The Woman Who Died a Lot: A Thursday Next Novel by Jasper Fforde Page B

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