obb walked in a little later, reading a textbook entitled Personalities for Beginners.
'Hello, Thursday,' it said, 'a hedgehog and a tortoise came round to see you this afternoon.'
'What did they want?'
'They didn't say.'
'And Gran?'
'In the Outland. She said not to wait up for her. You look very tired; are you okay?'
It was true, I was tired, but I wasn't sure why. Stress? It's not every day that you have to fight swarms of grammasites and deal with Havisham's driving, Yahoos, Thraals, Big Martin's friends or head-in-a-bag plot devices. Maybe it was just the baby playing silly buggers with my hormones.
'What's for supper?' I asked, slumping into a chair and closing my eyes.
'I've been experimenting with alternative recipes,' said ibb, 'so we're having apples Benedict.'
'Apples Benedict?'
'Yes; it's like eggs Benedict but with—'
'I get the picture. Anything else?'
'Of course. You could try turnips à l’orange or macaroni custard; for pudding I've made anchovy trifle and herring fool. What will you have?'
'Beans on toast.'
I sighed. It was like being back home at Mother's.
I didn't dream that night. Landen was absent, but then so too was … was … what's-her-name. I slept soundly and missed the alarm. I woke up feeling terrible and just lay flat on my back, breathing deeply and trying to push away the clouds of nausea. There was a rap at the door.
'ibb!' I yelled. 'Can you get that?'
My head throbbed but there was no answer. I glanced at the clock; it was nearly nine and both of them would be out at St Tabularasa's practising whimsical asides or something. I hauled myself out of bed, steadied myself for a moment, wrapped myself in a dressing gown and went downstairs. There was no one there when I opened the door. I was just closing it when a small voice said:
'We're down here.'
It was a hedgehog and a tortoise. But the hedgehog wasn't like Mrs Tiggy-winkle, who was as tall as me; this hedgehog and tortoise were just the size they should have been.
'Thursday Next?' said the hedgehog.
'Yes,' I replied, 'what can I do for you?'
'You can stop poking your nose in where it's not wanted,' said the hedgehog haughtily, 'that's what you can do.'
'I don't understand.'
'Painted Jaguar?' suggested the tortoise. 'Can't curl, can swim. Ring any bells, Smart Alec?'
'Oh!' I said. 'You must be Stickly-prickly and Slow-and-Solid.'
'The same. And that little mnemonic you so kindly gave to the Painted Jaguar is going to cause us a few problems – the dopey feline will never forget that in a month of Sundays.'
I sighed. Living in the BookWorld was a great deal more complicated than I had imagined.
'Well, why don't you learn to swim or something?'
'Who, me?' said Stickly-prickly. 'Don't be absurd; whoever heard of a hedgehog swimming?'