One of Our Thursdays Is Missing (Thursday Next 6)

Zhark told Sprockett to get into his car and turned back to me.

“Miss Next,” he said in a firm voice, “your butler might be the perfect Thursday’s Friday, but he is far too dangerous to allow to remain at liberty. All those laws of robotics you’ve heard of are pretty much baloney. Good evening, Miss Next, and I’m sorry.”

And he turned in a sweep of black velvet and strode up to his waiting limousine, leaving me shaking with frustration until I had a thought.

“Wait!”

I ran up to the limousine’s window.

“This crime,” I said, “did it have anything to do with nuns?”

“And puppies,” said Zhark with a shudder. “Frightful business.”

“You stay right here. Don’t move. Understand?”

I think Emperor Zhark started to respect me just then. Not just as a Thursday but as a person. Either that or he was used to taking orders from angry women.

Whitby and Bowden were in the SpecOps office, talking about Hades. I’d found Carmine looking in the fridge for somethin

g to eat, and she did a mid-read changeover with Whitby. I took him by the hand and pushed him into an adjoining room. I’ll admit it. I was angry.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I demanded.

“A scene with Bowden. You told me to.”

“Not that. I’m talking about Sprockett and the incident with the nuns. What were you doing?”

He shrugged. “Listen, muffin, he approached me. Said he’d take on my backstory so you’d be happy. What am I going to do? Turn him down? I want you and me to be happy, pumpkin, and we’ll always be thankful to it for such a selfless act.”

“Not ‘it’—him.”

I stared at him and shook my head, and he knew then that however much I liked him, I couldn’t let it happen this way, and neither could he. He leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek, and I could feel my eyes fill with tears.

“Listen, Whitby, you’ll find a way of getting rid of it.”

“Yes,” he said, “and when I do—”

“You’ll know where to find me.”

He smiled a wan smile and walked out the door. I wiped my eyes and went and sat down in the kitchen to stare at the wall.

“Here,” said Pickwick, panting with the exertion, “your tea.”

She pushed it across the table with her beak, and I picked it up.

“Oh,” I said, “it’s gone cold.”

“It was supposed to be hot?”

“No, actually, this is good. Thank you, Pickers.”

“That’s a relief. What’s for dinner? I’m starving after all that tea making. It really takes it out of you.”

“Mrs. Malaprop suggested a macarena cheese,” came a voice from the doorway. I turned to see Sprockett standing tall and as straight as a poker, every bit the perfect butler.

I ran across and gave him a hug. He was hard and cold, and although he was outwardly emotionless, deep within him I could hear his cogs speed up as I squeezed.

“Madam, please,” he said, faintly embarrassed.