The Woman Who Died a Lot

11. Monday: Evening

We had coffee in the living room. Tuesday went off to jot down an idea she’d had for a device to make yourself aware when sleeping so you’d enjoy it more, and Friday just wandered off. Joffy, Landen, Miles and I talked for a while until Joffy’s assistant called at the door to say that it was time for him to leave. He had to take the Gravitube to Dubai for a meeting in the morning.

“It was good to see you,” I said, giving him a hug. “And you,” he replied. “My time is not my own these days. I’ll be back in Swindon for the smiting on Friday. If there’s anything you can do to help Tuesday find a way to make the anti-smite tower operational, I’d be grateful.”

I hugged Miles, too, and they were soon gone, the five-car motorcade vanishing off into the darkness.

“I wouldn’t have Joffy’s job for anything,” said Landen as we watched them go. “Trying to demand the question of existence from an all-knowing omniscient supreme being takes negotiating to a whole new level.”

Once the outer gates had shut, the WingCo went to check on security arrangements. There was a high perimeter fence all the way around the house, with razor wire and proximity alarms linked to searchlights and sound cannon, and aside from the odd false alarm, the whole arrangement seemed to function quite well. Once the Wingco had checked that all was well, I walked through the quiet house and found Landen in the office, where he was trying to stay ahead of the paperwork generated by Tuesday’s many patent-licensing deals. We had a business manager and a team of lawyers, but Landen liked to read through most things so he knew what was going on.

“ Hispano-Fiat is interested in bringing Tuesday’s microkinetic battery system to market in under six years,” said Landen.

“I’m not surprised. Has she agreed to it?”

“With the usual nonmilitary rider. Do you want some chocolate? I’ve got a bar hidden at the back of the fridge.”

He didn’t need to ask twice. “I’ll go,” I said.

I got up and went though to the kitchen, where the fridge door had been open, something that Friday tended to do these days. I also noticed that he had made himself a sandwich and left it half eaten on the kitchen table. I put it in a Tupperware box, found the bar of chocolate and walked back to the living room.

“Did Joffy tell you what the ‘alternative plan’ to the Anti-Smite Shield was?” I asked.

“He only mentioned there was one—no details. Who were you talking to?”

“No one.”

“And why do you have a cut above your eye?”

I touched my hand to my eyebrow and regarded the blood on my fingertips with confusion. “I don’t know.”

He looked at me for a moment, then put the papers down and went into the kitchen. I heard him say something to somebody, and then I heard a crash as some pots and pans fell to the floor, so I shuffled through to join him. I found him staring into the cupboard where we kept the tins. He turned around and looked at me, mildly confused.

“What did I come in here for?” he asked.

“You thought you heard me talking to someone.”

He looked around. “I did?”

“Yes. But then I heard you talking to someone.”

The door swung shut, and it made us both jump.

“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.”

He nodded toward one of the empty chairs. Jenny, as a figment of Landen’s imagination, was technically the same as an Imaginary Childhood Friend. And that being so, the Wingco was able to see her. He described her as “amusing and charming, but with a streak of melancholy.” It made the whole “Jenny is not real” issue a mite confusing, but if you considered that the only person who could see her wasn’t real either, it helped.

I thanked the Wingco and left him to Mr. Snuffles.

Aornis’ ability to alter memories was tiresome, and the mindworm she had given Landen gave me especial reason to despise her. Still, at least after looking at the security images at TJ-Maxx, we had something to work on. We’d find Aornis, no matter where she was hiding. And, being a mnemonomorph, she could be hiding just about anywhere.