The well of lost plots (30 page)

“No, Your Majesty,” replied the White Rabbit, “that was the prosecution.”

“The two always confuse me,” replied the King, staring at his feet, “a bit like that ‘Overruled’ and ‘Sustained’ malarkey — which was which again?”

“The prosecution rests,” said Hopkins, who could see that this trial might last for months if he didn’t get a move on, “and I think we have conclusively proved that Miss Next not only changed the ending of
Jane Eyre
but was also premeditated in her actions. This is not a court of opinion, it is a court of law, and there is only one verdict which this court can reach — guilty.”

“I told you she was guilty,” muttered the King, getting up to leave.

“Please Your Majesty,” said the White Rabbit, “that was just the prosecution summing up. You must listen to the defense now.”

“Ah!” said the King, sitting down again.

The Gryphon stood up and walked to the jury box. They all recoiled in fear as he scratched his chin with a large paw. The dormouse put up his hand to be excused and was allowed to leave. When he had returned, the Gryphon began.

“The question here is not whether Miss Next took a few textual and narrative liberties with the end of
Jane Eyre
, as my learned friend the prosecution has made so abundantly clear. We admit that she did.”

There was a gasp from the jury.

“No, I contend that whilst Miss Next broke the law in a technical sense, she did so for the best possible motives — love.”

The Gryphon paused for dramatic effect.

“Love?” said the King, “Is that a defense?”

“Historically speaking,” whispered the White Rabbit, “one of the best, Your Majesty.”

“Ah!” said the King. “Proceed.”

“And not for her own love, either,” continued the Gryphon. “She did it so that two others who were in love might stay that way and not be parted. For such things are against the natural order, a court far higher than the court Miss Next faces today.”

There was silence, so he continued:

“I contend that Miss Next is a very extraordinary person with a selfless streak that demands the highest leniency from this court. I have only one witness to call, who will prove the veracity of this defense. I call . . .
Edward Rochester
!”

There was a sharp intake of breath and the remaining guinea pig fainted clean away. The clerks of the court, unsure what to do, popped the guinea pig in a sack and sat on it.

“Call Edward Rochester!” cried the White Rabbit in his shrill voice, a demand that was echoed four times in a succession of voices each diminished further by the distance.

We heard his footfalls shuffle on the floor before we saw him, a slightly hesitant stride with the click of a cane for punctuation. He walked slowly into the courtroom with a fragile yet resolute air and scanned the room carefully to gauge, as well as he could, which of the shapes before him were judge and jury and counsel. The change I had wrought upon
Jane Eyre
had not been without its price. Rochester had lost a hand and only had the milkiest vision in one eye only. I put my hand to my mouth as I watched his form shuffle into the silenced courtroom. If I had known the outcome of my actions, would I still have taken them? Acheron’s perfidy had been the author of Rochester’s ills, but I had been the catalyst.

Edward’s face was healed, although badly scarred, but it did no desperate harm to his looks. He took the oath, his features glowering beneath the dark hair that hung in front of his face.

“Excuse me,” said the dormouse who was sitting closest to Rochester, “would you sign my slate, please?”

Rochester gave a dour half smile, took the stylus and said, “Name?”

“Geoffrey.”

Rochester signed and returned the slate and was instantly handed eleven more, all wiped clean of their carefully written notes.

“Enough!” roared the King. “I will not have my court turned into a haven for autograph hunters! We pursue the truth here, not celebrities!”

There was dead silence.

“But if you wouldn’t mind. . . ,” said the King, passing down his notebook to Rochester and adding quietly, “It’s for my daughter.”

“And your daughter’s name?” asked Rochester, pen poised.

“Rupert.”

Rochester signed the book and passed it back.

“Mr. Rochester,” said the Gryphon, “I wonder if you might expound in your own words what Miss Next’s actions have done for you?”

The court fell silent. Even the King and Queen were interested to see what Mr. Rochester had to say.

“To me alone?” replied Rochester slowly. “Nothing. For
us
, my own dear sweet Jane and I — everything!”

He clenched the hand that carried his wedding ring, rubbing the band of gold with his thumb, trying to turn his feelings into words.

“What has Miss Next
not
done for us?” he intoned quietly. “She has given us everything we could want. She has released us both from a prison that was not of our making, a dungeon of depression from which we thought we should never be free. Miss Next gave us the opportunity to love and be loved — I can think of no greater gift anyone could have been given, no word in my head can express the thanks that is ours, for her.”

There was silence in the courtroom. Even the Queen had fallen quiet and was staring — quite like a fish, I thought — at Rochester.

The Gryphon’s voice broke the silence: “Your witness.”

“Ah!” said Hopkins, gathering his thoughts. “Tell me, Mr. Rochester, just to confirm one point: Did Miss Next change the end of your novel?”

“Although I am now, as you see, maimed,” replied Rochester, “no better than the old lightning-struck chestnut tree in Thornfield orchard, I am happier than I have ever been. Yes, sir, Miss Next changed the ending, and I thank her every evening for it!”

Hopkins smiled. “No further questions.”

“Well,” said the Gryphon after the court had been adjourned for the King to consider what form the sentence should take. The Queen, unusually for her, had called for acquittal. The word sounded alien on her lips and everyone stared at her with shock and surprise when she said it — Bill the lizard almost choked and had to be slapped on the back.

“The outcome was a foregone conclusion,” said the Gryphon, nodding his respect to Hopkins, who was organizing some notes with the White Rabbit, “but I knew Rochester would put on a good show for you. The King and Queen of Hearts may be the stupidest couple to ever preside upon a court, but they are, after all,
Hearts
, and since you were undeniably guilty, we needed a court to show a bit of compassion when it came to sentencing.”

“Compassion?” I echoed with some surprise. “With the Queen of ‘Off with her head’?”

“It’s just her little way,” replied the Gryphon, “she never actually executes anyone. I was just worried for a moment that they might try to hold you on remand until the sentencing, but fortunately the King isn’t very up on legal terminology.”

“What do you think I’ll get?”

“Do you know, I have absolutely no idea. Time will tell. I’ll see you around, Next!”

I made my way slowly back to the Jurisfiction offices, where I found Miss Havisham.

“How did it go?” she asked.

“Guilty as charged.”

“Bad luck. When’s the sentencing?”

“Not a clue.”

“Might not be for years, Thursday. I’ve got something for you.”

She passed me across the report I had written for her regarding
Shadow the Sheepdog
. I read the mark on the cover, then read it again, then looked at Havisham.

“A-plus-plus Hons?” I echoed incredulously.

“Think I’m being overgenerous?”

“Well, yes,” I said, feeling confused. “I was forcibly married and then nearly murdered!”

“Marriage by force is not recognized, Next. But bear this in mind: we’ve given that particular assignment to every new Jurisfiction apprentice for the past thirty-two years and every single one has failed.”

I gaped at her.

“Even Harris Tweed.”

“Tweed was married to Mr. Townsperson?”

“Apart from that bit. He didn’t even manage to buy the pigs — let alone fool the vet. You did well, Next. Your cause-and-effect technique is good. Needs work, but good.”

“Oh!” I said, kind of relieved, then added after a moment’s reflection, “But I could have been killed!”

“You wouldn’t have been killed. Jurisfiction has eyes and ears everywhere — we’re not that reckless with our apprentices. Your multiple-choice mark was ninety-three percent. Congratulations. Pending final submissions to the Council of Genres, you’re made.”

I thought about this and felt some pride in it, despite knowing in my heart of hearts that this would not be a long appointment — as soon as I could return to the Outland, I would.

“Did you find out anything about Perkins?”

“Nothing,” I replied. “Any news of Vernham Deane?”

“Vanished without trace. The Bellman’s going to talk to us about it.”

“Could the two be related?”

“Perhaps,” she said slightly mysteriously. “I’ll have to make further inquiries. Ask me again tomorrow.”

Echolocator:
An artisan who will enter a book close to publication and locate and destroy echoed words in the work. As a general rule, identical words (with exceptions such as names, small words and modified repetitions) cannot be repeated within fifteen words as it interrupts the smooth transfer of images into the reader’s mind. (See
Imagino TransferenceDevice User’s Manual
, page 782.) Although echoes can be jarring to the eye, they are more jarring when read out loud, which belies their origin from the first OralTrad Operating System. (See also
OralTradPlus
,
Operating Systems, History of
.)

CAT FORMERLY KNOWN AS CHESHIRE,
Guide to the Great Library

“AH!” SAID GRAN as I walked in the door. “There you are! How were things at work today?”

“Good and bad,” I told her, sitting on a sofa and undoing the top button of my trousers. “The good news is I passed the Jurisfiction practical; the bad news is that I was found guilty of my Fiction Infraction.”

“Did they tell you the sentence?”

“I’ll have to wait for that.”

“Waiting’s the worst part,” she murmured. “I was up for murder once and the worst part of it all was waiting for the jury to come back with their verdict. Longest eight hours of my life.”

“I believe you. Did you go home today?”

She nodded. “I brought you a few bits and bobs. I notice there is no chocolate here in the WOLP — nothing worth eating, anyway.”

“Did you find out anything about Yorrick Kaine?”

“Not much,” replied Gran, eating the chocolate she had brought for me, “but he’s not in hiding or anything. He’s bought another publishing house and at the same time trying to rebuild his political career after that
Cardenio
debacle.”

“Ah. Where are Lola and Randolph?”

“At a party, I think. You look all done in — why don’t you get an early night?”

“And have what’s-her-name pester me?”

Gran looked at me seriously through her large-framed spectacles. “Aornis. It’s Aornis. Remember?”

“Yes. Who was my husband again?”

“Landen. He was eradicated by the ChronoGuard, yes?”

I remembered and my heart sank. “Yes,” I said in a quiet voice. I had been happy in my nonremembering state, but now I could feel the anger rising again.

“Sometimes I think it would be better if I just forgot, Gran.”

“
Never
say that, Thursday!” said Gran so sharply I jumped, and she had to rest for a moment to get her breath back and eat a few more chocolates. “Aornis has no right to take that which does not belong to her, and you must be strong with her, and yourself — retake your memories!”

“Easier said than done, Gran.” I tried to grab a chocolate as they were pulled out of my reach. “I want to dream about—”

“Landen.”

“— Landen, yes — I want to dream about him again. He’s there but we don’t talk like we used to.”

The door banged open and Randolph walked in. He ignored us both and hung up his coat.

“Randolph?” I said. “You okay?”

“Me?” he said, not looking at either of us. “I’m fine — it’s that little tarty little bitchlet who’s going to come to a sticky end — she can’t talk to a man without wanting to add him to her collection!”

And he walked out.

“Is she all right?” I called after him, but all we heard was the door to their bedroom slam shut. We looked at each other and shrugged.

“Where were we?”

“I was telling you how I never dream about Landen the way I used to. We used to go to the really great memories we shared. We never got to — you know — but it was wonderful — at least I had
some
control of where I went when the ‘Sable Goddess’ laid down her cloak.”

Gran looked at me and patted my hand reassuringly. “You need to make her feel she’s winning, Thursday. Lull her into a trap. She might
think
she is in command, but she’s only in your mind and
you
are the one that controls what you think. Our memories are precious and should never be sullied by an outside agent.”

“Of course — but how?”

“Well,” said Gran, passing me a chocolate she didn’t like, “it isn’t Aornis up there, my dear, it’s only your
memory
of her. She’s alone and afraid, too. Without the real Aornis here in the BookWorld she doesn’t have so much power; all she can do is try and—”

The door burst open again. This time it was Lola. She looked as though she had been crying. She stopped dead when she saw us.

“Ah!” she said. “Is rat-face shit-for-brains in?”

“Do you mean Randolph?”

“Who else?”

“Then, yes, he is.”

“Right!” she announced. “I’ll go and sleep over at Nemo’s.”

She started to leave.

“Wait!” I said. “What’s going on?”

She stopped and put her hands on her hips. Her bag slid down and hung off her elbow, which spoiled the illusion, but Lola was past caring.

“I went to meet him for coffee after college, and blow me if he’s not talking to that little D-2 runt — you know, the one with the squinty eyes and the stupid, snorty laugh?”