key; they had been made of silver. I reached into my trouser pocket for the silver bullet that Spike had given me. Acheron, vain and arrogant, was wasting time with pompous self-congratulation. He would pay dearly for the error. I slipped the shiny slug into my automatic and released the slide. It chambered the round smoothly, I aimed, pulled the trigger and saw something pluck at his chest. For a moment nothing happened. Then Acheron stopped talking and put his hand to where the round had hit home. He brought his fingers up to his face and looked at them with shocked surprise; he was used to having blood on his hands—but never his own. He turned to me, started to say something but then staggered for a moment before pitching heavily forward on to his face and moving no more. Acheron Hades, third-most evil man on the planet, was finally dead, killed on the roof of Thornfield Hall and mourned by no one.
   There was little time to ponder Hades’ demise; the flames were growing higher. I took Mycroft’s manual and then pulled Rochester to his feet. We made our way to the parapet; the roof had grown hot and we could feel the beams beneath our feet starting to flex and buckle, causing the lead roof to ripple as though it were alive. We looked over but there was no way down. Rochester grasped my hand and ran along the roof to another window. He smashed it open and a blast of hot air made us duck.
   ‘Servants’ staircase!’ he coughed. ‘This way!’
   Rochester knew the way through the dark and smoky corridor by feel, and I followed him obediently, clutching his jacket tails to stop myself getting lost. We arrived at the top of the servants’ staircase; the fire didn’t seem to be as strong here and Rochester led me down the steps. We were halfway down when a fireball flared up in the kitchen and sent a mass of fire and hot gases through the corridor and up the staircase. I saw a huge red glow erupt in front of me as the stairway give way beneath us. After that, blackness.

34. Nearly the end of their book

   ‘We waited for Thursday’s call, the code word, but it didn’t come. I read the narrative carefully, looking for some clue as to what had happened to her. I had suspected that Thursday might decide to stay if it was impossible to capture Hades. The denouement was drawing near; Jane would go to India and the book would end. Once that had happened we could switch the machine off. Thursday and Polly would be lost for ever.’

From Bowden Cable’s Journal


   I opened my eyes, frowned, and looked around. I was in a small yet well-furnished room quite close to a half-open window. Across the lawn some tall poplars swayed in the breeze, but I didn’t recognise the view; this was not Thornfield. The door opened and Mary walked in.
   ‘Miss Next!’ she said kindly. ‘What a fright you gave us!’
   ‘Have I been unconscious long?’
   ‘Three days. A very bad concussion, Dr Carter said.’
   ‘Where—?’
   ‘You’re at Ferndean, Miss Next,’ replied Mary soothingly, ‘one of Mr Rochester’s other properties. You will be weak; I’ll bring some broth.’
   I grabbed her arm.
   ‘And Mr Rochester?’
   She paused and smiled at me, patted my hand and said she would fetch the broth.
   I lay back, thinking about the night Thornfield burned. Poor Bertha Rochester. Had she realised that she had saved our lives by her fortuitous choice of weapons? Perhaps, somewhere in her addled mind, she was in tune with the abomination that had been Hades. I would never know, but I thanked her anyway.
   Within a week I was able to get up and move about, although I still suffered badly from headaches and dizziness. I learned that after the servants’ staircase had collapsed I had been knocked unconscious. Rochester, in great pain himself, had wrapped me in a curtain and dashed with me from the burning house. He had been hit by a falling beam in the attempt and was blinded; the hand shattered by Acheron’s bullet had been amputated the morning following the fire. I met with him in the darkness of the dining room.
   ‘Are you in much pain, sir?’ I asked, looking at the bedraggled figure; he still had bandaged eyes.
   ‘Luckily, no,’ he lied, wincing as he moved.
   ‘Thank you; you have saved my life for a second time.’
   He gave a wan smile.
   ‘You returned my Jane to me. For those few months of happiness, I would suffer twice these wounds. But let us not speak of my wretched state. You are well?’
   ‘Thanks to you.’
   ‘Yes, yes, but how will you return? I expect Jane is already in India by now with that gutless pantaloon Rivers; and with her goes the narrative. I don’t see your friends being able to rescue you.’
   ‘I will think of something,’ I said, patting him on the sleeve. ‘You never know what the future will bring.’

   It was the morning of the following day; my months in the book had passed in as much time as it takes to read them. The Welsh Politburo, alerted to the wrongdoings on their doorstep, had given Victor, Finisterre and a member of the Bronte Federation a safe conduct to the mouldering Penderyn Hotel, where they now stood with Bowden, Mycroft and an increasingly nervous Jack Schitt. The representative of the Bronte Federation was reading the words as they appeared on the yellowed manuscript in front of him. Aside from a few minor changes, the book was travelling the same course it always did; it had been word perfect for the past two hours. Jane was being proposed to by St John Rivers, who wanted her to go with him to India as his wife, and she was about to make up her mind.
   Mycroft drummed his fingers on the desk and glanced at the rows of flicking dials on his contraption; all he needed was somewhere to open the door. Trouble was, they were fast running out of pages.
   Then, the miraculous happened. The Bronte Federation expert, a small, usually unexcitable man named Plink, was suddenly ignited by shock.
   ‘Wait a minute; this is new! This didn’t happen!’
   ‘What?’ cried Victor, rapidly flicking to his own copy. Indeed, Mr Plink was correct. There, as the words etched themselves across the paper, was a new development in the narrative. After Jane promised St John Rivers that if it was God’s will that they should be married, then they would, there was a voice—a new voice, Rochester’s voice, calling to her across the ether. But from where? It was a question that was being asked simultaneously by nearly eighty million people worldwide, all following the new story unfolding in front of their eyes. ‘What does it mean?’ asked Victor.
   ‘I don’t know,’ replied Plink. ‘It’s pure Charlotte Bronte but it definitely wasn’t there before!’
   ‘Thursday,’ murmured Victor. ‘It has to be. Mycroft, stay on your toes!’
   They read delightedly as Jane changed her mind about India and St John Rivers and decided to return to Thornfield.

   I made it back to Ferndean and Rochester just before Jane did. I met Rochester in the dining room and told him the news; how I had found her at the Rivers’ house, gone to her window and barked: ‘Jane, Jane, Jane!’ in a hoarse whisper the way that Rochester did. It wasn’t a good impersonation but it did the trick. I saw Jane start to fluster and pack almost immediately. Rochester seemed less than excited about the news.
   ‘I don’t know whether I should thank you or curse you, Miss Next. To think that I should be seen like this, a blind man with one good arm. And Thornfield a ruin! She shall hate me, I know it!’
   ‘You are wrong, Mr Rochester. And if you know Jane as well as I think you do, you would not even begin to entertain such thoughts!’
   There was a rap at the door. It was Mary. She announced that Rochester had a visitor but that they would not give their name.
   ‘Oh Lord!’ exclaimed Rochester. ‘It’s her! Tell me, Miss Next, could she love me? Like this, I mean?’
   I leaned across and kissed his forehead.
   ‘Of course she could. Anyone could. Mary, refuse her entry; if I know her she will enter anyway. Goodbye, Mr Rochester. I can think of no way to thank you, so I shall just say that you and Jane will be in my thoughts always.’
   Rochester moved his head, trying to gauge where I was by sound alone. He put out his hand and held mine tightly. He was warm to the touch, yet soft. Thoughts of Landen entered my mind.

   ‘Farewell, Miss Next! You have a great heart; do not let it go to waste. You have one who loves you and whom you love yourself. Choose happiness!’
   I slipped quickly out into the adjoining room as Jane entered. I quietly latched the door as Rochester did a fine job of pretending that he didn’t know who she was.
   ‘Give me the water, Mary,’ I heard him say. There was a rustle and then I heard Pilot padding about.
   ‘What is the matter?’ asked Rochester in his most annoyed and gruff expression. I stifled a giggle.
   ‘Down, Pilot!’ said Jane. The dog was quiet and there was a pause.
   ‘This is you, Mary, is it not?’ asked Rochester.
   ‘Mary is in the kitchen,’ replied Jane.
   I pulled the now battered manual out of my pocket with the slightly charred poem. I still had Jack Schitt to contend with, but that would have to wait. I sat down on a chair as an exclamation from Rochester made its way through the door:
   ‘Who is it? What is it? Who speaks?’
   I strained to hear the conversation.
   ‘Pilot knows me,’ returned Jane happily, ‘and John and Mary know I am here. I came only this afternoon!’
   ‘Great God!’ exclaimed Rochester. ‘What delusion has come over me? What sweet madness has seized me?’
   I whispered: ‘Thank you, Edward,’ as the portal opened in the corner of the room. I took one last look around at a place to which I would never return, and stepped through.
   There was a flash and a blast of static, Ferndean Manor was gone, and in its place I saw the familiar surroundings of the shabby lounge of the Penderyn Hotel. Bowden, Mycroft and Victor all rushed forward to greet me. I handed the manual and poem to Mycroft, who swiftly set about opening the door to ‘I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud.’
   ‘Hades?’ asked Victor.
   ‘Dead.’
   ‘Completely?’
   ‘Utterly.’
   In a few moments the Prose Portal reopened and Mycroft rushed inside, returning shortly afterwards clutching Polly by the hand; she was holding a bunch of daffodils and trying to explain something.
   ‘We were just talking, Crofty, my love! You don’t think I would be interested in a dead poet, do you?’
   ‘My turn,’ said Jack Schitt excitedly, waving his copy of The Plasma Rifle in War. He placed it with the bookworms and signalled to Mycroft to open the portal. As soon as the worms had done their work Mycroft did as he was bid. Schitt grinned and reached through the shimmering white doorway, feeling around for one of the plasma rifles that had been so well described in the book. Bowden had other ideas. He gave him a small shove and Jack Schitt disappeared through the doorway with a yell. Bowden nodded at Mycroft, who pulled the plug; the machine fell silent, the gateway to the book severed. It was bad timing on Jack Schitt’s behalf. In his eagerness to get his hands on the rifle he had not made sure his Goliath officers were with him. By the time the two guards had returned, Bowden was assisting Mycroft in smashing the Prose Portal after carefully transferring the bookworms and returning the original manuscript of Jane Eyre— the ending now slightly altered—to the Bronte Federation.
   ‘Where’s Colonel Schitt?’ asked the first officer.
   Victor shrugged.
   ‘He went away. Something to do with plasma rifles.’
   The Goliath officers would have asked more questions but the Welsh Foreign Secretary himself had arrived and announced that since the matter was now resolved we would be escorted from the Republic. The Goliath operatives started to argue but were soon ushered from the room by several members of the Welsh Republican Army, who were definitely not impressed by their threats.
   We were driven in the presidential limousine out of Merthyr and dropped in Abertawe. The Bronte Federation representative was icily quiet during the entire trip—I sensed he wasn’t that happy about the new ending. When we got to the town I gave them the slip, ran to my car and hastily drove back to Swindon, Rochester’s words ringing in my ears. Landen’s marriage to Daisy was happening at three that afternoon and I was sure as hell going to be there.

35. Nearly the end of our book

   ‘I had disrupted Jane Eyre quite considerably; my cry of “Jane, Jane, Jane!” at her window had altered the book for good. It was against my training, against everything that I had sworn to uphold. I didn’t see it as anything more than a simple act of contrition for what I felt was my responsibility over Rochester’s wounds and the burning of Thornfield. I had acted out of compassion, not duty, and sometimes that is no bad thing.’

Thursday Next private diaries


   At five past three I screeched to a halt outside the Church of Our Blessed Lady of the Lobsters, much to the surprise of the photographer and the driver of a large Hispano-Suiza that was parked in readiness for the happy couple. I took a deep breath, paused to gather my thoughts and, shaking slightly, walked up the steps to the main doors. The organ music was playing loudly and my pace, which up to that point had been a run, suddenly slowed as my nerve abandoned me. What the hell was I playing at? Did I think I had any real chance of appearing from nowhere after a ten-year absence and then expecting the man I was once in love with just to drop everything and marry me?
   ‘Oh yes,’ said a woman to her companion as they walked past me, ‘Landen and Daisy are so much in love!’
   My walk slowed to a snail’s pace as I found myself hoping to be too late and have the burden of decision taken from me. The church was full, and I slid unnoticed into the back, just next to the lobster-shaped font. I could see Landen and Daisy at the front, attended to by a small bevy of pages and bridesmaids. There were many uniformed guests in the small church, friends of Landen’s from the Crimea. I could see someone whom I took to be Daisy’s mother snivelling into her handkerchief and her father looking impatiently at his watch. On Landen’s side his mother was on her own.
   ‘I require and charge you both,’ the clergyman was saying, ‘that if either of you know any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it.’
   He paused, and several guests shuffled. Mr Mutlar, whose lack of chin had been amply compensated by increased girth in his neck, seemed ill at ease and looked about the church nervously. The clergyman turned to Landen and opened his mouth to speak, but as he did so there came a loud, clear voice from the back of the church: ‘The marriage cannot go on: I declare the existence of an impediment!’
   One hundred and fifty heads turned to see who the speaker was. One of Landen’s friends laughed out loud; he obviously thought it was a joke. The speaker’s countenance did not, however, look as though any humour was intended. Daisy’s father was having none of it. Landen was a good catch for his daughter and a small and tasteless joke was not going to delay her wedding.
   ‘Proceed!’ he said, his face like thunder.
   The clergyman looked at the speaker, then at Daisy and Landen, and finally at Mr Mutlar.
   ‘I cannot proceed without some investigation into what has been asserted and evidence of its truth or falsehood,’ he said with a pained expression; nothing like this had ever happened to him before.
   Mr Mutlar had turned an unhealthy shade of crimson and might have struck the speaker had he been close enough.
   ‘What is this nonsense?’ he shouted instead, setting the room buzzing.
   ‘Not nonsense, sir,’ replied the speaker in a clear voice. ‘Bigamy is hardly nonsense, I think, sir.’
   I stared at Landen, who looked confused at the turn of events. Was he married already? I couldn’t believe it. I looked back at the speaker and my heart missed a beat. It was Mr Briggs, the solicitor I had last seen in the church at Thornfield! There was a rustle close by and I turned to find Mrs Nakijima standing next to me. She smiled and raised a finger to her lips. I frowned, and the clergyman spoke again.
   ‘What is the nature of this impediment? Perhaps it may be got over—explained away?’
   ‘Hardly,’ was the answer. ‘I have called it insuperable and I speak advisedly. It consists simply of a previous marriage.’
   Landen and Daisy looked at one another sharply.
   ‘Who the hell are you?’ asked Mr Mutlar, who seemed to be the only person galvanised into action.
   ‘My name is Briggs, a solicitor of Dash Street, London.’
   ‘Well, Mr Briggs, perhaps you would be good enough to explain the previous marriage of Mr Parke-Laine so we may all know the extent of this man’s cowardly action.’
   Briggs looked at Mr Mutlar and then at the couple at the altar.
   ‘My information does not concern Mr Parke-Laine; I am speaking of Miss Mutlar, or, to give her her married name, Mrs Daisy Posh!’
   There was a gasp from the congregation. Landen looked at Daisy, who threw her garland on the floor. One of the bridesmaids started to cry, and Mr Mutlar strode forward and took Daisy’s arm.
   ‘Miss Mutlar married Mr Murray Posh on 20 October 1981,’ yelled Mr Briggs above the uproar. ‘The service was held at Southwark. There was no divorce petition filed.’
   It was enough for everyone. A clamour started up as the Mutlar family beat a hasty retreat. The vicar offered an unheard-of prayer to no one in particular as Landen took a much-needed seat on the pew that the Mutlar family had just vacated. Someone yelled ‘Gold-digger!’ from the back, and the Mutlar family quickened their pace at the abuse that followed, much of which shouldn’t have been heard in church. One of the pages tried to kiss a bridesmaid in the confusion and was slapped for his trouble. I leaned against the cool stone of the church and wiped the tears from my eyes. I know it was wrong of me, but I was laughing. Briggs stepped through the arguing guests and joined us, tipping his hat respectfully.
   ‘Good afternoon, Miss Next.’
   ‘A very good afternoon, Mr Briggs! What on earth are you doing here?’
   ‘The Rochesters sent me.’
   ‘But I only left the book three hours ago!’
   Mrs Nakijima interrupted.
   ‘You left it barely twelve pages from the end. In that time over ten years have elapsed at Thornfield; time enough for much planning!’
   ‘Thornfield?’

   ‘Rebuilt, yes. My husband retired and he and I manage the house these days. None of us is mentioned in the book and Mrs Rochester aims to keep it that way; much more pleasant than Osaka and certainly more rewarding than the tourist business.’
   There didn’t seem much I could say.
   ‘Mrs Jane Rochester asked Mrs Nakijima to bring me here to assist,’ said Mr Briggs simply. ‘She and Mr Rochester were eager to help you as you helped them. They wish you all happiness and health for the future and thank you for your timely intervention.’
   I smiled.
   ‘How are they?’
   ‘Oh, they’re fine, miss,’ replied Briggs happily. ‘Their first-born is now five; a fine healthy boy, the image of his father. Jane produced a beautiful daughter this spring gone past. They have named her Helen Thursday Rochester.’
   I looked across at Landen, who was standing at the entrance to the church and trying to explain to his Aunt Ethel what was going on.
   ‘I must speak to him.’
   But I was talking to myself. Mrs Nakijima and the solicitor had gone; melted back to Thornfield to report to Jane and Edward on a job well done.
   As I approached, Landen sat on the church steps, took out his carnation and sniffed at it absently.
   ‘Hello, Landen.’
   Landen looked up and blinked.
   ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘Thursday. I might have known.’
   ‘May I join you?’
   ‘Be my guest.’
   I sat down next to him on the warm limestone steps. He stared straight ahead.
   ‘Was this your doing?’ he asked at last.
   ‘No, indeed,’ I replied. ‘I confess I came here to interrupt the wedding but my nerve failed me.’
   He looked at me.
   ‘Why?’
   ‘Why? Well, because… because I thought I’d make a better Mrs Parke-Laine than Daisy, I suppose.’
   ‘I know that’ exclaimed Landen, ‘and agree whole-heartedly. What I wanted to know is why your nerve failed you. After all, you chase after master criminals, indulge in high-risk SpecOps work, will quite happily go against orders to rescue comrades under an intense artillery barrage, yet—‘
   ‘I get the point. I don’t know. Maybe those sorts of yes or no life-and-death decisions are easier to make because they are so black and white. I can cope with them because it’s easier. Human emotions, well… they’re just a fathomless collection of greys and I don’t do so well on the mid-tones.’
   ‘Mid-tones is where I’ve lived for the past ten years, Thursday.’
   ‘I know and I’m sorry. I had a lot of trouble reconciling what I felt for you and what I saw as your betrayal of Anton. It was an emotional tug-of-war and I was the little pocket handkerchief in the middle, tied to the rope, not moving.’
   ‘I loved him too, Thursday. He was the closest thing to a brother that I ever had. But I couldn’t hang on to my end of the rope for ever.’
   ‘I left something behind in the Crimea,’ I murmured, ‘but I think I’ve found it again. Is there time to try and make it all work?’
   ‘Bit eleventh-hour, isn’t it?’ he said with a grin.
   ‘No,’ I replied, ‘more like three seconds to midnight!’
   He kissed me gently on the lips. It felt warm and satisfying, like coming home to a roaring log fire after a long walk in the rain. My eyes welled up and I sobbed quietly into his collar as he held me tightly.
   ‘Excuse me,’ said the vicar, who had been lurking close by. ‘I’m sorry to have to interrupt, but I have another wedding to perform at three-thirty.’
   We muttered our apologies and stood up. The wedding guests were still waiting for some sort of decision. Nearly all of them knew about Landen and me and few, if any, thought Daisy a better match.
   ‘Will you?’ asked Landen in my ear.
   ‘Will I what?’ I asked, stifling a giggle.
   ‘Fool! Will you marry me?’
   ‘Hmm,’ I replied, heart thumping like the artillery in the Crimea. ‘I’ll have to think about it—!’
   Landen raised a quizzical eyebrow.
   ‘Yes! Yes, yes! I will, I will, with all my heart!’
   ‘At last!’ said Landen with a sigh. ‘The lengths I have to go to to get the woman I love…!’
   We kissed again but for longer this time; so long in fact that the vicar, still staring at his watch, had to tap Landen on the shoulder.
   ‘Thank you for the rehearsal,’ said Landen, shaking the vicar vigorously by the hand. ‘We’ll be back in a month’s time for the real thing!’
   The vicar shrugged. This was fast becoming the most ludicrous wedding of his career.
   ‘Friends,’ announced Landen to the remaining guests, ‘I would like to announce the engagement of myself to this lovely SpecOps agent named Thursday Next. As you know, she and I have had our differences in the past but they are now quite forgotten. There is a marquee at my house stuffed with food and drink and I understand Holroyd Wilson will be playing from six o’clock onwards. It would be a crime to waste it all so I suggest we just change the reason!’
   There was an excited yell from the guests as they started to organise transport for themselves. Landen and I went in my car but we drove the long way round. We had plenty to talk about and the party… well, it could continue without us for a while.
   The celebrations didn’t finish until 4 a.m. I drank too much and took a cab back to the hotel. Landen was all for me staying the night, but I told him slightly coquettishly that he could wait until after the wedding. I vaguely remember getting back to my hotel room but nothing else; it was blackness until the phone rang at nine the following morning. I was half dressed, Pickwick was watching breakfast TV, and my head ached like it was fit to burst.
   It was Victor. He didn’t sound in a terribly good mood but politeness was one of his stronger points. He asked me how I was.
   I looked at the alarm clock as a hammer banged inside my head.
   ‘I’ve been better. How are things at work?’
   ‘Not brilliant,’ replied Victor with a certain reserve in his voice. ‘The Goliath Corporation want to speak to you about Jack Schitt and the Bronte Federation are hopping mad over the damage to the book. Was it absolutely necessary to burn Thornfield to the ground?’
   ‘That was Hades—‘
   ‘And Rochester? Blinded and with a shattered hand? I suppose that was Hades too?’
   ‘Well, yes.’

   ‘This is the mother of all balls-ups, Thursday. You’d better come in and explain yourself to these Bronte people. I’ve got their Special Executive Committee with me and they are not here to pin a medal on your chest.’
   There was a knock at the door. I told Victor I would be in directly and got unsteadily to my feet.
   ‘Hello?’ I called out.
   ‘Room service!’ replied a voice outside the door. ‘A Mr Parke-Laine rang in some coffee for you!’
   ‘Hang on!’ I said as I tried to shoo Pickwick back into the bathroom; the hotel had strict rules about pets. Unusually for him he seemed slightly aggressive; if he had possessed any wings he would probably have flapped them angrily.
   ‘This… is… no… time… to… be… a… pest!’ I grunted as I pushed the recalcitrant bird into the bathroom and locked the door.
   I held my head for a moment as it thumped painfully, wrapped myself in a dressing gown and opened the door. Big mistake. There was a waiter there but he wasn’t alone. As soon as the door was fully open two other men in dark suits entered and pressed me against the wall with a gun to my head.
   ‘You’re going to need another two cups if you want to join me for coffee,’ I groaned.
   ‘Very funny,’ said the man dressed as the waiter.
   ‘Goliath?’
   ‘In one.’
   He pulled back the hammer on the revolver. ‘Gloves are off, Next. Schitt is an important man and we need to know where he is. National security and the Crimea depend upon it and one lousy officer’s life isn’t worth diddly shit when you look at the big picture.’
   ‘I’ll take you to him,’ I gasped, trying to give myself some breathing space. ‘It’s a little way out of town.’
   The Goliath agent relaxed his grip and told me to get dressed. A few minutes later we were walking out of the hotel. My head was still sore and a dull pain thumped in my temples, but at least I was thinking more clearly. There was a small crowd ahead of me, and I was delighted to see it was the Mutlar family preparing to return to London. Daisy was arguing with her father and Mrs Mutlar was shaking her head wearily.
   ‘Gold-digger!’ I yelled.
   Daisy and her father stopped arguing and looked at me as the Goliath men tried to steer me past. ‘What did you say!?’
   ‘You heard. I can’t think who the bigger tart is, your daughter or your wife.’
   It had the desired effect. Mr Mutlar turned an odd shade of crimson and threw a fist in my direction. I ducked and the blow struck one of the Goliath men fairly and squarely on the jaw. I bolted for the carpark. A shot whistled over my shoulder; I jinked and stepped into the road as a big black military-style Ford motor car screeched to a halt.
   ‘Get in!’ shouted the driver. I didn’t need to be asked twice. I jumped in and the Ford sped off as two bullet holes appeared in the rear windshield. The car screeched around the corner and was soon out of range.
   ‘Thanks,’ I murmured. ‘Any later and I might have been worm food. Can you drop me at SpecOps HQ?’
   The driver didn’t say anything; there was a glass partition between me and him and all of a sudden I had that out-of-the-frying-pan-and-into-the-fire feeling.
   ‘You can drop me anywhere,’ I said. He didn’t answer. I tried the door handles but they were locked. I thumped on the glass but he ignored me; we drove past the SpecOps building and headed off to the old town. He was driving fast, too. Twice he went through a red light and once he cut up a bus; I was thrown against the door as he flew around a corner, just missing a brewer’s dray.
   ‘Here, stop this car!’ I shouted, banging again on the glass partition. The driver simply accelerated, clipping another car as he took a corner a little too fast.
   I pulled hard at the door handles and was about to use my heels against the window when the car abruptly screeched to a halt; I slid off the seat and collapsed in a heap in the footwell. The driver got out, opened the door for me and said:
   ‘There you go, missy, didn’t want you to be late. Colonel Phelps’s orders.’
   ‘Colonel Phelps?’ I stammered. The driver smiled and saluted briskly as the penny dropped. Phelps had said he would send a car for me to appear at his talk, and he had.
   I looked out of the door. We had pulled up outside Swindon Town Hall, and a vast crowd of people were staring at me.
   ‘Hello, Thursday!’ said a familiar voice.
   ‘Lydia?’ I asked, caught off guard by the sudden change of events.
   And so it was. But she wasn’t the only TV news reporter; there were six or seven of them with their cameras trained on me as I sat sprawled inelegantly in the footwell. I struggled to get out of the car.
   ‘This is Lydia Startright of the Toad News Network,’ said Lydia in her best reporter’s voice, ‘here with Thursday Next, the SpecOps agent responsible for saving JaneEyre. First let me congratulate you, Miss Next, on your successful reconstruction of the novel!’
   ‘What do you mean?’ I responded. ‘I loused it all up! I burned Thornfield to the ground and half maimed poor Mr Rochester!’
   Miss Startright laughed.
   ‘In a recent survey ninety-nine out of a hundred readers who expressed a preference said they were delighted with the new ending. Jane and Rochester married! Isn’t that wonderful?
   ‘But the Bronte Federation—?’
   ‘Charlotte didn’t leave the book to them, Miss Next,’ said a man dressed in a linen suit who had a large blue Charlotte Bronte rosette stuck incongruously to his lapel.
   ‘The Federation are a bunch of stuffed shirts. Allow me to introduce myself. Walter Branwell, chairman of the federation splinter group “Bronte for the People”.’
   He thrust out a hand for me to shake and grinned wildly as several people near by applauded. A battery of flashguns went off as a small girl handed me a bunch of flowers and another journalist asked me what sort of a person Rochester really was. The driver took my arm and guided me into the building.

   ‘Colonel Phelps is waiting for you, Miss Next,’ murmured the man in an affable tone. The crowds parted as I was led into a large hall that was filled to capacity. I blinked stupidly and looked around. There was an excited buzz, and as I walked down the main aisle I could hear people whispering my name. There was an improvised press box in the old orchestra pit in which a sea of pressmen from all the major networks were seated. The meeting at Swindon had become the focus of the grassroots feeling about the war; what was said here would be highly significant. I made my way to the stage, where two tables had been set up. The two sides to the argument were clearly delineated. Colonel Phelps was sitting beneath a large English flag; his table was heavily festooned with bunting and several pot plants, flip-over pads and stacks of leaflets for ready distribution. With him were mostly uniformed members of the armed forces who had seen service on the peninsula. All of them were willing to speak vociferously about the importance of the Crimea. One of the soldiers was even carrying the new plasma rifle.
   At the other end of the stage was the ‘anti’ table. This too was liberally populated by veterans, but none of them wore uniforms. I recognised the two students from the airship park and my brother Joffy, who smiled and mouthed ‘Wotcha, Dooms!’ at me. The crowd hushed; they had heard I was going to attend and had been awaiting my arrival.
   The cameras followed me as I approached the steps to the stage and walked calmly up. Phelps rose to meet me, but I walked on and sat down at the ‘anti’ table, taking the seat that one of the students had given up for me. Phelps was appalled; he went bright red, but checked himself when he saw that the cameras were watching his every move.
   Lydia Startright had followed me on to the stage. She was there to adjudicate the meeting; it was she and Colonel Phelps who had insisted on waiting for me. Startright was glad they had; Phelps was not.
   ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ announced Lydia grandly, ‘the negotiating table is empty at Budapest and the offensive lies waiting to happen. As a million troops face each other across no-man’s-land, we ask the question: What price the Crimea?’
   Phelps got up to speak but I beat him to it.
   ‘I know it’s an old joke,’ I began, ‘but a simple anagram of “Crimea” is “A Crime”.’ I paused. ‘That’s the way I see it and I would defy anyone to say that it isn’t. Even Colonel Phelps over there would agree with me that it’s high time the Crimea was put to bed permanently.’
   Colonel Phelps nodded.
   ‘Where the Colonel and I differ is my belief that Russia has the better claim to the territory.’
   It was a controversial remark; Phelps’s supporters were well primed, and it took ten minutes to restore order. Startright quietened them all down and finally managed to get me to finish my point.
   ‘There was a good chance for all this nonsense to end barely two months ago. England and Russia were around the table, discussing terms for a complete withdrawal of all English troops.’
   There was a hush. Phelps had leaned back in his chair and was watching me carefully.
   ‘But then along came the plasma rifle. Code name: Stonk.’
   I looked down for a moment.
   ‘This Stonk was the key, the secret to a new offensive and the possible restart of the war that has—thank God—been relatively free of actual fighting these past eight years. But there’s a problem. The offensive has been built on air; despite all that has been said and done, the plasma rifle is a phoney—Stonk does not work!’
   There was an excited murmuring in the chamber. Phelps stared at me sullenly, eyebrow twitching. He whispered something to a brigadier who was sitting next to him.
   ‘The English troops are waiting for a new weapon that will not turn up. The Goliath Corporation have been playing the English government for a bunch of fools; despite a billion-pound investment, the plasma rifle is about as much use in the Crimea as a broom handle.’
   I sat down. The significance of this was not lost on anyone either there or watching the programme live; the English Minister for War was at that moment reaching for his phone. He wanted to speak to the Russians before they did anything rash—like attack.
   Back at the hall in Swindon, Colonel Phelps had stood up.
   ‘Large claims from someone who is tragically ill informed,’ he intoned patronisingly. ‘We have all seen the destructive power of Stonk and its effectiveness is hardly the reason for this talk.’
   ‘Prove it,’ I responded. ‘I see you have a plasma rifle with you.
   Lead us outside to the park and show us. You can try it on me, if you so wish.’
   Phelps paused, and in that pause he lost the argument—and the war. He looked at the soldier carrying the weapon, who looked back at him nervously.
   Phelps and his people left the stage to barracking from the crowd. He had been hoping to give his carefully rehearsed hour-long lecture over the memory of the lost brethren and the value of comradeship; he never spoke in public again.
   Within four hours a ceasefire had been called for the first time in 131 years. Within four weeks the politicians were around the table in Budapest. Within four months every single English soldier was out of the peninsula. As for the Goliath Corporation, they were soon called to account over their deceit. They expressed wholly unconvincing ignorance of the whole affair and laid the blame entirely on Jack Schitt. I had hoped the Corporation would be chastised further, but at least it got Goliath off my back

36. Married

   ‘Landen and I were married the same day as peace was declared in the Crimea. Landen told me it was to save on the fee for bell-ringers. I looked around nervously when the vicar got to the bit about “Speak now or forever hold their peace” but there was no one there. I met with the Bronte Federation and they soon got used to the idea of the new ending, especially when they realised that they were the only people who objected. I was sorry about Rochester’s wounds and the burning down of his house, but I was very glad that he and Jane, after over a hundred years of dissatisfaction, finally found the true peace and happiness that they both so richly deserved.’

Thursday Next. A Life in SpecOps


   The reception turned out to be bigger than we thought and by ten o’clock it had spilled out into Landen’s garden. Boswell had got a little drunk so I popped him in a cab and sent him to the Finis. Paige Turner had been getting along well with the saxophonist—no one had seen either of them for at least an hour. Landen and I were enjoying a quiet moment to ourselves. I squeezed his hand, and asked: ‘Would you really have married Daisy if Briggs hadn’t intervened?’
   ‘I’ve got those answers you wanted, Sweetpea!’
   ‘Dad?’
   He was attired in the full dress uniform of a colonel in the ChronoGuard.
   ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said and I made a few enquiries.’
   ‘I’m sorry, Dad, I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.’
   ‘You remember, we spoke about two minutes ago?’
   ‘No.’
   He frowned and looked at us both in turn, then at his watch.
   ‘Great Scott!’ he exclaimed. ‘I must be early. Damn these chronographs!’
   He tapped the dial and left quickly without saying another word.
   ‘Your father?’ asked Landen. ‘I thought you said he was on the run?’
   ‘He was. He is. He will be. You know.’
   ‘Sweetpea!’ said my father again. ‘Surprised to see me?’
   ‘In a manner of speaking.’
   ‘Congratulations to the two of you!’
   I glanced around at the party still in full swing. Time was not standing still. It wouldn’t be long before the ChronoGuard tracked him down.
   ‘To hell with SO-12, Thursday!’ said he, divining my thoughts and taking a glass from a passing waiter. ‘I wanted to meet my son-in-law.’
   He turned to Landen, grasped his hand and sized him up carefully.
   ‘How are you, my boy? Have you had a vasectomy?’
   ‘Well, no,’ replied Landen, vaguely embarrassed.
   ‘How about a heavy tackle playing rugby?’
   ‘No.’
   ‘Kick from a horse in the nether regions?’
   ‘No.’
   ‘What about a cricket ball in the goolies?’
   ‘No!’
   ‘Good. Then we might get some grandchildren out of this fiasco. It’s high time little Thursday here was popping out some sprogs instead of dashing around like some wild mountain piglet—‘ He paused. ‘You’re both looking at me very oddly.’
   ‘You were here not a minute ago.’
   He frowned, raised an eyebrow and looked about furtively.
   ‘If it was me, and if I know me, I’d be hiding somewhere close by. Oh yes, look! Look there!’
   He pointed to a corner of the garden where a figure was hiding in the shadows behind the potting shed. He narrowed his eyes and thought through the most logical train of events.
   ‘Let’s see. I must have offered to do you a favour, done it and come back but a little out of time; not uncommon in my line of work.’
   ‘What favour would I have asked you to do?’ I ventured, still confused but more than willing to play along.
   ‘I don’t know,’ said my father. ‘A burning question that has been much discussed over the years but has, so far, remained unanswered.’
   I thought for a moment.
   ‘How about the authorship of the Shakespeare plays?’
   He smiled. ‘Good point. I’ll see what I can do.’
   He finished his drink.
   ‘Well, congratulations again to the two of you; I must be off. Time waits for no man, as we say.’
   He smiled, wished us every happiness for the future, and departed.
   ‘Can you explain just what is going on?’ asked Landen, thoroughly confused, not so much by the events themselves as by the order in which they were happening.
   ‘Not really.’
   ‘Have I gone, Sweetpea?’ asked my father, who had returned from his hiding place behind the shed.
   ‘Yes.’
   ‘Good. Well, I found out what you wanted to know. I went to London in 1610 and found that Shakespeare was only an actor with a potentially embarrassing sideline as a purveyor of bagged commodities in Stratford. No wonder he kept it quiet—wouldn’t you?’
   This was interesting indeed.
   ‘So who wrote them? Marlowe? Bacon?’
   ‘No; there was a bit of a problem. You see, no one had even heard of the plays, much less written them.’
   I didn’t understand.

   ‘What are you saying? There aren’t any?’
   ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying. They don’t exist. They were never written. Not by him, not by anyone.’
   ‘I’m sorry,’ said Landen, unwilling to take much more of this, ‘but we saw Richard III only six weeks ago.’
   ‘Of course,’ said my father. ‘Time is out of joint big time. Obviously something had to be done. I took a copy of the complete works back with me and gave them to the actor Shakespeare in 1592 to distribute on a given timetable. Does that answer your question?’
   I was still confused.
   ‘So it wasn’t Shakespeare who wrote the plays.’
   ‘Decidedly not!’ he agreed. ‘Nor Marlowe, Oxford, De Vere, Bacon or any of the others.’
   ‘But that’s not possible!’ exclaimed Landen.
   ‘On the contrary,’ replied my father. ‘Given the huge timescale of the cosmos, impossible things are commonplace. When you’ve lived as long as I have you’ll know that absolutely anything is possible. Time is out of joint; O cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right!’
   ‘You put that in?’ I asked, always assuming he was quoting from Hamlet and not the other way round.
   He smiled.
   ‘A small personal vanity that I’m sure will be forgiven, Thursday. Besides: who’s to know?’
   My father stared at his empty glass, looked around in vain for a waiter, then said:
   ‘Lavoisier will have locked on to me by now. He swore he’d catch me and he’s good. He should be; we were partners for almost seven centuries. Just one more thing: how did the Duke of Wellington die?’
   I remembered he had asked me this once before.
   ‘As I said, Dad, he died in his bed in 1852.’
   Father smiled and rubbed his hands.
   ‘That’s excellent news indeed! How about Nelson?’
   ‘Shot by a French sniper at Trafalgar.’
   ‘Really? Well, some you win. Listen: good luck, the pair of you. A boy or a girl would be fine; one of each would be better.’
   He leaned closer and lowered his voice.
   ‘I don’t know when I am going to be back, so listen carefully. Never buy a blue car or a paddling pool, stay away from oysters and circular saws, and don’t be near Oxford in June 2016. Got it?’
   ‘Yes, but—!’
   ‘Well, pip pip, time waits for no man!’
   He hugged me again, shook Landen’s hand and then disappeared into the crowd before we could ask him anything more.
   ‘Don’t even try to figure it out,’ I said to Landen, placing a finger to his lips. ‘This is one area of SpecOps that it’s really better not to think about.’
   ‘But if—!’
   ‘Landen—!’ I said more severely. ‘No—!’
   Bowden and Victor were at the party too. Bowden was happy for me and had come easily to the realisation that I wouldn’t be joining him in Ohio, as either wife or assistant. He had been offered the job officially but had turned it down; he said there was too much fun to be had at the Swindon LiteraTecs and he would reconsider it in the spring; Finisterre had taken his place. But at present, something else was preying on his mind. Helping himself to a stiff drink, he approached Victor, who was talking animatedly to an elderly woman he had befriended.
   ‘What ho, Cable!’ Victor murmured, introducing his new-found friend before agreeing to have a quiet word with him.
   ‘Good result, eh? Balls to the Bronte Federation; I’m with Thursday. I think the new ending is a wiz!’ He paused and looked at Bowden. ‘You’ve got a face longer than a Dickens novel. What’s the problem? Worried about Felix8?’
   ‘No, sir; I know they’ll find him eventually. It’s just that I accidentally mixed up the dust covers on the book that Jack Schitt went into.’
   ‘You mean he’s not with his beloved rifles?’
   ‘No, sir. I took the liberty of slipping this book into the dust cover of The Plasma Rifle in War.’
   He handed over the book that had made its way into the Prose Portal. Victor looked at the spine and laughed. It was a copy of The Poems of Edgar Allan Poe.
   ‘Have a look at page twenty-six,’ said Bowden. ‘There’s something funny going on in “The Raven”.’
   Victor opened the book and scanned the page. He read the first verse out loud:
   Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, o’er a plan to venge myself upon that cursed Thursday Next—This Eyre affair, so surprising, gives my soul such loath despising, Here I plot my temper rising, rising from my jail of text. ‘Get me out!’ I said, advising, ‘Pluck me from this jail of text—or I swear I’ll wring your neck!’
   Victor shut the book with a snap. ‘The last line doesn’t rhyme very well, does it?’
   ‘What do you expect?’ replied Bowden. ‘He’s Goliath, not a poet.’
   ‘But I read “The Raven” only yesterday,’ added Victor in a confused tone. ‘It wasn’t like this then!’
   ‘No, no,’ explained Bowden. ‘Jack Schitt is only in this copy—if we had put him in an original manuscript then who knows what he might have done.’
   ‘Con-g’rat-ula’tions!’ exclaimed Mycroft as he walked up to us. Polly was with him and looked radiant in a new hat.
   ‘We’re Bo’th Very Hap-py For You!’ added Polly.
   ‘Have you been working on the bookworms again?’ I asked.
   ‘Doe’s It Sh’ow?’ asked Mycroft. ‘Mu’st Dash!’
   And they were off.
   ‘Bookworms?’ asked Landen.
   ‘It’s not what you think.’
   ‘Mademoiselle Next?’
   There were two of them. They were dressed in sharp suits and displayed SpecOps 12 badges that I hadn’t seen before.
   ‘Yes?’
   ‘Prefet Lavoisier, ChronoGendarmerie. Ou est votre pere?’
   ‘You’ve just missed him.’
   He cursed out loud.
   ‘Colonel Next est un homme tres dangereux, mademoiselle. II est important de lui parler concernant ses activites de trafic de temps.’
   ‘He’s my father, Lavoisier.’
   Lavoisier stared at me, trying to figure out whether anything he could say or do would make me help him. He sighed and gave up.
   ‘Si vous changez votre avis, contactez-moi par les petites annonc.es du Grenouille. Je Us toujours les archives.’
   ‘I shouldn’t count on it, Lavoisier.’
   He mulled this over for a moment, thought of something to say, decided against it and smiled instead. He saluted briskly, told me in perfect English to enjoy my day, and walked away. But his younger partner also had something to say:
   ‘A piece of advice to you,’ he muttered slightly self-consciously. ‘If you ever have a son who wants to be in the ChronoGuard, try and dissuade him.’
   He smiled and followed his partner in their quest for my father.
   ‘What was that son thing about?’ asked Landen.
   ‘I don’t know. He looked kind of familiar, though, didn’t he?’
   ‘Kinda.’