The Woman Who Died a Lot

“News from the hospital: Gavin in Liddington lost his leg above the knee. The bullet did too much damage as it passed through for him to keep it.”

“Poor bastard,” said Landen. “Do I have to start this foundation for people with missing limbs? I’ve never really had a problem losing mine.”

“Yes,” I said sarcastically, “you never complained. Not once. One-legged Gavin will run it when he’s well enough. His Letter of Destiny says so.”

“I’m glad someone found a function out of this fiasco.”

“Friday will find his,” I said, laying my hand on Landen’s. “He’ll just not be able to start looking for another two years.”

“I have the oddest feeling he might already have done so,” said Landen. “Something about all those Letters of Destiny just doesn’t ring true. If your could send your younger self a message revealing you how it would all turn out, would you?”

“Not in a million years.”

“No,” said Landen, “neither would I. But I have an idea that the shadowy potential future Friday might still have some surprises in store for us—kind of looking after his younger self, y’know?”

“I hope you’re right.”

The Skyrail car sped over the M4 as it headed toward Aldbourne and home.

I took a deep breath.

“Landen?”

“Yes?”

“Would you be really annoyed if I did some . . . exploration in my spare time?”

“What, like in Tierra del Fuego? Someone said there might be an undiscovered continent somewhere around the theoretical South Pole.”

“No, somewhere further, deeper—into things lost and forgotten.”

“You want to take the last Day Player into the Dark Reading Matter, don’t you?”

“The DRM is in trouble. God only knows what Goliath is up to in there—and besides, I need to get Pickwick back.”

The absence of our pet dodo had confused us until Tuesday’s Encephalovision started to send back images of giant marshmallows and more scenes from The Dukes of Hazzard, interspersed with the best pictures we’d so far seen of the Dark Reading Matter. Pickwick went across the night before the shooting. The Wingco put forward the theory that an Imaginary Childhood Friend might have moved across about that time and taken Pickwick with her.

We questioned the Wingco closely, as he seemed to know something we didn’t, but if he knew anything, he wasn’t being very forthcoming.

“The DRM is the new frontier,” I said now. “When you’re talking human imagination, there are really no limits. I’ll take the last Day Player and be back in twenty-four hours.”

“Well,” he said, “you’ll probably need a flashlight and a length of rope—but I won’t bother with a packed lunch.”

We sat in silence for a while until the Skyrail car passed Aldbourne’s church, and the yew tree with the warm sunny spot beneath it, and a memorial stone.

“Do you ever think of Jenny?” I asked, staring out the window.

“All the time.”

“Me, too.”

Acknowledgments

I am indebted once again to Penguin and Hodder for taking (once more) late delivery of manuscript with good humor. Carolyn Mays and the team at Hodder, and Josh Kendall at Penguin, whose company and assistance I have greatly enjoyed over what turned out to be an all-too-short association.

The illustrations in the book were drawn once again by Dylan Meconis and Bill Mudron, of Portland, Oregon, whose work gets better and better each year, and whose ability to work to brief in a short time is nothing short of remarkable. More of their work can be found at their respective Web sites: www.billmudron.com and www.dylanmeconis.com. They welcome commissions.

Back to the illustrating team after a short absence are Maggy and Stuart Roberts, and my thanks to them for designing some of the postcards. Maggy’s work can be viewed at www.thepaintednet.com.

New to the illustrating team is Phillip Colling-Blackman, who drew “Beacons” and “Smite” at the back of the book and another illustration that will be one of the giveaway postcards. His work can be seen at www.biro-art.com, and he too will take commissions.

My thanks also to John Wooten as Nextian science adviser, who told me that the Madeupion and “Unentanglement field theory” were closer than I realized, but that Ninjas probably won’t help science much, although they are fun.

Finally, my thanks go to Claire and Will and Rebecca and Kirsty and Tim and Jessie at Janklow’s; my dear and extraordinarily understanding wife, Mari; our two daughters; Jordan for being a cracking big brother to them both; and Maggy and Stuart for all around support—especially for taking care of the family when I had to work through our holidays. Oops.

I’d also like to thank the Van Allen belts for protecting us from the harmful solar wind, and the earth for being just the right distance from the sun to be conducive to life, and for the ability of water atoms to clump so efficiently, for pretty much the same reason. Finally, I’d like to thank every single one of my forebears for surviving long enough in this hostile world to procreate. Without any one of you, this book would not have been possible.