Page 109 of The Woman Who Died a Lot (Thursday Next 7)

“Bullshit. She’s been crying outside the door to be let in for the past ten minutes, and you’ve been telling her to piss off for as long.”

“Is she talking now?”

“No.”

“How long since she stopped?”

“Ten seconds. What’s the problem?”

“Look at your hand, Tuesday.”

She did, and there was “Jenny is a mindworm” written in her own handwriting.

“Now look at the minutes Friday has been jotting down.”

She did, and there was nothing about Jenny listed at all. She sat back in her chair, thoroughly confused.

I beckoned everyone closer and lowered my voice.

“The reason you can’t hear her now is that she’s only in your memory. Jenny’s not outside—Aornis is.”

“But what this tells us,” said Landen, “is that her power through a closed door is limited to the person with the mindworm. If she could get to us all at once, we would have opened the door by now, Friday’s minutes would have been destroyed and all of this forgotten.”

“Right,” said Friday, “and ten seconds must be about the limit of her manipulative horizon.”

We heard the boards creak outside, and we exchanged nervous glances.

“Aornis?” I called out, my voice sounding less confident than I might have wished. “We know what you’re up to.”

“You have no idea what I’m up to,” came a familiar voice from just outside the door. It was Aornis. “You’ve figured me out sixteen times already in the two years I’ve been living here, but I always win. Whoever controls the past controls the present, Thursday. Screwed the doors shut, eh? Good move. The last time you locked the doors, but the keys are all missing now, aren’t they?”

“We’ll defeat you,” I called out.

“From inside a locked room? No. I’ll get to you all eventually. Pretty soon you’ll all start remembering the holiday on Rùm, the one where Tuesday rescued Jenny from drowning. The only reason you’ve noticed my presence this

time is that I’ve been moving the worm around before cementing it permanently in all of you. After that, my power over the whole family will be complete, and we can enter a new, joyous era of me as your unpaying guest and you all as my compliant servants.”

“Not this time, Aornis,” I said.

“I’m getting memories of Jenny,” said Landen, “small and giggly and on that holiday.”

“Me, too,” said Friday, logging the occurrence on the sheet of paper in front of him. I, too, was getting them, now—not just holiday memories but old ones, of a painful birth. It seemed real, though I knew it wasn’t—but it would doubtless become so.

“I’m getting the birth now,” said Landen. “You?”

I nodded, and a phone started ringing. It wasn’t our phone, it was a cell phone somewhere, and I glanced at the clock—it was eight o’clock precisely.

“Not mine,” said Friday, patting his pockets.

“Yours,” said Landen, and I searched through the pockets of my jacket where it was hanging on the back of the door. I found nothing, but the ringing was definitely from there, so I searched the jacket until I found it—a vibrating lump sewn into the lining.

I slit the lining open, and a phone dropped out. I quickly pressed the answer button and put the instrument to my ear.

“Hello, Thursday,” came a voice I didn’t recognize. “Do you know who is speaking right now?”

“Not a clue.”

“She’s more powerful than I imagined,” said the voice. “We’ve spoken six times in the past week. I’m the Cleaning Lady. Does that ring a bell?”

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