One of Our Thursdays Is Missing (Thursday Next 6)

“Move forward six yards.”

The viewpoint moved forward to a front door that was very familiar to me. I had a similar front door in my own book, but my version didn’t have peeling paint or the random fine crackle that natural weathering brings. I sensed my heart beat faster.

“Go inside.”

The viewpoint drifted through the door, where the hall was less familiar. Thursday and Landen’s real house was only ever described briefly to the ghostwriter who wrote my series, so the interior was different. I jumped as someone moved past the mirror. It was a young girl aged no more than twelve, and she looked very serious for her years. This would have been Thursday and Landen’s daughter, Tuesday, as brilliant as Uncle Mycroft but in the “confusing petulant” state of pubescence. Nothing was right and everything was wrong. If it wasn’t problems over the revectoring of electrogravitational field theory, it was her brother, Friday, whom she regarded as a total loser and layabout.

“Advance two yards.”

The viewpoint moved forward to the hall table. I could see that Thursday was not in, as her bag, keys, cell phone and battered leather jacket were absent. It didn’t say she was missing; only that she wasn’t at home right now.

“Advance six yards, rotate left twenty degrees.”

The viewpoint moved into the kitchen, where a man was sitting at the table attempting to help Tuesday with her GSD uni-Scripture homework. He was graying at the temples and had a kindly face that was very familiar. This was Landen Parke-Laine, Thursday’s husband. I blinked as my eyes moistened. They were talking, and he laughed. I couldn’t hear him, but imagined as best I could how he might have sounded. Sort of like . . . music.

“One-twenty degrees to the right, pull out a yard.”

The mirror did as I asked so I could see the family scene. I didn’t have this. None of this. No husband, no children. Despite the real Thursday’s wishes that Landen would be included in the series after I took over, he wasn’t—and neither were any of the children. Thursday was overridden by a senator named Jobsworth over at the Council of Genres. So they reverted to the previous plan and had Landen continue to die in a house fire in the first chapter of The Eyre Affair, a clumsy attempt to give purpose to the written Thursday’s fictitious crime fighting. The plot device might have been clunky, but the loss had been exceptionally well written; I felt it every minute of every day. Being fictional is a double-edged sword. You get to savor the really good times over and over, but the same is true of the bad. For every defeat of the Goliath Corporation, there is the loss of Miss Havisham, and for every moment in Mycroft’s company there is a day in the Crimea. The delight at returning Jane Eyre to her book and thwarting Acheron is forever tempered by the inevitable loss of Landen, again and again forever.

So I stood there, staring at what should have been mine. I wanted to be with the children I should have been allowed to have and to spend my life expending time and energy in the glorious hope that I would one day become parentally redundant. In my bleaker moments, Pickwick and Mrs. Malaprop attempted to console me by explaining I had loss only to give relevance to what drove my character through the narrative, but it was meager consolation. I should have had a written Landen and written children to keep me company.

I watched Landen for several more minutes. Every movement, every nuance. I watched how he spoke to Tuesday with humor and infinite patience. I watched how he scratched his ear, how he laughed, how he smiled.

Friday joined them. My would-be son was a fine fellow—handsome like his father. Perhaps a bit rudderless at that age, but thought and function would eventually arrive in the fullness of time. I wanted to give him some guidance, but he had his mother for that. The real me. The real her. Besides, the mirror saw only in one direction. They had no idea that I was there, no idea that I felt as I did. I watched for a few more minutes, until Landen got up and walked to the sink, drew himself a glass of water and stared out the window.

“Pull out into the garden three yards, right ninety degrees.”

My viewpoint drifted through the kitchen wall, and after a brief glimpse of central-heating pipes and a bored-looking mouse, I was now outside looking at Landen, who was just on the other side of the window. Although he couldn’t see me, we were staring into each other’s eyes.

“Whitby has asked me out to the Bar Humbug,” I whispered. “I wanted you to know that I’m going.”

Landen couldn’t hear me, but I knew I had to tell him. It was by way of apology. I blinked away tears but then frowned. Landen was blinking away tears, too. Something had happened. Thursday wasn’t here, but for how long? An argument? Had she died in the Outland? I looked at the children, who were busy with homework. They seemed unconcerned.

Whatever it was, it was a burden shouldered by Landen alone.

“When did you last see Thursday?” I whispered.

Landen took a deep breath, wiped his eyes and returned to the children. I put out my hand to touch the mirror, but it simply rippled, like water in a pool.

“Left thirty degrees, three yards forward.”

The mirror complied, and I found myself close enough to the memo board above the telephone to read the notes. I peered amongst the receipts, pictures and old theater tickets before finding what I was looking for. A telephone message in Thursday’s hand telling Landen that his sister wanted to talk to him. It was dated seven days ago. If Thursday was missing, it was for the maximum of a week.

“Did you see what you wanted?”

I jumped. The Lady of Shalott had returned and was standing just behind me.

“I think so,” I replied hastily. “It was the . . . ah . . . state of her memo board I was looking at. You know what they say: ‘A view into a woman’s ephemera is a window to her soul.’”

“Do they say that?” asked the Lady of Shalott doubtfully.

“Frequently.”

I made ready to leave. The visits to Shalott were as frequent as I could make them without arousing suspicion, the views they offered all too fleeting. I wanted to know where Thursday was, sure, but I had to see Landen and the kids, too. Had to.

I thanked her, and she walked me to the door. But this wasn’t a favor, and she and I both knew it. I wasn’t allowed to be in Poetry without just cause, and I certainly wasn’t allowed to sneak-peek the Outland. She handed me a wooden box.

“You will look after them, won’t you?”