One of Our Thursdays Is Missing (Thursday Next 6)

Acheron showed me his hand, which had nasty tooth marks on it.

“Painful,” I agreed. “I told you to keep the bite mask on until the last moment. But you do throw her to her death. She’s allowed to struggle a bit.”

“That’s another thing,” he said as he pulled a pained expression. “Does she have to look at me in that accusatory way when I chuck her off the roof? It makes me feel all funny inside.”

Unlike Acheron, who differed wildly from his in-book persona, Bertha really was bonkers. She had come to us after a grueling forty-six-year stint as Anne Catherick in The Woman in White and was now quite beyond any form of rehabilitation. In a cruel and ironic twist, Grace Poole kept our version of Bertha Rochester locked securely up in the attic. It was safer for everyone that way.

“I’ll have a word,” I said, then asked after a pause, “So . . . why do you think Carmine is so good?”

“Her interpretation is respectful, but with an edginess that is both sympathetic and noir.”

“And you think that’s better than my interpretation?”

“Not better,” replied Acheron diplomatically, “different. And there’s nothing wrong with that,” he added cautiously, finding a piece of invisible fluff on his jacket. “Carmine just plays her in a way that is . . . well, how shall I put it?”

“More readable?”

“She’s an A-4—you’re an A-8. You’d expect her to exhibit a bit more depth.”

“Thanks for that.”

“Don’t sweat it. Carmine can’t handle quantity, and when and if she can, she’ll be off to the bright lights of HumDram/ Highbrow. Your job is assured. Besides,” he added in a lighter tone, “if it did come to a vote, I’d go with you.”

“I’m grateful for that at the very least,” I replied despondently. “So you prefer the real Thursday Next to a more marketable one?”

“Well, yes—and the free time. Poetry is a most absorbing pastime.”

It wasn’t what I really wanted to hear, and after chatting for a few more minutes

he left. I finished the paper and wandered back to the book. I had a brief chat with the series prop master on the way. He was the technician responsible for all the interactive objects in the series—items that could be handled or manipulated in some way.

“We’ve managed to repair your car,” he said, “but go easy on it during the car chase. If you could just pull up sharply rather than slewing sideways, I’d really appreciate it.”

We were working to a budget these days. The remaking of the BookWorld had sneakily reorganized its budgetary systems. Instead of the “single-book payment,” we now earned a “reader stipend” for every reading, with a labyrinthine system of bonuses and extra payments for targets. It wasn’t universally liked. Any book that fell below the hundred-readers-a-week level could find itself hit by a double whammy: not enough funds to maintain the fabric of the novel, yet not enough Feedback Loop to hope the readers would do it for you.

I got back to the house at midmorning to find Pickwick already laying the table for lunch. She often picked up fads and trends from the BookWorld and just recently had caught the “reality bug” and insisted we sit for every meal, even though there was nothing to eat and we didn’t need to. She also insisted that we play parlor games together in the evenings. This would have been fine if she didn’t have to win at everything, and watching a dodo cheat badly at KerPlunk was not a happy spectacle.

I found Scarlett in the kitchen looking a little green about the gills and with an ice pack on her head.

“Problems?” I asked.

“N-n-n-none at all,” groaned Carmine. “I j-j-just think I hit the hyphens a little t-t-t-too hard last n-n-night.”

She groaned, closed her eyes and pressed the ice pack more firmly to her head.

“If you’re hyphenated while working you’ll be in serious trouble,” I said in my most scolding voice. “And as your mentor, so will I.”

“Yeah, yeah,” murmured Carmine, eyes firmly closed. “I’ll be fine. B-b-but can you p-p-p-please get the b-b-birdbrain over there to shut up?”

“I’m sorry,” said Pickwick haughtily, “but was the drunken tart addressing me?”

“Why, is there another b-b-birdbrain present?”

“Okay, okay,” I said, “calm down, you two. What’s the problem?”

“That b-birdbrain insists on staring at m-me and sighing.”

“Is this true?”