The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [398]
“Right,” said the Bellman with a sigh, “that’s it for the moment. I’ll be giving out assignments in ten minutes. Session’s over—and let’s be careful out there.”
“Never would have thought it of Vernham, by George!” exclaimed Bradshaw as he walked up. “He was like a son to me!”
“I didn’t know you had a son.”
“I don’t. But if I did, he would be just like Vern.”
“His character in Potternews wasn’t that pleasant,” I observed.
“We usually try and keep our book personalities separate from our Jurisfiction ones,” said Havisham. “Think yourself lucky I don’t carry over any of my personality from Great Expectations—if I did, I’d be pretty intolerable!”
“Yes,” I said diplomatically, “I’m very grateful for it.”
“Ah!” said the Bellman as he joined us. “Miss Havisham. You’re to go and swear in Agent Next at the C of G, then get yourself to the Well and see if you can find any clues inside The Squire of High Potternews. If possible, I want him alive. But—take no risks.”
“Understood,” replied Miss Havisham.
“Good!” The Bellman clapped his hands together and departed to talk to the Red Queen.
Havisham beckoned me over to her desk and indicated for me to sit.
“Firstly, congratulations on becoming a full Jurisfiction agent.”
“I’m not ready for this!” I hissed. “I’m probably going to fall flat on my face!”
“Probably has nothing to do with it; you shall. Failure concentrates the mind wonderfully. If you don’t make mistakes, you’re not trying hard enough.”
I started to thank her for her faint praise, but she interrupted, “This is for you.”
From the bottom drawer of her desk she had withdrawn a small, green leather box of the sort that might contain a wedding ring. She passed it over and I opened it. As I did, I felt a flash of inspiration move through me. I knew what it was. No bigger than a grain of rice, it had value far in excess of its size.
“From the Last Original Idea,” murmured Havisham, “a small shard from when the whole was cleaved in 1884, but a part nonetheless. Use it wisely.”
“I can’t accept this,” I said, shutting the case.
“Rubbish. Accept with good grace that which is given with good grace.”
“Thank you very much, Miss Havisham.”
“Don’t mention it. Why do you have Landen written on your hand?”
I looked at my hand but had no idea why. Gran had put it there—she must have been having one of her fuzzy moments.
“I’m not sure, Miss Havisham.”
“Then wash it off—it looks so vulgar. Come, let us adjourn to the Council of Genres—you are to sign the pledge!”
24.
Pledges, the Council of Genres and Searching for Deane
Bookhound/Booktracker: Name given to a breed of bloodhound peculiar to the Well. With a keen sense of smell and boundless energy, a bookhound can track a PageRunner not only from page to page but from book to book. The finest bookhounds, diligently trained, have also been known to track transgenre PageRunners and, on occasion, to the Outland. They drool and slobber a lot. Not recommended as pets.
CAT FORMERLY KNOWN AS CHESHIRE,
Guide to the Great Library
WE TOOK THE elevator. Miss Havisham told me that it was considered the height of poor breeding and vulgarity to jump all the way to the lobby at the Council of Genres—and it was impossible to jump straight into the Council chambers for security purposes. The chambers were situated on the twenty-sixth floor of the Great Library. Like the seventeenth floor it was almost deserted; authors whose names begin with Q and Z are not that abundant. The doors opened and we stepped out. But it wasn’t like the previous library floors I had visited, all somber dark wood, molded plaster ceilings and busts of long-dead writers—the twenty-sixth floor had a glazed roof. Curved spans of wrought iron arched high above our heads supporting the glass, through which we could see clouds and a blue sky beyond. I had always thought that the library was created conceptually to contain the books and had no use or existence outside that. Miss Havisham noticed me staring up at the sky and drew me towards a large window. Although it was the twenty-sixth