The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [533]
“What do you think?” I asked Friday, who was sitting on the dressing table staring at me.
“Aliquippa ex consequat.”
“I hope that means ‘ You look adorable, Mum.’ ”
“Mollit anim est laborum.”
I pulled on my jacket, walked out of my room, came back to brush my teeth and fetch Friday’s polar bear, then was out the door again, telling Mum that I might not be back tonight. My heart was still racing as I walked outside, ignored the journalists and popped Friday into the passenger seat of the Speedster, put down the hood—might as well arrive in style—and strapped him in. I put the key in the ignition and then—
“Don’t drive, Mum.”
Friday spoke. I was speechless for a second, hand poised on the ignition.
“Friday?” I said. “You’re talking . . . ?”
And then my heart grew cold. He was looking at me with the most serious look I have ever seen on a two-year-old, before or since. And I knew the reason why. Cindy. It was the day of the second assassination attempt. In all the excitement, I had completely forgotten. I slowly and very carefully took my hands off the key and left it where it was, turn signal blinking, oil and generator warning lights burning. I carefully unstrapped Friday, and then, not wanting to open any of the doors, I climbed carefully out of the open top and took him with me. It was a close call.
“Thanks, baby, I owe you—but why did you wait until now to say anything?”
He didn’t answer, just put his fingers in his mouth and sucked them innocently.
“Strong silent type, eh? Come on, wonder boy, let’s call SO-14.”
The police closed the road and the bomb squad arrived twenty minutes later, much to the excitement of the journalists and TV crews. They went live to the networks almost immediately, linking the bomb squad with my new job as the Mallets’ manager, filling up any gaps in the story with speculation or, in one case, colorful invention.
The four pounds of explosives had been connected to the starter-motor relay. One more second and Friday and I would have been knocking on the pearly gates. I was jumping up and down with impatience by the time I had given a statement. I didn’t tell them this was the second of three assassination attempts, nor did I tell them there would be another attempt at the end of the week. But I wrote it on my hand so I wouldn’t forget.
“Windowmaker,” I told them. “Yes, with an n—I don’t know why. Well, yes—but sixty-eight if you count Samuel Pring. Reason? Who knows? I was the Thursday Next who changed the ending of Jane Eyre. Never read it? Preferred The Professor? Never mind. It’ll be in my files. No, I’m with SO-27. Victor Analogy. His name’s Friday. Two years old. Yes, he’s very cute, isn’t he? You do? Congratulations. No, I’d love to see the pictures. His aunt? Really? Can I go now?”
After an hour they said I could leave, so I plonked Friday into his buggy and pushed him rapidly up to Landen’s place. I arrived a bit puffed and had to stop and regain my breath and my thoughts. The house was back to how I remembered it. The tub of Tickia orologica on the porch had vanished, along with the pogo stick. Beyond the more tasteful curtains, I could see movement within. I straightened my shirt, attempted to smooth Friday’s hair, walked up the garden path and rang the doorbell. My palms felt hot and sweaty, and I couldn’t control a stupid grin that had spread all over my face. I was carrying Friday for greater dramatic effect and moved