One of Our Thursdays Is Missing - Jasper Fforde [47]
“Thursday,” he hissed in an agitated manner, “why are you dressed in those ridiculous clothes, and where in heaven’s name have you been?”
“I’m not her, sir. I’m the one who looks after her series. I’m actually A8-V-67987-FP.”
He frowned, then stared at me for a moment. “You’re telling me you’re the written one?”
I nodded, and he burst into laughter.
“Well, strike me pink!” he said. “You gave me a turn and no mistake. I was . . . ah, expecting Thursday to be here any moment,” he added, looking at his watch in an unsubtle manner. “I suspect she has been delayed.”
His explanation didn’t ring true at all. Thursday was definitely more missing than he would like me to know. We returned to where Bradshaw’s companion was waiting for us. He was studiously ignoring the frog-footman, who for his part was accepting the snub with quiet dignity.
“I’d forgotten just how identical you looked,” he said. “Are you keeping well?”
“I am, sir,” I managed to mumble. “I trust you are well read?”
It was a stupid gaffe; Bradshaw’s brand of jingoistic Imperialist fiction hadn’t been read for a half century. But he took no offense.
“Not read anymore, and quite right, too,” he said laughingly, then stared at me for a while before saying to his companion, “You’ve met the other Thursday, the real one?”
“Sure have,” he replied. “One helluva goddamn fine operative.”
“Look alike, don’t they? Apart from the clothes, of course.”
“Like two peas in a pod.”
Bradshaw thought for a moment. “Has Thursday been down to see you recently?” he asked me with an air of feigned nonchalance.
“Not since the remaking, sir,” I replied. “May I ask a question?”
“Of course.”
“Am I to understand that Thursday Next is . . . missing?”
“She’s currently on leave in the RealWorld,” he said in a dismissive manner, “enjoying some time off with her family before the peace negotiations on Friday.”
“Are you sure about that? I saw—”
I checked myself. I could get into big trouble for sneak-peeking the RealWorld, and the Lady of Shalott could get into bigger trouble for letting me.
“What did you see?” asked Bradshaw.
“Nothing. I must have . . . dreamt it. I’m very sorry to have wasted your time, sir.”
He looked at me for a long while, trying to divine what, if anything, I knew. Finally he said, “You are keeping the Thursday Next series dignified, I trust?”
“Yes, sir—even at the expense of readability.”
“Being read isn’t everything. Some of the best people are hardly read at all. Listen,” he said thoughtfully, staring at me with his intelligent blue eyes, “would you do something for me?”
“Of course.”
Right then a man draped in the white linen robes of the most senior senatorial office walked briskly through the front doors of Norland Park and into the entrance hall in which we stood.
“Oh, crap,” said Bradshaw under his breath. “Just what we need: Jobsworth.”
If he was over here in person, it would be for a very good reason—probably about the Racy Novel peace talks.
I thought of dropping to one knee and averting my eyes as the frog-footman had done, but for some reason I didn’t. The Thursday part of me, I suppose. Jobsworth was not alone. As well as the usual phalanx of staff, hangers-on and deputies, there was Barnes, Jobsworth’s executive assistant; Colonel Barksdale, the head of the Avoiding War Department; and Commander Herring, who was busy reading a report and hadn’t yet seen me.
“Good morning, Bradshaw,” said Jobsworth. Bradshaw wished the senator good morning, then the same to Commander Herring and Colonel Barksdale. Barnes was too far down the pecking order to be greeted, as were all the other members of Jobsworth’s staff. The senator began to speak, then saw me. His eyes opened wide.
“Great Panjandrum!” he said. “Thursday?”
Bradshaw looked at me, then at the senator. I opened my mouth to reply, but Bradshaw held up a hand. In such company it was strictly speak-when-spoken-to. Protocol in the BookWorld was like grammatical rules—rigidly structured, arcane and fiercely defended by librarians