'Perhaps you don't know it but the three witches have to log all their prophecies. They don't like to do it, but they have to – no paperwork, no licence to read chicken entrails. Simple as that.'

He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket.

'The day after you arrived they filed a report for a prophecy given to one "Thursday Next". It says: "Prophecy one: You shall be a citizen of Swindon. Prophecy two: You shall be a full member of Jurisfiction. Prophecy three: Thou shalt be Bellman thereafter" '

He placed the paper on the table and slid it across to me.

'Do you deny this?'

'No,' I said glumly.

'We call it Macbeth’s syndrome,' said the Bellman sadly. 'An insane desire to fulfil your own prophecies. It's nearly always fatal. Sadly, not only for the sufferer. Were you going to kill me or could you have waited long enough for me to resign?'

'I'm not a Macbeth sufferer, Mr Bellman, and even if I am, shouldn't even the smallest error in UltraWord™ be looked at?'

'There aren't any errors,' put in Tweed. 'UltraWord™ is the finest piece of technology we have ever devised – foolproof, stable and totally without error. Tell me the problem – I'm sure there is a satisfactory explanation.'

I stopped. I knew the Bellman was still an honest man. Should I tell him about the thrice read problem and risk Tweed covering his tracks even more? On reflection, probably not. The more I dug, the more would be found against me. I needed breathing space – I needed to escape.

'What's to become of me?'

'Permanent expulsion from the BookWorld,' replied Tweed. 'We don't have enough evidence to convict but we do have enough to have you banned from fiction for ever. There is no appeals procedure. I only have to ratify it with the Bellman.'

'Well,' said the Bellman, tingling his bell sadly, 'I must concur with Tweed's recommendation. Search her for any BookWorld accessories before we send her back.'

'You're making a mistake, Mr Bellman,' I said angrily, 'a very—'

'Oooh!' said Heep, who had been rummaging in my pockets and trying to feel my breasts again. 'Look what I've found!'

It was the Suddenly a Shot Rang Out plot device Snell had given me at the Slaughtered Lamb

'A plot device, Miss Next?' said Tweed, taking the small glass globe from Heep. 'Do you have any paperwork for this?'

'No. It's evidence. I just forgot to sign it in.'

'Carriage of all Narrative Turning Devices is strictly illegal. Are you a dealer? Who's your source? Peddle this sort of garbage in teenage fiction?'

'Blow it out of your arse, Tweed.'

'What did you say?'

'You heard me.'

He went crimson and might have hit me, but all I wanted was for him to move close enough for me to kick him – or his hand, at least.