I’M HOME!” I yelled as I walked through the door. Pickwick plocked happily up to me, realized I didn’t have any marshmallows and then left in a huff, only to return with the gift of a piece of paper she had found in the wastepaper basket. I thanked her profusely and she went back to her egg.

“Hello,” said ibb, who had been experimenting, Beeton-like, in the kitchen. “What’s in the bag?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Hmm,” replied ibb thoughtfully, “since I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know, your response must be another way of saying, ‘I’m not going to tell you, so sod off.’ Is that correct?”

“More or less,” I replied, placing the bag in the broom cupboard. “Is Gran around?”

“I don’t think so.”

obb walked in a little later, reading a textbook entitled Personalities for Beginners.

“Hello, Thursday,” it said. “A hedgehog and a tortoise came round to see you this afternoon.”

“What did they want?”

“They didn’t say.”

“And Gran?”

“In the Outland. She said not to wait up for her. You look very tired; are you okay?”

It was true, I was tired, but I wasn’t sure why. Stress? It’s not every day that you have to fight swarms of grammasites and deal with Havisham’s driving, Yahoos, Thraals, Big Martin’s friends or head-in-a-bag plot devices. Maybe it was just the baby playing silly buggers with my hormones.

“What’s for supper?” I asked, slumping in a chair and closing my eyes.

“I’ve been experimenting with alternative recipes,” said ibb, “so we’re having Apples Benedict.”

“Apples Benedict?”

“Yes; it’s like Eggs Benedict but with—”

“I get the picture. Anything else?”

“Of course. You could try Turnips à l’Orange or Macaroni Custard; for pudding I’ve made Anchovy Trifle and Herring Fool. What will you have?”

“Beans on toast.”

I sighed. It was like being back home at mother’s.

I didn’t dream that night. Landen was absent, but then so, too, was . . . was . . . what’s-her-name. I slept soundly and missed the alarm. I woke up feeling terrible and just lay flat on my back, breathing deeply and trying to push away the clouds of nausea. There was a rap at the door.

“ibb!” I yelled. “Can you get that?”

My head throbbed but there was no answer. I glanced at the clock; it was nearly nine and both of them would be out at St. Tabularasa’s practicing whimsical asides or something. I hauled myself out of bed, steadied myself for a moment, wrapped myself in a dressing gown and went downstairs. No one was there when I opened the door. I was just closing it when a small voice said:

“We’re down here.”

It was a hedgehog and a tortoise. But the hedgehog wasn’t like Mrs. Tiggy-winkle, who was as tall as me; this hedgehog and tortoise were just the size they should have been.

“Thursday Next?” said the hedgehog.

“Yes. What can I do for you?”