“Hmm,” I said, “it’s kind of a stretch—and besides, you can’t kill him for something he won’t even think about doing for another thirty-six years, no matter how unpleasant he is.”

“There’s something in what you say.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “The Manchild told you that ‘the other fourteen will thank you’?”

“Yes?”

“But it’s not fourteen, is it? With Gavin dead and you not thanking yourself, only thirteen could thank you. The Manchild sent the letters, so he must have known how many there were, and that means—”

“There were sixteen letters sent, not fifteen,” said Friday.

“Right,” I replied. “There’s someone else Destiny Aware in Swindon, and whoever its has decided not to come forward. Don’t kill anyone or anything until you find out who it is.”

“Hang on,” he said, “I’m just writing myself a note. Don’t . . . kill . . . anyone. Got it.”

He told me he was going to see the Manchild again, and I told him to be very careful, adding that if he insisted on going to the timepark, he should take one of Landen’s homemade cheddars and get the Manchild to age it for a year.

I returned to the boardroom and sat down.

“My apologies,” I said, “teenage sons and their problems. Tsk! What are we to do? Why are you all staring at me?”

“You better tell her,” said Phoebe to Conrad Spoons.

“Why me?” said Conrad.

“Because you’re our accountant?” I said.

He stood up, took a deep breath, and began. “The city council has reallocated to SO-27 more than Miss Smalls asked for,” said Conrad. “Funding has been reduced across the board and includes—but is not limited to—a cut on new books, staffing, maintenance, research and staff perks.”

“We could always lose the Michelin-starred chef, I suppose,” I said. “What are the numbers?”

“Hang on,” said Spoons, going through his hastily written calculations. “Okay, here it is: This year’s Wessex Library budget was for 156 million pounds, all of which goes to SO-27. The Wessex Library operating budget for next year will be . . . 321 pounds and .67 p.”

I stared at him for a moment. “That must be a mistake.”

Spoons looked at the figures again. “Sorry,” he said, “you’re right. It’s 322 pounds and 67 p.”

It wasn’t quite the level of mistake I was hoping for. At this rate I’d have to ask a hundred million times to make a difference, and I didn’t think that was going to happen. I looked around the table. Jack Schitt had a supercilious half grin on his face, and Braxton and Phoebe were looking elsewhere. Colonel Wexler was unconcerned, since her budget had not been affected in any way. Mrs. Fairweather was the only one returning my stare.

“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “You can’t stop all funding. That’s just . . . well, insane.”