The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [440]
It was the first day of the influx of nursery rhyme refugees, and Lola and I were sitting on a park bench in Caversham Heights—soon to be renamed Nursery Crime. We were watching Humpty-Dumpty welcome the long line of guests as Randolph allocated parts. Everyone was happy with the arrangements, but I wasn’t overwhelmed with joy myself. I still missed Landen and I was reminded of this every time I tried—and failed—to get my old trousers to button up over my rapidly expanding waistline.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Landen.”
“Oh,” said Lola, staring at me with her big brown eyes. “You will get him back, I am sure of it—please don’t be downhearted!”
I patted her hand and thanked her for her kind words.
“I never did say thank you for what you did,” she said slowly. “I missed Randolph more than anything—if only he’d told me what he felt I would have stayed in Heights or sought a dual placement—even as a C-grade.”
“Men are like that. I’m just glad you’re both happy.”
“I’ll miss being the main protagonist,” she said wistfully. “Girls Make All the Moves was a good role but in a crap book. Do you think I’ll ever be the heroine again?”
“Well, Lola, some would say that the hero of any story is the one who changes the most. If we take the moment when we first met as the beginning of the story and right now as the end, I think that makes you and Randolph the heroes by a long straw.”
“It does, doesn’t it?”
She smiled and we sat in silence for a moment.
“Thursday?”
“Yes?”
“So who did kill Godot?”
34a.
Heavy Weather
(Bonus chapter exclusive to the U.S. edition)
BookWorld Meteorology: Aside from the rain, snow and wind that often feature within the pages of novels for dramatic effect, another weather system works within the BookWorld; a sort of transgenre wind that is not a moving mass of air but one of text, sense distortion and snippets of ideas. It is usually only a mild zephyr whose welcome breeze brings with it a useful cross-fertilization of ideas within the genres and usually has no greater vice than the spread of the mispeling vyrus. On occasion, however, the wind has been known to whip itself up into a WordStorm that can dislodge whole sentences and plot devices and deposit them several genres away. It’s not a common phenomenon, but it’s wise to keep an eye on it. In my second week as Bellman, a WordStorm of unprecedented ferocity hit the library. It was the first real test of my Bellmanship. I think I did okay.
THURSDAY NEXT,
Private Diaries
I WAS ASLEEP IN my room in the Sunderland not long after my inauguration as Bellman. Everything had been pretty quiet that week. A few PageRunners and a sighting of the Minotaur, but nothing too serious. Text Grand Central was still coming to grips with the new management regime, and all the storycode engines had been shut down and rebooted to rid them of the UltraWord Operating System. So a lull was not only welcome, but necessary.
I was awoken from my slumber by a loud purring and was shocked to find the Cat formerly known as Cheshire about an inch from my nose.
“Hullo!” he purred, grinning fit to burst. “Were you dreaming about oysters?”
“No,” I confessed. “In fact,” I added, rubbing my eyes and attempting to sit up, “I don’t think I’ve ever dreamt about oysters.”
“Really? I dream about them all the time. Sometimes on the half shell and other times in an oyster bed. Sometimes I dream about them playing the piano.”
“How can an oyster play