The Eyre Affair (Thursday Next, #1)

by Jasper Fforde

MY FATHER had a face that could stop a clock. I don’t mean that he was ugly or anything; it was a phrase the ChronoGuard used to describe someone who had the power to reduce time to an ultraslow trickle.

It was enough for everyone. A clamor started up as the Mutlar family beat a hasty retreat. The vicar offered an unheard-of prayer to no one in particular as Landen took a much needed seat on the pew that the Mutlar family had just vacated. Someone yelled “gold digger!” from the back, and the Mutlar family quickened their pace at the abuse that followed, much of which shouldn’t have been heard in church. One of the pages tried to kiss a bridesmaid in the confusion and was slapped for his trouble. I leaned against the cool stone of the church and wiped the tears from my eyes. I know it was wrong of me, but I was laughing. Briggs stepped through the arguing guests and joined us, tipping his hat respectfully.

“No, indeed,” I replied. “I confess I came here to interrupt the wedding but my nerve failed me.” He looked at me. “Why?” “Why? Well, because . . . because I thought I’d make a better Mrs. Parke-Laine than Daisy, I suppose.” “I know that,” exclaimed Landen, “and agree wholeheartedly. What I wanted to know is why your nerve failed you. After all, you chase after master criminals, indulge in high-risk SpecOps work, will quite happily go against orders to rescue comrades under an intense artillery barrage, yet—” “I get the point. I don’t know. Maybe those sorts of yes-or-no life-and-death decisions are easier to make because they are so black and white. I can cope with them because it’s easier. Human emotions, well . . . they’re just a fathomless collection of grays and I don’t do so well on the midtones.” “Midtones is where I’ve lived for the past ten years, Thursday.”

“Have a look at page twenty-six,” said Bowden. “There’s something funny going on in ‘The Raven.’ ” Victor opened the book and scanned the page. He read the first verse out loud: Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, o’er a plan to venge myself upon that cursed Thursday Next— This Eyre affair, so surprising, gives my soul such loath despising, Here I plot my temper rising, rising from my jail of text. “Get me out!” I said, advising, “Pluck me from this jail of text— or I swear I’ll wring your neck!”