Lost in a Good Book (Thursday Next 2)

'Who's there?' yelled one. 'You had better be on the King's business or by St George you'll feel the lead from my musket!'

'It's Miss Havisham,' replied Havisham in a vexed tone, 'on Jurisfiction business, Sergeant Wade.'

'Begging your pardon, Miss Havisham,' replied the guard apologetically, 'but we heard a gunshot!'

'That was me,' yelled Havisham. 'You have grammasites on your ship!'

'Really?' replied the guard, leaning out and looking around. 'I don't see anything.'

'It's gone now, you dozy idiot,' said Havisham to herself, quickly adding. 'Well, keep a good look out in future – if you see any more I want to know about them immediately!'

Sergeant Wade assured her he would, bade us both goodnight then disappeared from view.

'What on earth is a grammasite?' I asked, looking nervously about in case the strange-looking creature should return.

'A parasitic life form that lives inside books and feeds on grammar,' explained Havisham. 'I'm no expert, of course, but that one looked suspiciously like an adjectivore. Can you see the gunport it was feeding on?'

'Yes.'

'Describe it to me.'

I looked at the gunport and frowned. I had expected it to be old or dark or wooden or rotten or wet, but it wasn't. But then it wasn't sterile or blank or empty either – it was simply a gunport, nothing more nor less.

'The adjectivore feeds on the adjectives describing the noun,' explained Havisham, 'but it generally leaves the noun intact. We have verminators who deal with them, but there's not enough grammasites in Dickens to cause any serious damage – yet.'

'How do they move from one book to the next?' I asked, wondering whether Mycroft's bookworms weren't some sort of grammasite-in-reverse.

'They seep through the covers using a process called oozemosis. That's why individual bookshelves are never more than six feet long in the Library – you'd be well advised to follow the same procedure at home. I've seen grammasites strip a library to nothing but indigestible nouns and page numbers – ever read Sterne's Tristram Shandy?'

'Yes.'

'Grammasites.'

'I have a lot to learn,' I said softly.

'Agreed,' replied Havisham. 'I'm trying to get the cat to write an updated travel book that includes a bestiary, but he has a lot to do in the Library – and holding a pen is tricky with paws. Come on, let's get out of this fog and see what this motor launch can do.'

As soon as we were clear of the prison ship, Havisham started the engines and slowly powered back the way we had come, once again keeping a careful eye on the compass, but even so nearly running aground six times.

'How did you know Sergeant Wade?'

'As the Jurisfiction representative in Great Expectations it is my business to know everybody. If there are any problems, then they must be brought to my attention.'

'Do all books have a rep?'

'All the ones that have been brought within the control of Jurisfiction.'

The fog didn't lift. We spent the rest of that cold night steering in amongst the moored boats at the side of the river. Only when dawn broke did we see enough to manage a sedately ten knots.

We returned the boat to the jetty and Havisham insisted I jump us both back to her room at Satis House which I managed to accomplish at the first attempt, something that helped to recover some lost confidence. I lit some candles and saw her to bed before returning myself to the stores, and Wemmick. I had the second half of the docket signed, filled out a form for a missing life vest and was about to return home when a very scratched and bruised Harris Tweed appeared from nowhere and approached the counter where I was standing. His clothes were tattered and he had lost one boot and most of his kit. It looked like The Lost World hadn't really agreed with him. He caught my eye and pointed a finger at me.

'Don't say a word. Not a single word!'

Pickwick was still awake when I got in even though it was nearly six a.m. There were two messages on the answer m

achine – one from Cordelia, and another from a very annoyed Cordelia.

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