'Yes, I imagine she would be,' said Moist thoughtfully. 'And I expect Miss Dearheart gave you said book?'
'Yes. It Is Entitled Why Men Get Under Your Feet By Releventia Flout,' said Gladys earnestly.
And we start out with the best of intentions, thought Moist: find 'em out, dig 'em up, make 'em free. But we don't know what we're doing, or what we're doing it to.
'Gladys, the thing about books... well, the thing... I mean, just because it's written down, you don't have to... that is to say, it doesn't mean it's... what I'm getting at is that every book is - '
He stopped. They believe in words. Words give them life. I can't tell her that we just throw them around like jugglers, we change their meaning to suit ourselves...
He patted Gladys on the shoulder. 'Well, read them all and make up your own mind, eh?'
'That Was Very Nearly Inappropriate Touching, Mr Lipwig.'
Moist started to laugh, and stopped at the sight of her grave expression.
'Er, only for Ms Flout, I expect,' he said, and went to grab a Times before they were all stolen.
It must have been another bittersweet day for the editor. After all, there can only be one front page. In the end he'd stuffed in everything: the 'I do believe it is pineapple' line, plus picture, with the dripping Lavishes in the background, and, oh yes, here was Pucci's speech, in detail. It was wonderful. And she'd gone on and on. It was all perfectly clear from her point of view: she was right and everyone was silly. She was so in love with her own voice that the watchmen had to write down their official caution on a piece of paper and hold it up in front of her before they towed her away, still talking...
And someone had got a picture of Cosmo's ring catching the sunlight. It was near perfect surgery, they said down at the hospital, and had probably saved his life, they said, and how had Moist known what to do, they said, when the entirety of Moist's relevant medical knowledge was that a finger shouldn't have green mushrooms growing on it -
The paper was twitched out of his hands.
'What have you done with Professor Flead?' Adora Belle demanded. 'I know you've done something! Don't lie.'
'I haven't done anything!' Moist protested, and checked the wording. Yes, technically true.
'I've been to the Department of Post-Mortem Communications, you know!'
'And what did they say?'
'I don't know! There was a squid blocking the door! But you've done something, I know it! He told you the secret of getting through to the golems, didn't he?'
'No.' Absolutely true. Adora Belle hesitated.
'He didn't?'
'No. I got some extra vocabulary, but that's no secret.'
'Will it work for me?'
'No.' Currently true.
'They'd only take orders from a man? I bet that's it!'
'I don't think so.' True enough.
'So there is a secret?'
'It's not really a secret. Flead told us. He just didn't know it was a secret.' True.
'It's a word?'
'No.' True.
'Look, why won't you tell me? You know you can trust me!'
'Well, yes. Of course. But can I trust you if someone holds a knife to your throat?'