One of Our Thursdays Is Missing - Jasper Fforde [32]
“Oh,” said Bowden, who had been put firmly in his place by Sprockett’s forthrightness, “I see.”
“Hmm,” said Acheron, peering at Sprockett’s data plate with great interest. “Are you the Duplex-6?”
“Five, sir. The Six’s release has been delayed. A series of mainspring failures have put beta testing back several months, and now I hear the Six has pressure compensation issues on the primary ethical escapement module.”
“What does that mean?”
“I have to admit I’m not entirely sure, sir. The main problem with clockwork sentience is that we can never understand the level of our own complexity—for to do so would require an even greater level of complexity. At present we can deal with day-to-day maintenance issues, but all we can ever know for sure is that we function. We tick, therefore we are.”
Pickwick asked me how I thought we could afford such an extravagance, but the real disapproval came from Mrs. Malaprop.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Sprockett,” she said coldly. “I hope you are fully aquatinted with the specific roles of mousecreeper and butler?”
“Indeed, Mrs. Malaprop,” replied Sprockett, bowing low. “And I don’t require much space—I can easily fit in the cupboard under the stairs.”
“You will knot,” replied Mrs. Malaprop with great indignation. “I am resizing there. You may have the earring cupboard.”
“Then with your permission I shall go and repack,” announced Sprockett.
“You mean you’re leaving?” I asked.
“Repack my knee bearings,” he explained. “With grease. Knees, despite much design work, continue to be the Duplex-5’s Achilles’ heel.”
And leaving us all to muse upon his odd choice of words, he departed.
“At least try to be nice to him,” I said to Mrs. Malaprop when he had gone. “And I want you to order some oils of varying grades to make him feel welcome—and make sure all the clocks are kept wound. Cog-based life-forms take great offense at stopped clocks.”
“As madam washes,” replied Mrs. Malaprop, which was her way of telling me to get stuffed.
“If you don’t need us, we’re going to go and rehearse Acheron’s death scene on the roof of Thornfield Hall,” said Carmine.
“You’ll need to unlock Bertha,” I replied, handing her the key. “And don’t forget to put the bite mask on her.”
I watched them go with an odd feeling that I couldn’t describe. Despite my being the protagonist, most of the characters were already here when I took over, and few of them were happy with my interpretation of Thursday, even though it was the one that Thursday herself had approved. They had all preferred the sex-and-violence Thursday who’d turned a blind eye to the many scams they had had cooking. Because of this, I hadn’t really gotten on with any of them. In fact, the out-of-book relationship with the rest of the cast could best be described as barely cordial. Carmine seemed to get on with them a lot better. I shouldn’t have minded, but I did.
“She’s going to be trouble, that one,” said Pickwick, who was doing the crossword while perched on the dresser.
“All she has to be is a good Thursday,” I murmured. “Everything else is immaterial. Mrs. Malaprop?”
“Yes, madam?”
“Did you put anything in my pocket this morning? For a joke, perhaps?”
“Joke, madam?” she inquired in a shocked tone. “Malaprops always keep well clear of potentially hummus situations.”
“I didn’t think so. I’ll be in my study. Will you have Sprockett bring in some tea?”
“Very good, madam.”
“Pickwick? I need the paper.”
“You’ll have to wait,” she said without looking up. “I’m doing the crossword.”
I didn’t have time for this, so I simply took the paper, ripped off the crossword section and handed it back to her. I ignored her expression of outrage and walked into my study and shut the door.
I moved quietly to the French windows and stepped out into the garden to release the Lost Positives that the Lady of Shalott had given me. She had a