The Woman Who Died a Lot (Thursday Next 7)

“A breeze?”

Landen and I both quimped—our word for limping quickly— to the hall, expecting to see the front door open, but it was securely bolted.

“Who were you shouting at?” asked Tuesday, popping her head out from the library.

“Were we shouting?”

“Sure—sort of like telling someone to get the effing hell out of the house.”

Landen and I looked at one another.

“It wasn’t us.” I said.

“It sounded like you.”

“Intruder!” said Tuesday, and she ran past us and up the hallway to the converted butler’s pantry that was now our security nerve center. By the time we’d caught up, she had finished a sweep of the perimeter and was now running a systems diagnostic.

“Nothing has crossed the boundary,” she said, checking all the monitors. “Last exit point was Granddad.”

“What’s going on?” said Friday, walking in from the stables.

“Not sure. Been out on your motorbike?”

“Why do you say that?”

“You smell of hot exhaust.”

“I do?” he said, sniffing at his clothes. “No, I’ve been in the garage.”

“Then why do you have grass stuck to your trousers?” asked Tuesday.

Friday looked at his knees—which did indeed have blades of grass and mud stuck to them.

We all stared at one another stupidly. A mild sense of occasional confusion was not unusual, especially recently. Every now and then, a small tremor of uncertainty spread around the household like a rash.

“I think we all need to take a breather,” announced Landen. “We can’t be jumping like idiots every time a mouse farts. We’re all safe and—”

He stopped in midspeech as a worried expression crossed his face. I sighed inwardly. He’d be mentioning Jenny next.

“I need to check that Jenny is okay.”

“I’ll go,” I told him, and took the stairs to the first floor. I didn’t go to the room that we pretended was Jenny’s in order to spare Landen the torment of Aornis’ mindworm, but instead to the Wingco’s.

I knocked quietly, as I could hear him talking, and when he bade me enter, I walked in.

There was no one in the room except the Wingco and two empty chairs facing him. I knew who would be in one but wasn’t sure of the other. I nodded in the direction of the second empty chair.

“It’s a blue monkey named Mr. Snuffles,” explained the Wingco, “an Imaginary Childhood Friend I’m interviewing. His owner has been given two weeks to live, and we’re trying to figure out a way to communicate once Mr. Snuffles moves into the Dark Reading Matter. Is there a problem?”

“Nothing. I said I’d peek in for Landen and see if Jenny was all right.”

The Wingco looked momentarily confused. “For Landen?”

“Yes.”

There was an odd pause, I felt a draft on the side of my face, and the clock, which had been striking when I walked in, now read five past the hour.

“Ah, yes,” said the Wingco, “tell Landen Jenny is fine.”