“Why did she ask me to help her?”
“She’d hoped you had evolved into something more closely resembling her. The only person she knew she could truly trust was . . . herself.”
This sounded encouraging. “Can I trust Bradshaw?”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “my answers are limited.”
“Is there anything else I should know?”
“She told me that she would try to contact you. She said the circumstances of your confusion will be your path to enlightenment.”
“What did she mean by that?”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I have no more answers for you. I won’t know if you even got these. Good luck, Thursday.”
He stopped talking and just stood there blinking, awaiting any possible response from me.
“Listen,” I said, lowering my voice and looking around to make sure that Flat Thursday wasn’t listening, “did you write in a kiss, just to make up for the one I missed earlier?”
“Good luck, Thursday,” he said again. “I’m in a hurry, as I told your mother I’d help her with the Daphne Farquitt Readathon. Remember: The circumstances of your confusion will be your path to enlightenment. Four pounds of carrots, one medium cabbage, four-pack tin of beans, Moggilicious for Pickwick, pick up dry cleaning, toilet paper.”
I was confused until I realized that he had probably written the short story on the back of a shopping list. I watched and listened while he went through “Tonic water, snacks and the latest Wayne Skunk album, Lick the Toad” before he stopped, smiled again and then just stood there blinking in a state of rest.
I walked back outside to where many Thursdays of varying thicknesses were waiting to be told a story and given a few tips. It felt like I was doing a Thursday master class in a hall of mirrors, but I think they appreciated it. By the time I left two hours later, some of the thinner Thursdays were a little bit thicker.
“Might I inquire where madam has been?” asked Sprockett once I had returned to The League of Cogmen. “Vanity can be a dangerous place for those published. Brigands, scoundrels, verb artists and the Unread lurk in doorways, ready to steal the Essence of Read from the unwary.”
“I was in Fan Fiction.”
Sprockett’s eyebrow shot to “Worried” in alarm.
“How did you get back across the causeway?”
“Quite easily. They shoot anyone trying to escape, and they check the causeway every half minute to make sure. You can’t possibly run the distance in less than four minutes, so the answer seemed quite obvious.”
He diverted his mainspring to his thought cogs and whirred and clicked noisily for a full minute before giving up, and I had to tell him.
“That’s quite clever.”
“Elementary, my dear Sprockett. Julian Sparkle was a bit annoyed. He said that he’d have to change the puzzle. I won these steak knives. Perhaps Mrs. Winterhope would like them?”
“I think she should be delighted. May I ask a question, ma’am?”
“Of course.”
“What are we going to do now?”
“I’m going to accept Senator Jobsworth’s invitation to go to the peace talks tomorrow masquerading as the real Thursday Next. The paddle steamer leaves at seven A.M. Everything that has happened is to do with Racy Novel and Speedy Muffler, and unless I start getting to the heart of the problem, I’m not going to get anywhere. The Men in Plaid will think twice before doing anything while I’m in plain view, and Landen told me that this was the way to find Thursday: ‘The circumstances of your confusion will be your path to enlightenment.’ I don’t understand that, but I can become more confused—going upriver with Jobsworth will definitely provide the extra confusion I need.”
Sprockett stared at me for a moment, and I could tell by the way his eyebrow was quivering between “Thinking” and “Worried” that he knew something was up.
“Don’t you mean ‘we,’ ma’am?”
I pulled a letter from my pocket that I’d prepared while seated at a You for Coffee? franchise just off Sargasso Plaza.
“These are glowing references, Sprockett. They should allow you to find a position in Fiction without any problem. You have been a steadfast and loyal companion whom I am happy to have known as a friend. Thank you.”
I blinked as my eyes started to mist, and Sprockett stared back at me with his blank porcelain features. His eyebrow pointed in turn at all the possible emotions engraved on his forehead. There was nothing for “Sad,” so it sprang backwards and forwards between “Doubtful” and “Worried.”