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The waitress bobbed politely, ignored his manner entirely and said, “If you killed me, Your Imperial Mightiness, I wouldn’t have any descendants, now would I?”
“Yes, well, obviously I meant the ones yet living, girl.”
“Oh!” she said. “Just so we’re clear on the matter,” and with a cute bob she was gone.
“I keep on having trouble with that waitress,” muttered Zhark after she had departed. “Do you think she was…mocking me?”
“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle, hiding a smile, “I think she was terrified of you.”
“Has anyone thought of redirecting the Sherlock Holmes throughput feeds from the Outland?” I asked. “With a well-positioned Textual Sieve, we could bounce the series to a Storycode Engine at TGC and rewrite the ending with the Holmes and Watson from The Seven-Per-Cent Solution. It will hold things together long enough to give us time to effect a permanent answer.”
“But where exactly to put the sieve?” inquired Zhark, not unreasonably.
“What exactly is a Textual Sieve?” asked Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle.
“It’s never fully explained,” I replied.
The waitress returned with the sugar.
“Thank you,” said Zhark kindly. “I have decided to…spare your family.”
“Your Highness is overly generous,” replied the waitress, humoring him. “Perhaps you could just torture one of us—my younger brother, for instance?”
“No, my mind is made up. You’re to be spared. Now begone or I will—Oh, no. You don’t trick me that way. Begone or I will never torture your family.”
The waitress bobbed again, thanked him and was gone.
“Perky, that one, isn’t she?” said Zhark, staring after her. “Do you think I should make her my wife?”
“You’re considering getting married?” asked Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle, almost scorching a collar in her surprise.
“I think it’s high time that I did,” he said. “Slaughtering peaceful civilizations on a whim is a lot more fun when you’ve got someone to do it with.”
“Does your mother know about this?” I asked, fully aware of the power that the Dowager Empress Zharkina IV wielded in his books. Emperor Zhark might have been the embodiment of terror across innumerable star systems, but he lived with his mum—and if the rumors were correct, she still insisted on bathing him.
“Well, she doesn’t know yet,” he replied defensively. “But I’m big enough to make my own decisions, you know.”
Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and I exchanged knowing looks. Nothing happened in the imperial palace without the empress’s agreement.
Zhark chewed for a moment, winced and then swallowed with a look of utter disgust on his face. He turned to Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle.
“I think you’ve got my pie.”
“Have I?” she replied offhandedly. “Now you come to mention it, I thought these slugs tasted sort of funny.”
They swapped pies and continued eating.
“Ms. Next?”
I looked up. A confident middle-aged woman was standing next to the table. She had starburst wrinkles around the eyes and graying brown hair, a chicken-pox scar above her left brow, and asymmetric dimples. She was a well-realized character but I didn’t recognize her—at least not at first.
“Can I help?” I asked.
“I’m looking for the Jurisfiction agent named Thursday Next.”
“That’s me.”
Our visitor seemed relieved at this and allowed herself a smile. “Pleased to meet you. My name’s Dr. Temperance Brennan.”
