The Woman Who Died a Lot (Thursday Next 7)

“No, I’m your husband now. And you’re meant to have only three, changed every two days. Doctor’s orders.”

“Damn the doctor.”

Landen sighed. “I can run you down to Lola Vavoom Memorial,” he said. “You can argue with them instead. They’ll say the same—only with medical authority.”

“Never mind,” I muttered.

He glared at me. “There’s no point in grumping at everything and everyone, Thursday.”

I shot him an angry look. “Oh, and you weren’t grumpy when you lost your leg?”

“Yes, I was grumpy. Very grumpy. In fact, I was probably the biggest pain in the arse imaginable. But I had someone to tell me when I was being too grumpy for my own good.”

“That’s completely different.”

“No, it’s completely the same. You told me not be an arse then, and I’m telling you not to be an arse now.”

I took a deep breath and gave him a hug so my mouth was close to his ear.

“You were grumpier,” I whispered, and he laughed and threatened to tickle me, so I had to promise I’d be good. I hate being tickled.

“You two are so disgustingly fond of one another,” said Millon the Hermit as he shambled in the back door. “

You should try arguing once in a while. Good for marriages, apparently.

"Holy cow, Thursday, what happened to you?”

“An argument with a trapdoor. How’s your hermit exam revision going?”

He narrowed his eyes and waved his hands randomly in the air. “It is adrift on the sea of time, lost in the endless wastes of human vanity.”

Landen and I looked at one another and nodded.

“Not bad,” I said.

“Thank you. Want to hear what I found out about Krantz?”

Millon did indeed have some news. Jacob Krantz had worked for seventeen years on the Book Project—Goliath’s attempt to enter the BookWorld.

“Krantz was one of three scientists who had contributed significantly to the transfictional drive on the Austen Rover Transfictional Tour Bus,” said Millon. “He was professor of theoretical particle English at St. Broccoli’s in Oxford, so knew how to merge physics and literature. Loved both, they said.”

“And then what?”

“He was moved to the Synthetic Human Division. As soon as Synthetics were officially given banned chimera status, he was reassigned—but to where, I’m still trying to discover.”

“Why is he in Swindon with a stack of Thursday Next lookalikes?”

“He isn’t. He never left. He was found at home in Goliathopolis on Sunday morning—dead.”

“Murder?”

“Natural causes, it seems. A brain aneurysm. He was sixtyeight.”

“Well,” I said, “there was someone or something that looked a lot like him in the Finis Hotel this morning.”

“I’m not disputing that.”

We all fell silent. I tried to figure it out, but my brain felt fluffy, so I thanked Millon and invited him to stay for supper, which he said would be a great improvement on the breadless gruel sandwich he had planned. We made some tea, and he and Landen chatted about the conspiracy network. Not so much about the imminent smiting but more long-term stuff like HR-6984’s