The Woman Who Died a Lot (Thursday Next 7)

“The DRM is in trouble. God only knows what Goliath is up to in there—and besides, I need to get Pickwick back.”

The absence of our pet dodo had confused us until Tuesday’s Encephalovision started to send back images of giant marshmallows and more scenes from The Dukes of Hazzard, interspersed with the best pictures we’d so far seen of the Dark Reading Matter. Pickwick went across the night before the shooting. The Wingco put forward the theory that an Imaginary Childhood Friend might have moved across about that time and taken Pickwick with her.

We questioned the Wingco closely, as he seemed to know something we didn’t, but if he knew anything, he wasn’t being very forthcoming.

“The DRM is the new frontier,” I said now. “When you’re talking human imagination, there are really no limits. I’ll take the last Day Player and be back in twenty-four hours.”

“Well,” he said, “you’ll probably need a flashlight and a length of rope—but I won’t bother with a packed lunch.”

We sat in silence for a while until the Skyrail car passed Aldbourne’s church, and the yew tree with the warm sunny spot beneath it, and a memorial stone.

“Do you ever think of Jenny?” I asked, staring out the window.

“All the time.”

“Me, too.”