Bowdlerizers: A group of fanatics who attempt to excise obscenity and profanity from all texts. Named after Thomas Bowdler, who attempted to make Shakespeare “family reading” by cutting lines from the plays, believing by so doing that “the transcendental genius of the poet would undoubtedly shine with greater luster.” Bowdler died in 1825, but his torch is still carried, illegally, by active cells eager to complete and extend his unfinished work at any cost. Attempts to infiltrate the Bowdlerizers have so far met with no success.

  UNITARY AUTHORITY OF WARRINGTON CAT,

  The Jurisfiction Guide to the Great Library (glossary)

  IWATCHED MARIANNE until she was no longer in sight and then, realizing that her “remain to enjoy you” line was the last of Chapter Five and Chapter Six begins with the Dashwoods already embarked on their journey, I decided to wait and see what a chapter ending looks like. If I had expected a thunderclap or something equally dramatic, I was to be disappointed. Nothing happened. The leaves in the trees gently rustled, the occasional sound of a wood pigeon reached my ears, and before me a red squirrel hopped across the grass. I heard an engine start up and a few minutes later a biplane rose from the meadow behind the rhododendrons, circled the house twice and then headed off towards the setting sun. I rose and walked across the finely manicured lawn, nodded at a gardener who tipped his head in reply and made my way to the front door. Norland was never described in that much detail in Sense and Sensibility, but it was every bit as impressive as I thought it would be. The house was located within a broad sweeping parkland which was occasionally punctuated by mature oak trees. In the distance I could see only woods, and beyond that, the occasional church spire. Outside the front door there was a Bugatti 35B motorcar and a huge white charger saddled for battle, munching idly on some grass. A large white dog was attached to the saddle by a length of string, and it had managed to wrap itself three times around a tree.

  I trotted up the steps and tugged on the bell pull. Within a few minutes a uniformed footman answered and looked at me blankly.

  “Thursday Next,” I said. “Here for Jurisfiction—Miss Havisham.”

  The footman, who had large bulging eyes and a curved head like a frog, opened the door and announced me simply by rearranging the words a bit:

  “Miss Havisham, Thursday Next—here for Jurisfiction!”

  I stepped inside and frowned at the empty hall, wondering quite who the footman thought he was actually announcing me to. I turned to ask him where I should go, but he bowed stiffly and walked—excruciatingly slowly, I thought—to the other side of the hall, where he opened a door and then stood back, staring at something above and behind me. I thanked him, stepped in and found myself in the central ballroom of the house. The room was painted in white and pale blue, and the walls, where not decorated with delicate plaster moldings, were hung with lavish gold-framed mirrors. Above me the glazed ceiling let in the evening light, but already I could see servants preparing candelabra.

  It had been a long time since the Jurisfiction offices had been used as a ballroom. The floor space was liberally covered with sofas, tables, filing cabinets and desks piled high with paperwork. To one side a table had been set up with coffee urns, and tasty snacks were arrayed upon delicate china. There were two dozen or so people milling about, sitting down, chatting or just staring vacantly into space. I could see Akrid Snell at the far side of the room, speaking into what looked like a small gramophone horn connected by a flexible brass tube to the floor. I tried to get his attention, but at that moment—

  “Please,” said a voice close by, “draw me a sheep!”

  I looked down to see a young boy of no more than ten. He had curly golden locks and stared at me with an intensity that was, to say the least, unnerving.

  “Please,” he repeated, “draw me a sheep.”

  “You had better do as he asks,” said a familiar voice close by. “Once he starts on you he’ll never let it go.”

  It was Miss Havisham. I dutifully drew the best sheep I could and handed the result to the boy, who walked away, very satisfied with the result.

  “Welcome to Jurisfiction,” said Miss Havisham, still limping slightly from her injury at Booktastic and once more dressed in her rotted wedding robes. “I won’t introduce you to everyone straightaway, but there are one or two people you should know.”

  She took me by the arm and guided me towards a conservatively dressed lady who was attending to the servants as they laid out some food upon the table.

  “This is Mrs. John Dashwood; she graciously allows us the use of her home. Mrs. Dashwood, this is Miss Thursday Next— she is my new apprentice.”

  I shook Mrs. Dashwood’s delicately proffered hand, and she smiled politely.

  “Welcome to Norland Park, Miss Next. You are fortunate indeed to have Miss Havisham as your teacher—she does not often take pupils. But tell me, as I am not so very conversant with contemporary fiction—what book are you from?”

  “I’m not from a book, Mrs. Dashwood.”

  Mrs. Dashwood looked startled for a moment, then smiled even more politely, took my arm in hers, muttered a pleasantry to Miss Havisham about “getting acquainted” and steered me off towards the tea table.

  “How do you find Norland, Miss Next?”

  “Very lovely, Mrs. Dashwood.”

  “Can I offer you a Crumbobbilous cutlet?” she asked in a clearly agitated manner, handing me a sideplate and napkin and indicating the food.

  “Or some tea?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I’ll come straight to the point, Miss Next.”

  “You seem most anxious to do so.”

  She glanced furtively to left and right and lowered her voice.

  “Does everyone out there think my husband and I are so very cruel, cutting the girls and their mother out of Henry Dashwood’s bequest?”

  She looked at me so very seriously that I wanted to smile.

  “Well,” I began—

  “Oh I knew it!” gasped Mrs. Dashwood. She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead in a dramatic gesture. “I told John that we should reconsider—I expect out there we are burnt in effigy, reviled for our actions, damned for all time?”

  “Not at all,” I said, attempting to console her. “Narratively speaking, without your actions there wouldn’t be much of a story.”

  Mrs. Dashwood took a handkerchief from her cuff and dried her eyes, which, as far as I could see, had not even the smallest tear in them.

  “You are so right, Miss Next. Thank you for your kind words—but if you hear anyone speaking ill of me, please tell them that it was my husband’s decision—I tried to stop him, believe me!”

  “Of course,” I said, reassuring her. I made my excuses and left to find Miss Havisham.

  “We call it minor character syndrome,” explained Miss Havisham after I rejoined her. “Quite common when an essentially minor character has a large and consequential part. She and her husband have allowed us the use of this room ever since the trouble with Confusion and Conviviality. In return we make all Jane Austen books a matter of our special protection; we don’t want anything like that to happen again. There is a satellite office in the basement of Elsinore castle run by Mr. Falstaff— that’s him over there.”

  She pointed to an overweight man with a florid face who was in conversation with another agent. They both laughed uproariously at something Falstaff had said.

  “Who is he talking to?”

  “Vernham Deane, romantic lead in one of Daphne Farquitt’s novels. Mr. Deane is a stalwart member of Jurisfiction, so we don’t hold it against him—”

  “WHERE IS HAVISHAM!?” bellowed a voice like thunder. The doors burst open and a very disheveled Red Queen hopped in. The whole room fell silent. Except, that is, for Miss Havisham, who said in an unnecessarily provocative tone:

  “Bargain hunting just doesn’t suit some people, now does it?”

  The assembled Jurisfiction operatives, realizing that all they were witnessing was another round in a long and very personal battle, carried on talking.

  The Red Queen had a large and painful-looking black eye, and two of her fingers were in a splint. The sales at Booktastic had not been kind to her.

  “What’s on your mind, your majesty?” asked Havisham in an even tone.

  “Meddle in my affairs again,” growled the Red Queen, “and I won’t be responsible for my actions!”

  I shuffled uncomfortably and wanted to move away from this embarrassing confrontation. But since I thought someone should be on hand to separate them if there was a fight, I remained where I was.

  “Don’t you think you’re taking this a little too seriously, your majesty?” said Havisham, always maintaining due regal respect. “It was only a set of Farquitts, after all!”

  “A boxed set!” replied the Red Queen coldly. ‘You deliberately took the gift I planned to give to my own dear beloved husband. And do you know why?”

  Miss Havisham pursed her lips and was silent.

  “Because you can’t bear it that I’m happily married!”

  “Rubbish!” returned Miss Havisham angrily. “We beat you fair and square!”

  “Ladies and, er, ladies and majesties, please!” I said in a conciliatory tone. “Do we have to argue here at Norland Park?”

  “Ah yes!” said the Red Queen. “Do you know why we use Sense and Sensibility? Why Miss Havisham insisted on it, in fact?”

  “Don’t believe this,” murmured Miss Havisham. “It’s all poppycock. Her majesty is a verb short of a sentence.”

  “I’ll tell you why,” went on the Red Queen angrily, “because in Sense and Sensibility there are no strong father or husband figures!”

  Miss Havisham was silent.

  “Face the facts, Havisham. Neither the Dashwoods, the Steeles, the Ferrar brothers, Eliza Brandon or Willoughby have a father to guide them! Aren’t you taking your hatred of men just a little too far?”

  “Deluded,” replied Havisham, then added after a short pause: “Well then, your majesty, since we are in a questioning vein, just what is it, exactly, that you rule over?”

  The Red Queen turned scarlet—which was tricky, as she was quite red to begin with—and pulled a small dueling pistol from her pocket. Havisham was quick and also drew her weapon, and there they stood, quivering with rage, guns pointing at each other. Fortunately the sound of a bell tingling caught their attention and they both lowered their weapons.

  “The Bellman!” hissed Miss Havisham as she took my arm and moved towards where a man dressed as a town crier stood on a low dais. “Showtime!”

  The small group of people gathered around the crier; the Red Queen and Miss Havisham stood side by side, their argument seemingly forgotten. I looked around at the odd assortment of characters and wondered quite what I was doing here. Still, if I was to learn how to travel in books, I would have to know more. I listened attentively.

  The Bellman put down his bell and consulted a list of notes.

  “Is everyone here? Where’s the Cat?”

  “I’m over there,” purred the Cat, sitting precariously atop one of the gold-framed mirrors.

  “Good. Okay, anyone missing?”

  “Shelley’s gone boating,” said a voice at the back. “He’ll be back in an hour if the weather holds.”

  “O-kay,” continued the Bellman. “Jurisfiction session number 40311 is now in session.”

  He tingled his bell again, coughed and consulted a clipboard.

  “Item one is bad news, I’m afraid.”

  There was a respectful hush. He paused for a moment and picked his words carefully.

  “I think we will all have to come to the conclusion that David and Catriona aren’t coming back. It’s been eighteen sessions now, and we have to assume that they’ve been . . . boojummed.”

  There was a reflective pause.

  “We remember David and Catriona Balfour as friends, colleagues, worthy members of our calling, protagonists in Kidnapped and Catriona and for all the booksploring they did— especially finding a way into Barchester, for which we will always be grateful. I ask for a minute’s silence. To the Balfours!”

  “The Balfours!” we all repeated. Then, heads bowed, we stood in silence. After a minute ticked by, the Bellman spoke again.

  “Now, I don’t want to sound disrespectful, but what we learn from this is that we must always sign the outings book so we know where you are—particularly if you are exploring new routes. Don’t forget the ISBN numbers either—they weren’t introduced just for cataloguing, now were they? Mr. Bradshaw’s maps might have a traditionalist’s charm about them—”

  “Who’s Bradshaw?” I whispered.

  “Commander Bradshaw,” explained Havisham. “Retired now but a wonderful character—did most of the booksploring in the early days.”

  “—but they are old and full of errors,” continued the Bellman. “New technology is here to be used, guys. Anyone who wants to attend a training course on how ISBN numbers relate to transbook travel, see the Cat for details.”

  The Bellman looked around the room as if to reinforce the order, then unfolded a sheet of paper and adjusted his glasses.

  “Right. Item two. New recruit. Thursday Next. Where are you?”

  The assembled Prose Resource Operatives looked around the room before I waved a hand to get their attention.

  “There you are. Thursday is apprenticed to Miss Havisham; I’m sure you’ll all join me in welcoming her to our little band.”

  “Didn’t like the way Jane Eyre turned out?” said someone in a hostile tone from the back. Everyone watched as a middle-aged man stood up and walked up to the Bellman’s dais. There was silence.

  “Who’s that?” I hissed.

  “Harris Tweed,” replied Havisham. “Dangerous and arrogant but quite brilliant—for a man.”

  “Who approved her application?” asked Tweed.

  “She didn’t apply, Harris,” replied the Bellman. “Her appointment was forshadowed long ago. Besides, her work within Jane Eyre ridding the book of the loathsome Hades is good enough testimonial for me.”

  “But she altered the book!” cried Tweed angrily. “Who’s to say she wouldn’t do the same again?”

  “I did what I did for the best,” I said in a loud voice, feeling I had to defend myself against Tweed. This startled him—I got the feeling no one really stood up to him.

  “If it wasn’t for Thursday we wouldn’t have a book,” said the Bellman. “A full book with a different ending is better than half a book without.”

  “That’s not what the rules say, Bellman.”

  To my great relief, Miss Havisham spoke up.

  “Truly competent Literary Detectives are as rare as truthful men, Mr. Tweed—you can see her potential as clearly as I can. Frightened of someone stealing your thunder, perhaps?”

  “It’s not that at all,” protested Tweed. “But what if she were here for another reason altogether?”

  “I shall vouch for her!” said Miss Havisham in a thunderous tone. “I call for a show of hands. If there is a majority amongst you who think my judgment poor, then put your hands up now and I will banish her back to where she came from!”

  She said it with such a show of fierce temper that I thought that no one would raise a hand; in the event, only one did— Tweed himself, who, after reading the situation, judged that good grace was the best way in which to retire. He gave a wan half-smile, bowed and said: “I withdraw all objections.”

  I sighed a sigh of relief as Havisham nudged me in the ribs and gave me a wink.

  “Good,” said the Bellman as Tweed returned to his desk. “As I was saying, we welcome Miss Next to Jurisfiction and we don’t want any of those silly practical jokes we usually play on new recruits—okay?”

  He surveyed the room with a stern expression before returning to his list.

  “Item two: There is an illegal PageRunner from Shakespeare, so this is a priority red. Perp’s name is Feste; worked as a jester in Twelfth Night. Took flight after a debauched night with Sir Toby. Who wants to go after him?”

  A hand went up in the crowd.

  “Fabien? Thanks. You may have to stand in for him for a while; take Falstaff with you, but please, Sir John—stay out of sight. You’ve been allowed to stay in Merry Wives, but don’t push your luck.”

  Falstaff got up, bowed clumsily, burped, and sat down again.

  “Item three: Interloper in the Sherlock Holmes series by the name of Mycroft—turns up quite unexpectedly in The Greek Interpreter and claims to be his brother. Anyone know anything about this?”

  I shrank lower, hoping that no one would have enough knowledge of my world to know we were related. Sly old Fox! So he had rebuilt the Prose Portal. I covered my mouth to hide a smile.

  “No?” went on the Bellman. “Well, Sherlock seems to think he is his brother, and so far there is no harm done—but I think this would be a good opportunity to open up a way into the Sherlock Holmes series. Suggestions, anyone?”

  “How about through ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’?” suggested Tweed, to the accompaniment of laughter and catcalls from around the room.

  “Order! Sensible suggestions, please. Poe is out of bounds and will remain so. It’s possible ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’ might open an avenue to all detective stories that came after it, but I won’t sanction the risk. Now—any other suggestions?”

  “The Lost World?”

  There were a few giggles, but they soon stopped; this time Tweed was serious.

  “Conan Doyle’s other works might afford a link to the Sherlock Holmes series,” he added gravely. “I know we can get into The Lost World. I just need to find a way to move beyond that.”

  There was an uncomfortable moment as the Jurisfiction agents muttered to one another.

  “What’s the problem?” I whispered.

  “Adventure stories always bring the highest risks to anyone establishing a new route,” hissed back Miss Havisham. “The worst you might expect from a romantic novel or domestic potboiler is a slapped face or a nasty burn from the Aga. Finding a way into King Solomon’s Mines cost two agents’ lives.”