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By Root 2929 0

It was a hot contest and the odds had been fluctuating all day. Heathcliff was the clear favorite at 7–2. He had won it seventy-seven times in a row, and ever conscious of someone trying to steal his thunder, he had been altering his words and actions subtly to keep the crown firmly on his head, something the opposition had also been attempting. Jude Fawley had been trying to spike his own plot to add drama, and even Hamlet was not averse to a subtle amount of plot-shifting; he had hammed up his madness so much he had to be sent on a cruise to calm him down.

I passed a table populated entirely by rabbits.

“Waiter!” called one of them, thumping his rear paw to get attention. “More dandelion leaves for table eight, if you please, sir!”

“Good evening, Miss Next.”

It was the Bradshaws; I was glad to see that they had not been swayed by convention—Mrs. Bradshaw had decided to attend after all.

“Good evening, Commander, good evening, Mrs. Bradshaw—nice dress you’re wearing.”

“Do you think so?” asked Mrs. Bradshaw slightly nervously. “Trafford wanted me to wear something full length, but I think this little Coco Chanel cocktail number is rather fetching, don’t you?”

“Black suits your eyes,” I told her, and she smiled demurely.

“I’ve got the thing you wanted me to keep for you,” whispered Bradshaw under his breath. “Appreciate a girl who knows how to delegate—say the word and it’s yours!”

“I’m waiting for the announcement of Ultra Word™,” I hissed. “Tweed is on my back; don’t let him get it no matter what!”

“Don’t worry your little head about that,” he said, nodding towards Mrs. Bradshaw. “The memsahib’s in the loop—she may look a delicate thing, but by Saint George she’s a fearful lass when riled.”

He gave me a wink and I moved on, heart pounding. I hoped the nervousness didn’t show. Heep was on the stage, but Legree had taken his place and was keeping a surreptitious eye on me from seven hundred tables away—the temporal-field displacement technology worked in his favor—every table was next to every other.

All of a sudden there was a strong smell of beer.

“Miss Next!”

“Sir John, good evening.”

Falstaff looked me up and down. I didn’t wear a dress that often and I crossed my arms defensively.

“Resplendent, my dear, resplendent!” he exclaimed, pretending to be something of an expert.

“Thank you.”

Usually I avoided Falstaff, but if I was being watched, it made sense to talk to as many people as possible; if Tweed and TGC thought I could throw a spanner in the works, I would not help them by drawing attention to my genuine confederates.

“I know of a side room, Mistress Next, a small place of an acquainting manner—a niche d’amour. What say you and I retire to that place where you might learn there how I came by the name ‘Falstaff.’ ”

“Another time.”

“Really?” he asked, surprised by my—albeit accidental—acquiescence.

“No, not really, Sir John,” I said hurriedly.

“Phew!” he said, mopping his brow. “ ’T’would not be half the sport if you were to lie with me—resistance, Mistress Next, is rich allurement indeed!”

“If resistance is all you seek,” I told him, smiling, “then you will never have a keener woman to woo!”

“I’ll drink to that!” He laughed heartily—the word might have been written for him.

“I have to leave you, Sir John, no more than a gallon of beer an hour, remember?”

I patted his large tum, which was as hard and unyielding as a beer barrel.

“On my word!” he replied, wiping the froth from his beard.

I reached the Jurisfiction table. Beatrice and Benedict were arguing, as usual.

“Ah!” said Benedict as soon as I sat down. “ ’Tis beauty that dost oft make women proud, but God he knows Beatrice’s share thereof is small!”

“How so?” replied Beatrice. “That face of yours that hungry cannibals would not have touch’d!”

“Have either of you seen the Bellman?” I asked.

They said they hadn’t and I left them to their arguing as Foyle sat down next to me. I had seen him at Norland Park from time to time. He was Jurisfiction, too.

“Hello, we haven’t been introduced. Gully Foyle is my name, terra is my nation;