One of Our Thursdays Is Missing (Thursday Next 6)

“So how do you think this story’s going to end?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Are you sure you’re not her?”

“It’s a tricky one,” I replied after giving the matter some thought, “and there’s evidence to suppose that I am. I can do things only she can do, I can see some things that only she can see. Landen thought I was her, and although he now thinks I’m the written one, that might be part of a fevered delusion. His or mine, I’m not sure. It’s even possible I’ve been Owlcreeked.”

Bradshaw knew what I was talking about. “Owlcreeking” was a Biercian device in which a character could spend the last few seconds of his life in a long-drawn-out digression of what might have happened had he lived. I might be at this very moment spiraling out of control in Mediocre’s cab, Herring’s coup still ahead of me and perfect in its unrevealed complexity.

“Carmine might actually be the Thurs

day I think I am,” I added. “It’s even possible I’m suffering the hallucinatory aftershock of a recent rewriting. And while we’re pushing the plausibility envelope, the BookWorld might not be real at all, and maybe I’m simply an Acme carpet fitter with a vibrant imagination.”

I shuddered with the possibility that none of this might be happening at all.

“This is Fiction,” said Bradshaw in a calm voice, “and the truth is whatever you make it. You can interpret the situation in any way you want, and all versions could be real—and what’s more, depending on how you act now, any one of those scenarios could become real.”

I frowned. “I can be Thursday just by thinking I am?”

“More or less. We may require you to undergo a short narrative procedure known as a ‘Bobby Ewing,’ where you wake up in the next chapter and it’s all been a dream, but it’s pretty painless so long as you don’t mind any potential readers throwing up their hands in disgust.”

“I can be Thursday?” I said again.

He nodded. “All you have to do is know you are. And don’t deny that you’ve had some doubts over the past few days.”

It was tempting. I could be her and do Thursday things and never have to worry about falling ReadRates, keeping Bowden in line or dealing with Pickwick. I could even have Landen and the kids. I looked around at the Jurisfiction office. The Red Queen was hopping mad as usual, Mr. Fainset was attempting to figure out why Tracy Capulet had locked her sister in a cupboard, Lady Cavendish was drafting an indictment against Red Herring for “impersonating a red herring when you’re not one,” and Emperor Zhark was putting together an interim peace deal for the Northern Genres. It looked enjoyable, relevant and a good use of anyone’s time.

Commander Bradshaw smiled and pushed Thursday’s shield back across the table, where I stared at it. “What do you say?”

“I can be Thursday,” I said slowly. “I can work at Jurisfiction. But at a fictional Jurisfiction. I want to depict the real Thursday doing everything she really did. I want her series to feature the BookWorld and you and Miss Havisham and Zhark and all the rest of them. That’s where I’d like to be Thursday. That’s the Thursday I can be. A fictional one. I’d like to help you out, but I can’t.”

Bradshaw looked at me for a long time.

“I reluctantly respect your decision to stay with your books,” he said at last, “and I understand your wanting to tell it like it is. Naturally we’re very grateful for everything you’ve done, but even if Jobsworth and I sign off on a Textual Flexation Certificate to change your series, I must point out that you can’t truly be Thursday without Landen, and even if you get his permission, you still have to get Thursday’s approval before you even begin to think about trying to change your series. And as far as we know, she may already be . . . dead.”

He had trouble saying the final word and had to almost roll it around in his mouth before he could spit it out.

“She’s not dead,” I said firmly.

“I hope not, too. But without any leads—and we have none—it’s going to be an onerous task to find her. Here in Fiction we have over a quarter of a billion titles. That’s just one island in a BookWorld of two hundred and twenty-eight different and very distinct literary groupings. Most of those islands have fewer titles but some—like Nonfiction—have more. And then there are the foreign-language BookWorlds. Even if you are right—and I hope you are—Thursday could be anywhere from the Urdu translation of Wuthering Heights to the guarantee card on a 1965 Sunbeam Mixmaster.”

“But you’re still looking, right?”

“Of course. We rely on telemetry from our many unmanned probes that move throughout the BookWorld, all Textual Sieves have been set to pick her up if she makes a move, and Text Grand Central is keeping the waste gates on the imaginotransference engines on alert for a ‘Thursday Next’ word string. There’s always hope, but there’s a big BookWorld out there.”

“If she’s alive,” I said in a resolute tone, “I can find her.”

“If you do,” said Bradshaw with a smile, “you can change whatever you want in your book—even introduce the Toast Marketing Board.”

I started. “You heard about that?”

He smiled. “We hear about everything. Take the shield. Use her rights and privileges. You might need them. And if you change your mind and want to be her, call me.”

I picked up the badge from the table and put it in my pocket.

“Commander?” said the Red Queen, who had been hovering and stepped in when she saw that our conversation was at an end. “Text Grand Central has reported a major narrative flexation over in Shakespeare. It seems Othello has murdered his wife.”

“Again? I do wish that trollop Desdemona would be more careful when she’s fooling around. What is it this time? Incriminating love letters?”