The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [268]
“Jack—!” said Schitt-Hawse happily. “Welcome back!”
“Thank you, Brik—how’s Mum?”
“She had to have her hip done.”
“Again—?”
“Wait a minute!” I interrupted. “How about your part of the deal?”
The two Schitts stopped chattering for a moment.
“All in good time, Miss Next,” murmured Schitt-Hawse with an unpleasant grin. “We need you to do one or two other small jobs before your husband is reactualized.”
“The hell I will,” I said angrily, taking a step forward as Chalk put a massive hand on my shoulder. “What happened to the riveted-iron Goliath Guarantee?”
“Goliath don’t do promises,” replied Schitt-Hawse slowly as Jack stood blinking stupidly. “The profit margin is too low. I want you to remain our guest for a while—a woman with your talents is far too useful to lose. You may actually quite like it here.”
“Lavoisier!” I yelled, turning to the Frenchman. “You promised! The word of a commander in the ChronoGuard—!”
He stared at me coldly.
“After what you did to me,” he said tersely, “this is the most glorious revenge possible. I hope you rot in hell.”
“What did I ever do to you?”
“Oh, nothing yet,” he replied, readying himself to leave, “but you will.”
I stared at him coldly. I didn’t know what I was going to do to him, but I hoped it was painful.
“Yes,” I replied in a quieter voice, “you can count on it.”
He walked from the room without looking back.
“Thank you, monsieur!” shouted Schitt-Hawse after him. “The wedding picture was a touch of genius!”
I leaped forward to grab Schitt-Hawse but was pinned down by Chalk and Cheese. I struggled long, hard—and hopelessly. My shoulders sagged and I stared at the ground. Landen had been right. I should have walked away.
“I want to wring her ghost upon the floor,” said Jack Schitt, staring in my direction, “to still this beating of my heart. Mr. Cheese, your weapon.”
“No, Jack,” said Schitt-Hawse. “Miss Next and her unique attributes could open up a large and highly profitable market to exploit.”
Schitt rounded on his half brother.
“Do you have any idea of the fantastic terrors I’ve just been through? Tapping—I mean trapping—me in ‘The Raven’ is something Next is not going to live to regret. No, Brik, the bookslut will surcease my sorrow—!”
Schitt-Hawse held Jack by the shoulders and shook him.
“Snap out of that ‘Raven’ talk, Jack. You’re home now. Listen: The bookslut is potentially worth billions.”
Schitt stopped and gathered his thoughts.
“Of course,” he murmured finally. “A vast untapped resource of consumers. How much useless rubbish do you think we can offload on those ignorant masses in nineteenth-century literature?”
“Indeed,” replied Schitt-Hawse, “and our unreprocessed waste—finally an effective disposal location. Untold riches await the corporation. And listen—if it doesn’t work out, then you can kill her.”
“When do we start?” asked Schitt, who seemed to be growing stronger by the second in the life-giving warmth of corporate avarice.
“It depends,” said Schitt-Hawse, looking at me, “on Miss Next.”
“I’d sooner die,” I told them. I meant it, too.
“Oh!” said Schitt-Hawse. “Hadn’t you heard? As far as the outside world is concerned you’re dead already! Did you think you could see all that was going on here and live to tell the tale?”
I tried to think of some sort of way to escape, but there was nothing to hand—no weapon, no book, nothing.
“I really haven’t decided,” continued Schitt-Hawse in a patronizing tone, “whether you fell down a lift shaft or blundered into some machinery. Do you have any preferences?”
And he laughed a short and very cruel laugh. I said nothing. There didn’t seem to be anything I could say.
“I’m afraid, my girl,” said Schitt-Hawse as they started to file out the vault door, taking my travelbook with them, “that you are a guest of the corporation for the rest of your natural life. But it won’t all be bad. We will