“I so want to be her,” I sniffed as my eyes blurred with tears. “But I’m not.”
Before I knew it, I had discovered what crying actually means when you do it for real. He gave me his handkerchief and hugged me, and I responded by wrapping my arms around his neck. It felt wonderful. Natural—like two parts in a jigsaw. When I had calmed down, he gently took my hands from around him and held them in his, gazing into my eyes.
“Here’s the thing,” he said at last. “If you’re not the real Thursday, we must come clean to the kids and explain that you’re not. I can’t have them being disappointed again. But if you are the real Thursday, you must stay so we can look after you. It’s possible that you just think you’re not Thursday. All that stuff about the BookWorld—it could be Aornis up to her tricks again.”
“Aornis, sister of Acheron?”
He raised an eyebrow. “How many children do Thursday and I have?” he asked.
“Two.”
“That’s in your favor as the written Thursday. Aornis gave the real Thursday a mindworm so she thought she had a third child—another daughter—and Thursday was always worrying about her. We helped her by pretending there was, and occasionally, in lucid moments, she would realize what was going on. Then she’d forget and was worrying about her missing daughter again.”
I tried to imagine what it might be like having a child who was a figment but could not. If Aornis was anything like the written Acheron, she was pretty unpleasant. Still, I was kind of glad I didn’t know about the extra daughter. I had an idea.
“T minus pumpkin in ten hours,” I said, consulting my watch. “If you see me vanish in front of your eyes will you believe I’m from the BookWorld?”
“Yes,” he said, “I’ll believe you. But if you don’t vanish, will you believe that you might be Thursday except . . . well, nuts?”
“I could be the missing Goliath synthetic Thursday,” I said, “with a well-researched cover story.”
Landen smiled. “Being married to you has never been boring.”
I was pondering over the consequences of being either mad or synthetic when Thursday’s mother arrived.
“Thursday!” she squealed, having let herself in. “You naughty girl! Where have you been?”
The real version of my mother was quite different from the written one. The real one was a lot older—at least seventy, by my guess, but didn’t seem to have lost any of her youthful vigor. She was a little gray, a little hunched and a little odd.
“Here for long?” she asked.
“Only until midnight,” I managed to mutter.
“Shame!” she said, then turned to Landen. “Is this one of the synthetics?”
“The jury’s still out.”
Mrs. Next walked up close and peered at me through her spectacles, as one might regard a stubborn stain on the carpet.
“It’s very lifelike. Does she have the scars?”
Landen nodded.
“I know how to check,” she said, and cut me a slice of Battenberg cake. “Here,” she said, and handed it over. “Your favorite.”
I took a large bite, and even though it had some paste inside that was almost indescribably nasty, I smiled politely and tried to eat it as quickly as I could.
“Very nice,” I managed to say.
“Hmm,” said Mrs. Next, “that doesn’t sound like her at all. Thursday hates marzipan.”
“Is that what it was?” I said, running to the sink to spit it out. I knew I didn’t like it, I just didn’t know what it was. I had thought Marzipan was the name of a boy band.
“Hmm,” said my mother, “this doesn’t really help. Hating it does make her Thursday, but pretending to like it to spare my feelings definitely does not make her Thursday.”
“It’s a tricky one,” agreed Landen.
They eyed me for a long time as they tried to figure out what to do and how best to tell if I was the real one or the written one. Nothing I could say would convince them of either alternative, and the only way to truly know—if I vanished at pumpkin hour—was a bit pointless, since by then I would no longer be around for them to answer any questions I might have, which was a bit like devising a 100 percent destructive test for counterfeit tenners.
The doorbell rang.
“That will be the first of your fan club,” said Landen, and he went off to answer it.
“So,” said Mrs. Next, “loopy, fictional or synthetic. Which would you prefer?”
“Loopy, I guess,” I said sadly.
“Me, too. But the shitstorm that will be unleashed when you get back is not something I’d like anyone to face. President van de Poste won’t be able to make his Anti-smite Shield without you and the secret plans, and as a key witness in the Stiltonista cheese-smuggling trial, you’ll need round-the-clock protection. And that’s before we get into the fun Goliath has in store for you.”
“She made a few enemies, right?”
“Only a few thousand. Start causing trouble amongst the criminal fraternity and no end of unfair retribution starts coming your way. Would you excuse me? I must avail myself of the facilities. The bad plumbing needs to meet the bad plumbing, so to speak.”
And she tottered off in the direction of the downstairs loo.
I sat there for a moment unsure of what to think or do. I called out to Square but to no avail, then heard a noise. I looked up and noticed that the broom-cupboard door was ajar. Looking at me through the crack were two bright eyes. The door opened a little farther, and a small girl aged about eight stepped out. She was like the spirits I had seen around the place—that is to say, mildly transparent. I could see the bottle of Brasso on the shelf directly behind her.
“You’re the last person I want to see,” I said as my heart fell.
“That’s not a very nice thing to say,” said the girl.
“Let me guess,” I said. “You’re the mindworm.”
“I prefer Jenny,” said Jenny indignantly. “Who are you?”
“If I can see you, I guess I’m the real Thursday—just insane. Still, at least this way I don’t have to worry about Carmine and the goblin anymore.”
“You’re not insane,” said Jenny, “and you’re not Thursday either.”
“I could be making you up,” I remarked, “and making up your denial, too.”
She shook her head.
“Creating figments like me takes a serious amount of effort, and you’re not that good.”
“Thanks. Insulted by someone’s else’s delusion.”
“Jenny.”
“Jenny, then. So how can I see you?”
“You’re not seeing just me, are you?”
“No,” I said, “there are others. Lots of them.”
“Then you see what I mean. What does Landen think you are?”
I shrugged. “The real Thursday mad, I think.”
“Don’t upset him,” said Jenny. “Thursday wouldn’t like it.”
“Thursday could be dead.”
“I know for a fact that she isn’t.”
“How?”
But at that moment Landen came pacing down the corridor, and Jenny jumped back into the broom cupboard.
“That was your old buddy Lydia Startright, wanting to get an exclusive before the network vans turn up. I told her you weren’t here and I had no idea where you were.”
“Did she believe you?”
“She’s an excellent journalist—of course not.”
We sat in silence for some moments. I didn’t think I would tell him I’d just seen Jenny, but the seeds of doubt had been sown. I could be the real Thursday. And even though the ramifications of being someone suffering bizarre delusions were not good news, the possibility that I would be with the man I loved was some consolation.
“Ask me some questions,” I said finally. “I want to convince myself I’m not her.”
“What’s my middle name?” he asked.
“Is it . . . Whitby?”
“Not even close. Where was our first date?”
“At the Alhambra. The Richard III thing.”
“No, that was later. Where did I lose my leg?”