‘The usual. To bring down the gods, take over the Worlds, get bloody satisfaction. In fact, I’ve rarely met a woman whose tastes and ambitions were closer to mine – except perhaps for you, my dear.’

‘Quite the philanthropist, in fact,’ said Angie.

‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far,’ I said. ‘But Heidi’s been very good to me.’

‘And she’s given you no cause to believe she might not be telling you everything?’

‘Well, no,’ I said. ‘In fact, her general lack of guile and dishonesty may be the only flaw I can find in an otherwise perfect package.’

Angie sniffed. ‘What about your wife?’

‘My wife? What about her?’

Good question, I thought. In fact, it was the first time in months that I’d remembered Sigyn. I know it sounds bad. But I never pretended to be the ideal husband, or anything. Besides, when you’re King of the Worlds, facing Last Times and surrounded by adoring lackeys and loose women, you tend to have more on your mind than flannelette nighties and fruitcake. But now Angie came to mention it, I realized that I’d never asked just what had become of my loving spouse when I’d been rescued from World Below, or indeed why she hadn’t tried to pursue me into Ironwood with promises of apple pie.

‘Because they bumped her,’ Angie said, answering the question.

‘What?’

‘Obviously, your little friend didn’t want her reporting home. Quicker and far more efficient to simply get her out of the way.’ She looked at me. ‘Are you all right? You’re suddenly looking kind of sick.’

‘I’m just fine,’ I told her.

And I was – it was simply that it had come as a surprise. The thought that Sigyn was really dead – sweet, harmless Sigyn; undoubtedly mad, with her passion for furry animals and her almost infinite capacity for baby-talk – was, like her fruitcake, almost impossible to digest. And the knowledge that Heidi had ordered her death without as much as a second thought, or even a word to Yours Truly . . .

‘Are you sure you’re fine?’ Angie said. ‘For a minute there I thought perhaps you were feeling responsible.’

I shook my head, which at that moment didn’t feel entirely clear.

It was absurd, I told myself. After all, we were planning the End of the Worlds; Ragnarók; the Twilight of the Popular Crowd. What did I think would happen when Asgard fell? That all the survivors would kiss and make up over tea and little sandwiches? Of course the gods were going to die. If I was lucky, I might not be among them. But to succumb to sentiment at such a time as this was wholly inappropriate. And as for feeling responsible . . .

‘You can’t make a fruitcake without breaking eggs. I mean – you can’t make an omelette.’

‘What?’ Angie said.