“Bradshaw, Bradshaw,” sighed Miss Havisham, shaking her head sadly. “If he flogs one more inciting incident from Bradshaw Defies the Kaiser, it will have so many holes we could use it as a colander.”

“He needed the money to buy a dress for Mrs. Bradshaw,” I explained.

“Have you met her yet?”

“Not yet.”

“When you do, don’t stare, will you? It’s very rude.”

“Why would I—”

“Come along! Almost time for roll call!”

The ballroom of Norland Park had long since been used for nothing but Jurisfiction business. The floor space was covered with tables and filing cabinets, and the many desks were piled high with files tied up with ribbon. There was a table to one side with food upon it, and waiting for us—or the Bellman, at least—were the staff at Jurisfiction. About thirty operatives were on the active list, and since up to ten of them were busy on assignment and five or so active in their own books, there were never more than fifteen people in the office at any one time. Vernham Deane gave me a cheery wave as we entered. He was the resident cad and philanderer in a Daphne Farquitt novel entitled The Squire of High Potternews, but you would never know to talk to him—he had always been polite and courteous to me. Next to him was Harris Tweed, who had intervened back at the Slaughtered Lamb only the day before.

“Miss Havisham!” he exclaimed, walking over and handing us both a plain envelope. “I’ve got your bounty for those grammasites you killed; I split it equally, yes?”

He winked at me, then left before Havisham could say anything.

“Thursday!” said Akrid Snell, who had approached from another quarter. “Sorry to dash off like that yesterday—hello, Miss Havisham—I heard you got swarmed by a few grammasites; no one’s ever shot six Verbisoids at one go before!”

“Piece of cake,” I replied. “And, Akrid, I’ve still got that, er, thing you bought.”

“Thing? What thing?”

“You remember,” I urged, knowing that trying to influence his own narrative was strictly forbidden, “the thing. In a bag. You know.”

“Oh! Ah . . . ah, yes,” he said, finally realizing what I was talking about. “The thing thing. I’ll pick it up after work, yes?”

“Snell insider-trading again?” asked Havisham quietly as soon as he had left.

“I’m afraid so.”

“I’d do the same if my book was as bad as his.”

I looked around to see who else had turned up. Sir John Falstaff was there, as was King Pellinore, Deane, Lady Cavendish, Mrs. Tiggy-winkle with Emperor Zhark in attendance, Gully Foyle, and Perkins.

“Who are they?” I asked Havisham, pointing to two agents I didn’t recognize.

“The one on the left holding the pumpkin is Ichabod Crane. Beatrice is the other. A bit loud for my liking, but good at her job.”

I thanked her and looked around for the Red Queen, whose open hostility to Havisham was Jurisfiction’s least-well-kept secret; she was nowhere to be seen.