After the party was over, I walked back through the slowly stirring Well of Lost Plots to the shelf that held Caversham Heights and read myself back inside, tired but happy. The Bellman’s job would, I hoped, keep me busy, but purely in administration—I wouldn’t have to go jumping around in books—just the thing to allow my ankles to swell in peace and quiet, and to plan my return to the Outland when the infant Next and its mother were strong enough. Together we would face the tribulations of Landen’s return, because the little one would have a father, I had promised it that much already. I opened the door to the Sunderland and felt the old flying boat rock slightly as I entered. When I’d first come here, it had unnerved me, but now I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Small wavelets slapped against the hull, and somewhere an owl hooted as it returned to roost. It felt as much like home as home had ever done. I kicked off my shoes and flopped on the sofa next to Gran, who had fallen asleep over a sock she was knitting. It was already a good twelve feet long because, she said, she had “yet to build up enough courage to turn the heel.”

I closed my eyes for a moment and fell fast asleep without the nagging fear of Aornis, and it was nearly ten the next morning when I awoke. But I didn’t wake naturally—Pickwick was tugging at the corner of my dress.

“Not now, Pickers,” I mumbled sleepily, trying to turn over and nearly impaling myself on a knitting needle. She carried on tugging until I sat up, rubbed the sleep from my eyes and stretched noisily. She seemed insistent so I followed her upstairs to my bedroom. Sitting on the bed and surrounded by broken eggshell was something that I could only describe as a ball of fluff with two eyes and a beak.

“Plock-plock,” said Pickwick.

“You’re right,” I told her, “she’s very beautiful. Congratulations.”

The small dodo blinked at us both, opened its beak wide and said, in a shrill voice, “Plunk!”

Pickwick started and looked at me anxiously.

“Well!” I told her. “A rebellious teenager already?”

Pickwick nudged the chick with her beak and it plunked indignantly before settling down.

I thought for a moment and said, “You aren’t going to feed her doing that disgusting regurgitation seabird thing are you?”

The door burst open downstairs.

“Thursday!” yelled Randolph anxiously. “Are you in here?”

“I’m here,” I shouted, leaving Pickwick with her offspring and coming downstairs to find a highly agitated Randolph, pacing up and down the living room.

“What’s up?”

“It’s Lola.”

“Some unsuitable young man again? Really, Randolph, you’ve got to learn not to be so jealous—”