“He isn’t just going to write romantic novels in his retirement,” observed Joffy, putting his head round the door.

  “No,” I replied, “he most probably took it all so no one else would carry on with his work. Mycroft’s scruples were the equal of his intellect.”

  My mother was sitting on an upturned wheelbarrow, her dodos clustered around her on the off chance of a marshmallow.

  “They’re not coming back,” said my mother sadly. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said, giving her a hug, “I know.”

  7.

  White Horse, Uffington, Picnics, for the Use of

  We decided that “Parke-Laine-Next” was a bit of a mouthful, so I kept my surname and he kept his. I called myself “Ms.” instead of “Miss,” but nothing else changed. I liked being called his wife in the same way I liked calling Landen my husband. It felt sort of tingly. I had the same feeling when I stared at my wedding ring. They say you get used to it but I hoped that they were wrong. Marriage, like spinach and opera, was something I had never thought I would like. I changed my mind about opera when I was nine years old. My father took me to the first night of Madama Butterfly at Brescia in 1904. After the performance Dad cooked while Puccini regaled me with hilarious stories and signed my autograph book—from that day on I was a devoted fan. In the same way, it took being in love with Landen to make me change my mind about marriage. I found it exciting and exhilarating; two people, together, as one. It was where I was meant to be. I was happy; I was contented; I was fulfilled.

  And spinach? Well, I’m still waiting.

  THURSDAY NEXT,

  Private Diaries

  WHAT DO YOU THINK they’ll do?” asked Landen as we lay in bed, he with one hand resting gently on my stomach and the other wrapped tightly around me. The bedclothes had been thrown off and we had only just regained our breath.

  “Who?”

  “SO-1 this afternoon. About you punching the neanderthal.”

  “Oh, that. I don’t know. Technically speaking, I really haven’t done anything wrong at all—I think they’ll let me off, considering all the good PR work I’ve done. Look a bit daft to arrest their star operative, don’t you think?”

  “That’s always assuming they think logically like you or me.”

  “It is, isn’t it?”

  I sighed.

  “People have been busted for less. SO-1 like to make an example from time to time.”

  “You don’t have to work, you know.”

  I looked across at him, but he was too close to focus on, which was sort of nice, in its way.

  “I know,” I replied, “but I’d like to keep it up. I don’t really see myself as a mummsy sort of person.”

  “Your cooking might tend to support that fact.”

  “Mother’s cooking is terrible, too—I think it’s hereditary. My SO-1 hearing is at four. Want to go and see the mammoth migration?”

  “Sure.”

  The doorbell rang.

  “Who could that be?”

  “It’s a little early to tell,” quipped Landen. “I understand the ‘go and see’ technique sometimes works.”

  “Very funny.”

  I pulled on some clothes and went downstairs. There was a gaunt man with lugubrious features standing on the doorstep. He looked as close to a bloodhound as one can get without actually having a tail and barking.

  “Yes?”

  He raised his hat and gave me a somnambulant smile.

  “The name is Hopkins,” he explained. “I’m a reporter for The Owl. I was wondering if I could interview you about your time within the pages of Jane Eyre.”

  “You’ll have to go through Cordelia Flakk at SpecOps, I’m afraid. I’m not really at liberty—”

  “I know you were inside the book. In the first and original ending, Jane goes to India, yet in your ending she stays and marries Rochester. How did you engineer this?”

  “You really have to get clearance from Flakk, Mr. Hopkins.”

  He sighed.

  “Okay, I will. Just one thing. Did you prefer the new ending, your new ending?”

  “Of course. Didn’t you?”

  Mr. Hopkins scribbled in a notepad and smiled again.

  “Thank you, Miss Next. I’m very much in your debt. Good day!”

  He raised his hat again and was gone.

  “What was all that about?” asked Landen as he handed me a cup of coffee.

  “Pressman.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Nothing. He has to go through Flakk.”

  The grassy escarpment at Uffington was busy that morning. The mammoth population in England, Wales and Scotland amounted to 249 individuals in nine groups, all of whom migrated north to south around late autumn and back again in the spring. The routes followed the same pattern every year with staggering accuracy. Inhabited areas were mostly avoided—except Devizes, where the High Street was shuttered up and deserted twice a year as the plodding elephantines crashed and trumpeted their way through the center of the town, cheerfully following the ancient call of their forebears. No one in Devizes could get any sleep or Proboscidea damage insurance cover, but the extra cash from tourism generally made up for it.

  But there weren’t just mammoth twitchers, walkers, druids and a neanderthal “right to hunt” protest up the hill that morning. A dark blue automobile was waiting for us, and when somebody is waiting for you in a place you hadn’t planned on being, then you take notice. There were three of them standing next to the car, all dressed in dark suits with blue enameled Goliath badges on their lapels. The only one I recognized was Schitt-Hawse; they all hastily hid their ice creams as we approached.

  “Mr. Schitt-Hawse,” I said, “what a surprise! Have you met my husband?”

  Schitt-Hawse offered his hand, but Landen didn’t take it. The Goliath agent grimaced for a moment, then gave a bemused grin.

  “Saw you on the telly, Ms. Next. It was a fascinating talk about dodos, I must say.”

  “I’d like to expand my subjects next time,” I replied evenly. “Might even try and include something about Goliath’s malignant stranglehold on the nation.”

  Schitt-Hawse shook his head sadly.

  “Unwise, Next, unwise. What you singularly fail to grasp is that Goliath is all you’ll ever need. All anyone will ever need. We manufacture everything from cots to coffins and employ over eight million people in our six thousand or so subsidiary companies. Everything from the womb to the wooden overcoat.”

  “And how much profit do you expect to scavenge as you massage us from hatched to dispatched?”

  “You can’t put a price on human happiness, Next. Political and economic uncertainty are the two biggest forms of stress. You’ll be pleased to know that the Goliath Cheerfulness Index has reached a four-year high this morning at nine point one three.”

  “Out of a hundred?” asked Landen sarcastically.

  “Out of ten, Mr. Parke-Laine,” he replied testily. “The nation has grown beyond all measure under our guidance.”

  “Growth purely for its own sake is the philosophy of cancer, Schitt-Hawse.”

  His face dropped and he stared at us for a moment, doubtless wondering how best to continue.

  “So,” I said politely, “out to watch the mammoths?”

  “Goliath don’t watch mammoths, Next. There’s no profit in it. Have you met my associates Mr. Chalk and Mr. Cheese?”

  I looked at his two gorillalike lackeys. They were immaculately dressed, had impeccably trimmed goatees, and stared at me through impenetrable dark glasses.

  “Which is which?” I asked.

  “I’m Cheese,” said Cheese.

  “I’m Chalk,” said Chalk.

  “When is he going to ask you about Jack Schitt?” asked Landen in an unsubtly loud whisper.

  “Pretty soon,” I replied.

  Schitt-Hawse shook his head sadly. He opened the briefcase Mr. Chalk was holding, and inside, nestled in the carefully cut foam innards, lay a copy of The Poems of Edgar Allan Poe.

  “You left Jack imprisoned in this copy of ‘The Raven.’ Goliath need him out to face a disciplinary board on charges of embezzlement, Goliath contractual irregularities, misuse of the corporation’s leisure facilities, missing stationery—and crimes against humanity.”

  “Oh yes?” I asked. “Why not just leave him in?”

  Schitt-Hawse sighed and stared at me.

  “Listen, Next. We need Jack out of here, and believe me, we’ll manage it.”

  “Not with my help.”

  Schitt-Hawse stared silently at me for a moment.

  “Goliath are not used to being refused. We asked your uncle to build another Prose Portal. He told us to come back in a month’s time. We understand he left on retirement last night. Destination?”

  “Not a clue.”

  Mycroft had retired, it seemed, not out of choice but out of necessity. I smiled to myself. Goliath had been hoodwinked and they didn’t like it.

  “Without the Portal,” I told him, “I can’t jump into books any more than Mr. Chalk can.”

  Chalk shuffled slightly as I mentioned his name.

  “You’re lying,” replied Schitt-Hawse. “The ineptness card doesn’t work on us. You defeated Hades, Jack Schitt and the Goliath Corporation. We have a great deal of admiration for you. Goliath has been more than fair given the circumstances, and we would hate for you to become a victim of corporate impatience.”

  “Corporate impatience?” I repeated, staring Schitt-Hawse straight in the eye. “What’s that, some sort of threat?”

  “This unhelpful attitude of yours might make me vindictive— and you wouldn’t like me when I get vindictive.”

  “I don’t like you when you’re not vindictive.”

  Schitt-Hawse shut the briefcase with a snap. His left eye twitched and the color drained out of his face. He looked at us both and started to say something, stopped, got ahold of his temper and managed to squeeze out a half-smile before he climbed back into his car with Chalk and Cheese and was gone.

  Landen was still chuckling as we spread a groundsheet and blanket on the well-nibbled grass just above the White Horse. Below us at the bottom of the escarpment a herd of mammoths were quietly browsing, and on the horizon we could see several airships on the approach to Oxford. It was a pleasant day, and since airships don’t fly in poor weather, they were all making the best use of it.

  “You don’t have much fear of Goliath, do you, darling?” he asked.

  I shrugged.

  “Goliath are nothing more than a bully, Land. Stand up to them and they’ll soon scurry away. All that large car and henchman stuff—it’s for frighteners. But I’m kind of puzzled as to how they knew we would be here.”

  Landen shrugged.

  “Cheese or ham?”1

  “What?”

  “I said: ‘Cheese or ham.’”

  “Not you.”

  Landen looked around. We were about the only ones within a hundred-yard radius.

  “Who then?”

  “Snell.”

  “Who?”

  “Snell!” I yelled out loud. “Is that you?”2

  “I didn’t!”3

  “Prosecution? Who?”4

  “Thursday,” said Landen, now looking worried, “what the hell’s going on?”

  “I’m talking to my lawyer.”

  “What have you done wrong?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Landen threw his hands up in the air and I addressed Snell again.

  “Can you tell me the charge I’m facing at the very least?”5

  I sighed.

  “She’s not married, apparently.”6

  “Snell! Wait! Snell? Snell—!”

  But he had gone. Landen was staring at me.

  “How long have you been like this, darling?”

  “I’m fine, Land. But something weird is going on. Can we drop it for the moment?”

  Landen looked at me, then at the clear blue sky and then at the cheese he was still holding.

  “Cheese or ham?” he said at last.

  “Both—but go easy on the cheese; this is a very limited supply.”

  “Where did you find it?” asked Landen, looking at the anonymously wrapped block suspiciously.

  “From Joe Martlet at the Cheese Squad. They intercept about twelve tons a week coming over the Welsh border. It seems a shame to burn it, so everyone at SpecOps gets a pound or two. You know what they say: ‘Cops have the best cheese.’ ”

  “Goodbye, Thursday,” muttered Landen, looking at the ham.

  “Are you going somewhere?” I replied, unsure of what he meant.

  “Me? No. Why?”

  “You just said ‘Goodbye.’ ”

  “No,” he laughed, “I was commenting on the ham. It’s a good buy.”

  “Oh.”

  He cut me a slice and put it with the cheese in a sandwich, then made one for himself. There was a distant trumpet of a mammoth as it made heavy weather of the escarpment and I took a bite.

  “It’s farewell and so long, Thursday.”

  “Are you doing this on purpose?”

  “Doing what? Isn’t that Major Tony Fairwelle and your old school chum Sue Long over there?”

  I turned to where Landen was pointing. It was Tony and Sue, and they waved cheerily before walking across to say hello.

  “Goodness!” said Tony when they had seated themselves. “Looks like the regimental get-together is early this year! Remember Sarah Nara, who lost an ear at Bilohirsk? I just met her in the car park; quite a coincidence.”

  As he said the word my heart missed a beat. I rummaged in my jacket pocket for the entroposcope Mycroft had given me.

  “What’s the matter, Thurs?” asked Landen. “You’re looking kind of . . . odd.”

  “I’m checking for coincidences,” I muttered, shaking the jam jar of mixed lentils and rice. “It’s not as stupid as it sounds.”

  The two pulses had gathered in a sort of swirly pattern. Entropy was decreasing by the second.

  “We’re out of here,” I said to Landen, who looked at me quizzically. “Let’s go. Leave the things.”

  “What’s the problem, Thurs?”

  “I’ve just spotted my old croquet captain, Alf Widdershaine. This is Sue Long and Tony Fairwelle; they just saw Sarah Nara— see a pattern emerging?”

  “Thursday—!” sighed Landen. “Aren’t you being a little—”

  “Want me to prove it? Excuse me!” I said, shouting to a passerby. “What’s your name?”

  “Bonnie,” she said. “Bonnie Voige. Why?”

  “See?”

  “Voige is not a rare name, Thurs. There are probably hundreds of them up here.”

  “All right, smarty-pants, you try.”

  “I will,” replied Landen indignantly, heaving himself to his feet. “Excuse me!”

  A young woman stopped, and Landen asked her name.

  “Violet,” she replied.

  “You see?” said Landen. “There’s nothing—”

  “Violet De’ath,” continued the woman. I shook the entroposcope again—the lentils and rice had separated almost entirely.

  I clapped my hands impatiently. Tony and Sue looked perturbed but got to their feet nonetheless.

  “Everybody! Let’s go!” I shouted.

  “But the cheese—!”

  “Bugger the cheese, Landen, trust me—please!”

  They all grudgingly joined me, confused and annoyed at my strange behavior. Their minds changed when, following a short whooshing noise, a large and very heavy Hispano-Suiza motorcar landed on the freshly vacated picnic blanket with a teeth-jarring thump that shook the ground and knocked us to our knees. We were showered with soil, pebbles, and a grassy sod or two as the vast phaeton-bodied automobile sank itself into the soft earth, the fine bespoke body bursting at the seams as the massive chassis twisted with the impact. One of the spoked wheels broke free and whistled past my head as the heavy engine, torn from its rubber mounting blocks, ripped through the polished bonnet and landed at our feet with a heavy thud. There was silence for a moment as we all stood up, brushed ourselves off and checked for any damage. Landen had cut his hand on a piece of twisted wing mirror, but apart from that— miraculously, it seemed—no one had been hurt. The huge motorcar had landed so perfectly on the picnic that the blanket, thermos, basket, food—everything, in fact—had disappeared from sight. In the deathly hush that followed, everyone in the small group was staring—not at the twisted wreck of the car, but at me, their mouths open. I stared back, then looked slowly upwards to where a large airship freighter was still flying, minus a couple of tons of freight, on to the north and—one presumes—a lengthy stop for an accident inquiry. I shook the entroposcope and the random clumping pattern returned.

  “Danger’s passed,” I announced.

  “You haven’t changed, Thursday Next!” said Sue angrily. “Whenever you’re about, something dangerously other walks with you. There’s a reason I didn’t keep in contact after school, you know—weirdbird! Tony, we’re leaving.”

  Landen and I stood and watched them go. He put his arm round me.

  “Weirdbird?” he asked.

  “They used to call me that at school,” I told him. “It’s the price for being different.”

  “You got a bargain. I would have paid double that to be different. Come on, let’s skedaddle.”

  We slipped quietly away as a crowd gathered around the twisted automobile, the incident generating all manner of “ instant experts” who all had theories on why an airship should jettison a car. So to a background chorus of “needed more lift” and “golly, that was close” we crept away and sat in my car.

  “That’s not something you see very often,” murmured Landen after a pause. “What’s going on?”