The Well of Lost Plots (Thursday Next 3)

'No,' she replied. 'It's Journey of Discovery all the way.'

'You think every story is Journey of Discovery!'

'It is.'

They continued to bicker as I selected a cup and saucer.

'Have you met Mrs Bradshaw yet?' asked Deane.

I told him that I hadn't.

'When you do, don't laugh or anything.'

'Why?'

'You'll see.'

I poured some tea for Miss Havisham, remembering to put the milk in first. Deane ate a canapé and asked:

'How are things with you these days? Last time we met you were having a little trouble at home.'

'I'm living in the Well,' I told him, 'as part of the Character Exchange Programme.'

'Really?' he said. 'What a lark. How's the latest Farquitt getting along?'

'Well, I think,' I told him, always sensitive to Deane's slight shame at being a one-dimensional evil squire figure, 'the working title is Shameless Love.'

'Sounds like a Farquitt.' Deane sighed. 'There'll be someone like me in it – there usually is. Probably a rustic serving girl who is ravaged by someone like me, too – and then cruelly cast out to have her baby in the poorhouse only to have her revenge ten chapters later.

'Well, I don't know—'

'It's not fair, you know,' he said, his mood changing. 'Why should I be condemned, reading after reading, to drink myself to a sad and lonely death eight pages before the end?'

'Because you're the bad guy and they always get their comeuppance in Farquitt novels?'

'It's still not fair.' He scowled. 'I've applied for an Internal Plot Adjustment countless times but they keep turning me down. You wouldn't have a word with Miss Havisham, would you? She's on the Council of Genres Plot Adjustment subcommittee, I'm told.'

'Would that be appropriate?' I asked. 'Me talking to her, I mean? Shouldn't you go through the usual channels?'

'Not really,' he retorted, 'but I'm willing to try anything. Speak to her, won't you?'

I told him I would try but decided on the face of it that I probably wouldn't. Deane seemed pleasant enough at Jurisfiction but in The Squire of High Potternews he was a monster; dying sad, lonely and forgotten was probably just right for him – in narrative terms, anyway.

I gave the tea to Miss Havisham, who broke off talking to Perkins abruptly as I approached. She gave me a grimace and vanished. I followed her to the second floor of the Great Library, where I found her in the Brontë section already with a copy of Wuthering Heights in her hand. I knew that she probably did have a soft spot for Heathcliff – but I imagined it was only the treacherous marsh below Penistone Crag.

'Did you meet the three witches, by the way?' she asked.

'Yes,' I replied. 'They told me—'

'Ignore everything they say. Look at the trouble they got Macbeth into.'

'But they said—'

'I don't want to hear it. Claptrap and mumbo-jumbo. They are troublemakers and nothing more. Understand?'

'Sure.'

'Don't say "sure" – it's so slovenly! What's wrong with: "Yes, Miss Havisham"?'