Landen nodded.
“I know how to check,” she said, and cut me a slice of Battenberg cake. “Here,” she said, and handed it over. “Your favorite.”
I took a large bite, and even though it had some paste inside that was almost indescribably nasty, I smiled politely and tried to eat it as quickly as I could.
“Very nice,” I managed to say.
“Hmm,” said Mrs. Next, “that doesn’t sound like her at all. Thursday hates marzipan.”
“Is that what it was?” I said, running to the sink to spit it out. I knew I didn’t like it, I just didn’t know what it was. I had thought Marzipan was the name of a boy band.
“Hmm,” said my mother, “this doesn’t really help. Hating it does make her Thursday, but pretending to like it to spare my feelings definitely does not make her Thursday.”
“It’s a tricky one,” agreed Landen.
They eyed me for a long time as they tried to figure out what to do and how best to tell if I was the real one or the written one. Nothing I could say would convince them of either alternative, and the only way to truly know—if I vanished at pumpkin hour—was a bit pointless, since by then I would no longer be around for them to answer any questions I might have, which was a bit like devising a 100 percent destructive test for counterfeit tenners.
The doorbell rang.
“That will be the first of your fan club,” said Landen, and he went off to answer it.
“So,” said Mrs. Next, “loopy, fictional or synthetic. Which would you prefer?”
“Loopy, I guess,” I said sadly.
“Me, too. But the shitstorm that will be unleashed when you get back is not something I’d like anyone to face. President van de Poste won’t be able to make his Anti-smite Shield without you and the secret plans, and as a key witness in the Stiltonista cheese-smuggling trial, you’ll need round-the-clock protection. And that’s before we get into the fun Goliath has in store for you.”
“She made a few enemies, right?”
“Only a few thousand. Start causing trouble amongst the criminal fraternity and no end of unfair retribution starts coming your way. Would you excuse me? I must avail myself of the facilities. The bad plumbing needs to meet the bad plumbing, so to speak.”
And she tottered off in the direction of the downstairs loo.
I sat there for a moment unsure of what to think or do. I called out to Square but to no avail, then heard a noise. I looked up and noticed that the broom-cupboard door was ajar. Looking at me through the crack were two bright eyes. The door opened a little farther, and a small girl aged about eight stepped out. She was like the spirits I had seen around the place—that is to say, mildly transparent. I could see the bottle of Brasso on the shelf directly behind her.
“You’re the last person I want to see,” I said as my heart fell.
“That’s not a very nice thing to say,” said the girl.
“Let me guess,” I said. “You’re the mindworm.”
“I prefer Jenny,” said Jenny indignantly. “Who are you?”
“If I can see you, I guess I’m the real Thursday—just insane. Still, at least this way I don’t have to worry about Carmine and the goblin anymore.”
“You’re not insane,” said Jenny, “and you’re not Thursday either.”
“I could be making you up,” I remarked, “and making up your denial, too.”
She shook her head.
“Creating figments like me takes a serious amount of effort, and you’re not that good.”
“Thanks. Insulted by someone’s else’s delusion.”
“Jenny.”
“Jenny, then. So how can I see you?”