The Woman Who Died a Lot

“I thought you might ask,” said Conrad, checking his notepad. “If we assume a hundred-million-pound budget without Colonel Wexler and the SLS, 322 pounds equates to about one minute and forty-two seconds. If we cut everything to the bone and buy only seven books next year, we might stretch that same 322 pounds to last eight minutes and nine seconds.”

“What about if we lose the Michelin-starred chef?”

He checked his notes. “Eight minutes and twelve seconds.”

“So let me get this straight,” I said. “Come Monday morning there won’t be any libraries open in Wessex at all?”

“Not a single one,” said Mrs. Fairweather, “but don’t take it personally. To make this even more idiotic, you’ll receive a final salary pension after less than a week’s work, and a hefty bonus for surpassing your own stupidity target.”

There was silence in the room. I asked if there was anything I could do about this and was told there wasn’t. It was a done deal, probably agreed well before any of us had entered the room, and with Goliath’s connivance.

“Okay,” I said slowly, “any other business?”

Astonishingly, there wasn’t.

“Then I call this meeting adjourned.”

Everyone got up and left. Phoebe and Braxton apologized to me and said that they didn’t like it either, but it was out of their hands. Conrad Spoons shrugged at me across the table and said he was off to the job center and would be back in an hour if there was nothing suitable available.

“I’ll be here Monday,” said Duffy, “and every day you need me until I collapse from starvation.”

“Me, too,” added Geraldine, “although I’ll probably last longer than Mr. Duffy, as I’m carrying a little extra weight at the moment.”

I gathered them closer so the others couldn’t hear.

“I appreciate the loyalty, guys. Does the library have anything to sell? Spare books or Finisterre’s tiltrotor or a private airship or something?”

“The books are owned by the nation,” said Duffy, “but we’ll have a look at everything else. What are you thinking of? A garage sale?”

“Pretty much. For breathing space. See what you can find.”

They told me they would and filed out, leaving only myself and Jack Schitt in the room.

“Well,” I said, “did that meet all your expectations?”

“Surpassed them, old girl,” he said. “I wonder what the press will make of your generous pension and bonus.”

“This is all your doing, isn’t it?”

“Of course! Do you think for one moment I would pass up on an opportunity to cause trouble for you?”

“Protocol 451 really has been canceled, hasn’t it?”

“Most definitely. Call this partial payback for the trouble you’ve caused us over the years. I hate to kick an old dog when it’s down, but we knew you’d have blunted teeth one day. I’m just glad I lived long enough to see it.”

“I’m glad to see you’ve lost none of your charm, Jack. But these teeth aren’t as blunt as you think.”

“Look at you,” he sneered, “a shambling wreck, sent out to grass as a librarian. Believe me, my girl, you are well and truly blunted.”

I stared at him, my anger rising. Not because of his taunts but because he was probably right.

“Now,” he continued, “I want you to take me downstairs to see your friend Finisterre. I need to look at some St. Zvlkx books, and as chief librarian you have access to the vaults.”

I felt my heart sink. “You’re another Day Player, aren’t you?”

“I could have ducked the shoe,” he said with a smile, “but I purposefully chose not to in the quarter of a second it took to leave your hand and arrive at my head. I love being a better me. So strong, so smart, so perfect. Do you know the cube root of seventeen?”

“It must have slipped my mind.”

“I do. It’s 2.57128159. Do you want the next seventy-two decimal places?”

But I had more important things on my mind.

“Why did you have Judith Trask killed?” I asked. “She was innocent of everything.”

“To show your youthful protégée that lying to a Top One Hundred is not to be tolerated and that actions have consequences. Phoebe Smalls has trouble stamped all over her. Now, take me downstairs to the vaults.”

“I’ll not help you, Jack.”

“I think you will. If you don’t, I will pick you up and throw you through that window.”

He indicated the glass panel that led to a five-story drop onto the main lending floor.

“You’d land somewhere between the books of Helen Fielding and that author with the beard whose name I can never remember.”

“I have problems with his name, too. Think you can get out of the building without being seen?”

“Already taken care of, girl. Look there.”

He pointed at a figure dressed in identical clothes walking toward the exit. The figure stopped for a moment and looked up. It was Jack Schitt—or a copy, at any rate.

“The real you?”