“Good to have you on board. Twelve hours in the RealWorld isn’t long, but enough to at least get an idea of what’s happened to her. I could send you out for longer, but Thursday has many enemies in the RealWorld, and they’ll be onto you pretty quick. If you die in the RealWorld, you die for real, and I’m not having that on my conscience. Shall we say tomorrow morning? Oh, and officially speaking, I was never here.”
“You were never here.”
“Good show. Appreciate a girl who knows she wasn’t somewhere. Oh, and thank your man for the Chicago Fizz, will you? But next time a little less gherkin. Cheerio.”
And without another word, he opened the outside door, a motorcycle drew alongside the train, Bradshaw hopped onto the pillion and was gone.
“Might I inquire of madam what that was all about?” asked Sprockett, who returned with a very ill-looking clown.
“A little too much gherkin in the Chicago Fizz.”
“He came all the way over here just to tell you that?”
“No—I’m going to the RealWorld to look for Thursday so we can get her to the peace talks on Friday.”
“In that case,” said Sprockett, “I’ d better lay out your things. Will madam be staying long?”
“Twelve hours.”
“I’ll pack you a toothbrush, a scrunchie and some clean socks.”
“I’ d be grateful.”
I spent the rest of the journey fretting about my trip to reality. It was only a twelve-hour trip—barely a flash in and out—but that wasn’t important. What was important was that I would meet Landen in person, and although the notion of that filled me with a tingly sensation of anticipation, his rejection of me when he found out I wasn’t his wife would be . . . well, not pleasant—for him and for me. I almost thought of not going. Bradshaw couldn’t exactly punish me for not doing something he hadn’t told me to do. But then there was the possibility that I might help to find Thursday, and that filled me with the same sense of purpose I’d felt when I lied to Lockheed and Captain Phantastic. I sighed inwardly. Life was easier when I was just a character in a book, going from Preface to Acknowledgments without a care in the world. Within another twenty minutes, the train steamed into Gaiman Junction, and we took the bus home.
“You’re back,” said Pickwick, who liked to open any conversation by pointing out the obvious.
“Yes indeed,” I replied. “What’s the news?”
“My water dish is empty.”
“That’s because you just trod in it.”
Pickwick looked at her foot. “I have a wet foot . . . and my water dish is empty.”
“Anything else?”
“I saw Carmine with that goblin again. Sitting in the niche d’amour at the bottom of the garden, they were.”
“As long as she doesn’t invite him over the threshold again, I’m not bothered.”
“You should be. Goblins. Nasty. Full of diseases.”
“That’s Carmine’s problem. I told you, I’m not bothered.”
Actually, I was. I had tried to give Carmine a dressing-down for her poor choice in men, but she’d just stared at me and retorted that yes, Horace might be a thief, but at least he hadn’t set fire to a busload of nuns.
“Any news of Whitby?” I asked.
“Being questioned in custardy,” replied Mrs. Malaprop, who had walked in with a clipboard full of reports that all needed my signature. “His pasta is catching up with him. How were things at Jurisfiction?”
I didn’t tell them what had happened as it was safer that way.
“Captain Phantastic mentioned you owed him a date,” I said to Pickwick.
“The Captain?” she said with a fond smile. “I’m amazed he remembers—it was a long time ago. We were both young and foolish, and I’d do anything for a dare. Ah, Frederic—so many cats, so little recipes.”
“Few recipes.”