The Woman Who Died a Lot

Finisterre and I stared at each other as an unseemly fight developed in front of us, our assailant being finally subdued by two additional nuns, both of whom I suspected might actually be men. The gun was wrested from her hands, and she was sat upon while she struggled, howled and screamed the sorts of obscenities that would embarrass a docker.

“I’m sorry about that,” said one of the other nuns, who had a cut lip and a wimple now dented and askew, “but we all joined the order for different reasons, and . . . well, some of us have a lot of repressed anger.”

“Against me?” I asked.

“I’m afraid so. Daisy always swore to kill you the next time you met—that was why she has closeted herself here. To protect herself and you from her rage.”

“Should we take this up with the mother superior?”

“Daisy is the mother superior. We’ll have to wait until she calms down. By the way, we all think Joffy is remarkable even if he is a man.”

“No one’s perfect.”

“Right. And we thank him for pointing out the error of our veneration. We all felt a bit silly to begin with, but when our mistake was plainly spelled out, we were more than happy to change four centuries of loyal tradition.”

“Perhaps I should leave?” I said. “And let Finisterre speak to Mother Daisy on his own?”

“No, no, no,” replied the nun, “she’ll be fine. She just has to compose herself. Forgiveness, companionship, self-control and not reading in the toilet are but four of the ninety-seven simple rules we live our lives by.”

Mother Daisy was indeed calming down, and after another five minutes the others thought it safe to stop sitting on her and she got to her feet, covered in grass clippings and a bit bruised. She smoothed her habit, took a deep breath and approached us both.

“Welcome to the Sisterhood of the Lobsterhood Salisbury Plain Chapter,” she said in a sedate and measured manner. “My Name is Mother Daisy. I do apologize for the attempted murder. It is not how we usually welcome distinguished guests. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”

“Of course,” I said, suddenly realizing who she was and why she’d tried to kill me, “think no more of it. May I present Head of Antiquities James Finisterre of the Swindon All-You-Can-Eatat-Fatso’s Drink Not Included Library?”

She shook his hand. “Welcome, Mr. Finisterre. Your expertise and reputation precede you. Just one question: Why did you have to . . . bring that lying man-stealer with you?!?”

She had screamed the last line and in an instant had her hands around my throat. We toppled over backward, and I felt myself fall unconscious, but in an instant I was gasping for air as the two nuns who looked suspiciously male had dragged her from me.

“Shit,” I said, sitting up.

“Are you okay?” asked Finisterre.

“Annoyed,” I said, giving him my hand so he could heave me to my feet.

“Yes, I should imagine being attacked by a nun might be annoying.”

“It’s not that,” I said, coughing and rubbing my throat. “It’s just that even six months ago I would have been fast and aggressive enough to have her on her back before she’d even grabbed me. And earlier?”

“Yes?”

I tapped the center of my forehead. “I’d have planted one right here before she got to fire the second shot.”

“I’m very glad you didn’t,” said Finisterre with a shudder. “It might have put a damper on getting access to their library.”

“She could have killed us both.”

“Life is short, art is long, Thursday. You and I are passing through history; the contents of this library is history.” He thought for a moment. “You came to a convent tooled up?”

“I’m always tooled up.”

“I’m so sorry about that,” said Mother Daisy, who seemed once again to have recovered her composure. “My only companion from the outside world during nineteen years of isolation has been my personal hatred of Thursday Next. It’s kind of like the old me suddenly taking over, and I promised myself that this was how I would act if I ever saw you.”

“I have the same thing, but with Tom Stoppard,” I said.

“You’d kill Tom Stoppard?”

“Not at all. I promised myself many years ago that I would throw myself at his feet and scream ‘I’m not worthy!’ if I ever met him, so now if we’re ever at the same party or something, I have to be at pains to avoid him. It would be undignified, you see—for him and for me.”

“I can see that,” said Mother Daisy, “and since I demonstrably can’t control myself, I have allocated Sister Henrietta as your bodyguard.”

One of the more masculine nuns bobbed politely and took up station beside me.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Don’t mention it,” replied Sister Henrietta in a deep voice.

“I’m impressed that the Sisterhood has embraced inclusivity regarding its adherents,” I said as we walked toward the main doors.

“What do you mean?” asked Mother Daisy.

“That you now count men among the Sisterhood.”

She stopped and looked around suspiciously. “You think there might be men present in our sanctuary?”