'Shall … shall I pour you a cup?' she asked, a flush rising to her cheeks.

'Thank you!' exclaimed Mr Phillips, walking excitedly to the window and back again. 'Milk and—'

'—one sugar.' His secretary smiled shyly. 'Yes, yes … I know.'

'But of course you do!' He smiled back.

Then the next stage of this odd charade took place. The auctioneer and secretary moved to the place where their two worn paths were closest, the very outer limits that their existence allowed them. Miss Pittman held the cup by its rim, placed her toes right on the edge where carpet began and shiny floorboard ended, stretching out as far as she could. Mr Phillips did the same on his side of the divide. The tips of his fingers could just touch the rim of the cup but try as he might he could not reach far enough to grasp it.

'Allow me,' I said, unable to watch the cruel spectacle any longer. I passed the cup from one to the other.

How many cups of tea had gone cold in the past thirty-five years? I wondered. How uncrossable the six foot of carpet that divided them! Whoever Event Managed this book down in the Well was possessed of a cruel sense of humour.

Miss Pittman curtsied politely and departed while the auctioneer watched her go. He sat down at his desk, eyeing the teacup thirstily. He licked his lips and rubbed his fingertips in expectation, then took a sip and savoured the moment lovingly.

'Oh my goodness!' he said deliriously. 'Even better than I thought it would be!'

He took another sip and closed his eyes with the sheer delight of it.

'Where were we?' he asked.

I took a deep breath.

'I want you to buy Johnny's father's pigs with an offer that purports to come from an unknown buyer – and as close to the top of page two hundred and thirty-two as you can.'

'Utterly impossible!' said the auctioneer. 'You are asking me to change the narrative! I will have to see higher authority.'

I passed him my Jurisfiction ID card. It wasn't like me to pull rank, but I was getting desperate.

'I'm on official business sanctioned by the Council of Genres itself through Text Grand Central.' It was how I thought Miss Havisham might do it.

'You forget that we are out of print pending modernisation,' he replied shortly, tossing my ID back across the table. 'You have no mandatory powers here, Apprentice Next. I think Jurisfiction will look very carefully before attempting a change on a book without internal approval. You can tell the Bellman that, from me.'

We stared at each other, a diplomatic impasse having arrived. I had an idea and asked him:

'How long have you been an auctioneer in this book?'

'Thirty-six years.'

'And how many cups of tea have you had in that time?' I asked him.

'Including this one?'

I nodded.

'One.'

I leaned forward.