The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [494]
“I’m afraid not. The Cat is searching unpublished novels in the Well of Lost Plots at the moment, but it might take a little time. You know how chaotic things are down there.”
“Only too well.” I sighed, thinking about my old home in unpublished fiction with a mixture of fondness and relief. The Well was where books are actually constructed, where plotsmiths create the stories that authors think they write. You can buy plot devices at discount rates and verbs by the pint. An odd place, to be sure. “Okay,” I said finally, “you’d better tell me what’s going on.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Tiggy-winkle, counting the points out on her claw, “this morning a rumor of potential change in the copyright laws swept through the BookWorld.”
“I don’t know how these rumors get started,” I replied wearily. “Was there any truth in it?”
“Not in the least.”
This was a contentious subject to the residents of the BookWorld. The jump to copyright-free Public Domain Status had always been a fearful prospect for a book character, and even with support groups and training courses to soften the blow, the Narrative Menopause could take some getting used to. The problem is that copyright laws tend to vary around the world, and sometimes characters are in public domain in one market and not in another, which is confusing. Then there is the possibility that the law might change and characters who had adjusted themselves to a Public Domain Status would find themselves in copyright again, or vice versa. Unrest in the BookWorld in these matters is palpable; it only takes a small spark to set off a riot.
“So all was well?”
“Pretty much.”
“Good. Anything else?”
“Starbucks wants to open another coffee shop in the Hardy Boys series.”
“Another one?” I asked with some surprise. “There’s already sixteen. How much coffee do they think they can drink? Tell them they can open another in Mrs. Dalloway and two more in The Age of Reason. After that, no more. What else?”
“The Tailor of Gloucester needs three yards of cherry-colored silk to finish the Mayor’s embroidered coat—but he’s got a cold and can’t go out.”
“Who are we? Interlink? Tell him to send his cat, Simpkin.”
“Okay.”
There was a pause.
“You didn’t come all this way to tell me bad news about Kaine, copyright panics and cherry-colored twist, now, did you?”
She looked at me and sighed. “There’s a bit of a problem with Hamlet.”
“I know. But he’s doing a favor for my mother at the moment. I’ll send him back in a few days.”
“Um,” replied the hedgehog nervously. “It’s a bit more complex than that. I think it might be a good idea if you kept him out here for a bit longer.”
“What’s going on?” I asked suspiciously.
“It wasn’t my fault!” she burst out, reaching for her pocket handkerchief. “I thought the Internal Plot Adjustment request was to sort out the seasonal anomalies! All that death in the orchard, then winter, then flowers—”
“What happened?” I asked again.
Mrs. Tiggy-winkle looked miserable.
“Well, you know there has been much grumbling unrest within Hamlet ever since Rosencrantz and Guildenstern got their own play?”
“Yes?”
“Well, just after you left, Ophelia attempted a coup de état in Hamlet’s absence. She imported a B-6 Hamlet from Lamb’s Shakespeare and convinced him to reenact some of the key scenes with a pro-Ophelia bias.”
“And?”
“Well,” said Mrs. Tiggy-winkle, “they retitled it: The Tragedy of the Fair Ophelia, Driven Mad by the Callous Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.”
“She’s always up to something, isn’t she? I’ll give her ‘Hey nonny, nonny.’ Tell her to get back into line or we’ll slap a Class II Fiction Infraction on her so fast it will make her head spin.”
“We tried that, but Laertes returned from Paris and lent his voice to the revolution. Together they made some more changes, and it is now called The Tragedy of the Noble Laertes, Who Avenges His Sister, the Fair Ophelia, Driven Mad by the Callous and Murderous Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.”
I ran my fingers through what remained of my hair. “So . . . arrest them