One of Our Thursdays Is Missing (Thursday Next 6)

“Only selling useless rubbish for EZ-Read. Why?”

“Nothing.” I smiled, but there was something. Whitby could play Landen beautifully.

He and Bowden both went off to play a scene in the SpecOps Building, leaving me to sit at the kitchen table trying to figure out if I could have found Thursday earlier. If I’d had more experience, probably.

Pickwick stuck her head around the door and looked relieved when she saw me.

“Thank goodness!” she said. “I can’t tell you what a disaster it’s been. They threatened to tape my beak shut if I didn’t join them. Your father was the ringleader—along with Carmine, of course. She’ll come to a sticky end, I can tell you.”

“She’ll be fine,” I said, feeling magnanimous. Carmine had problems, but so did we all. “Make the tea, will you?”

“Isn’t that why we have a butler?”

I stared at her and raised an eyebrow.

“So . . . milk and one sugar, right?”

And she waddled into the kitchen to try to figure out which object was the kettle.

“May I come in?”

It was the character who played my father. He was quite unlike his usual abrasive self and seemed almost painfully eager to be friendly.

“Hello, Thursday,” he said. “Is . . . that chair comfortable?”

“Don’t sweat it,” I said, almost embarrassed to see him like this. “I’m going to make some radical changes to your character. It’s very simple: Do the new scenes or you can have a transfer. Take it or leave it.”

He thought about it for a moment, mumbled something about how he would “look forward to seeing his new lines” and made some excuse before departing.

Pickwick came back in. “The tea is in the jar marked ‘tea,’ right?”

“Right.”

The doorbell rang. It was Emperor Zhark.

“Good evening, Your Mercilessness,” I said, opening the door wide. “Come on in and have a cocktail. My man does a Gooseberry Flip so strong it will make your toes swell.”

“That’s a figure of speech, right?”

“Not at all. Your toes really do swell—to the size of apples.”

“I won’t, thank you. I’m actually here on business. Do you have an automaton living here, name of Sprockett?”

I think my heart might almost have stopped.

“What is it?” I asked. “What’s going on?”

“I am ready, sir.”

It was Sprockett. He had his overcoat on and had packed his oils and a spare knee joint, just in case.

“Wait a minute,” I said, “you can’t take him away. He has a job with me. I’ll sign any papers you want.”

“Ma’am,” said Sprockett, “I am no longer in your employ. If you recall, you gave me glowing references and relieved me of my duties. Emperor, may we go?”

The emperor moved to the door, but I wasn’t done.

“Emperor,” I said, “I don’t wish to appear above my station, but I do feel that a simple work-permit violation could be overlooked on this occasion.”