“Excellent! I’ll do your intro, although you’ll be off camera for that. The floor manager will cue you and you’ll enter. Wave to where the audience might have been and when you are comfy, I’ll ask you some questions. I may offer you some toast at some point as our sponsors, the Toast Marketing Board, like to get a plug in now and again. Is there any part of that you don’t understand?”

“No.”

“Good. Here we go.”

There was a flurry of activity as Lush had his hair adjusted, his makeup checked and his costume tweaked. After a cursory glance at me I was ushered offstage and after what seemed like an epoch of inaction, Lush was counted in by a floor manager. On cue he turned to camera one and switched on his best and brightest smile.

“Tonight is a very special occasion with a very special guest. She is a decorated war heroine, a literary detective whose personal intervention not only restored the novel of Jane Eyre but actually improved the ending. She single-handedly defeated Acheron Hades, ended the Crimean War and boldly hoodwinked the Goliath Corporation. Ladies and gentlemen, in an unprecedented interview from a serving SpecOps officer, please give a warm welcome to Thursday Next of the Swindon Literary Detective office!”

A bright light swung onto my entrance doorway, and Adie smiled and tapped my arm. I walked out to meet Lush, who rose to greet me enthusiastically.

“Excuse me,” came a voice from the small group sitting in the front row of the empty auditorium. It was Schitt-Hawse, the Goliath representative.

“Yes?” asked Lush in an icy tone.

“You’re going to have to drop the reference to the Goliath Corporation,” said Schitt-Hawse in the sort of tone that brooks no argument. “It serves no purpose other than to needlessly embarrass a large company that is doing its very best to improve everyone’s lives.”

“I agree,” said Flanker. “And all references to Hades will have to be avoided. He is still listed as ‘Missing, fervently hoped dead,’ so any unauthorized speculation might have dangerous consequences.”

“Okay,” murmured Lush, scribbling a note. “Anything else?”

“Any reference to the Crimean War and the Plasma Rifle,” said the colonel, “might be considered inappropriate. The peace talks at Budapest are still at a delicate stage; the Russians will make any excuse to leave the table. We know that your show is very popular in Moscow.”

“The Brontë Federation is not keen for you to say the new ending is improved,” put in the small and bespectacled Chesterman, “and talking about any of the characters you met within Jane Eyre might cause some viewers to suffer Xplkqul-kiccasia.”

The condition was unknown before my jump into Eyre. It was so serious that the Medical Council were compelled to make up an especially unpronounceable word to describe it.

Lush looked at them, looked at me and then looked at his script.