We told him it would be okay but to mind his mouth, and Tuesday told us that she and “Gav” could probably sort out the Uc problem by morning. We gave them money for a cab, and they trotted off excitedly, Tuesday hanging on to Gavin’s hand and telling him how he would eventually meet her sister, Jenny.

“She’s really funny, you’ll like her.”

“Is she an . . . elder sister? The sort that takes a bath quite often and who never locks the door?”

“Not at all,” she said, giving him a thump. “She’s my younger sister.”

“Blast.”

“If he carries on as he is,” said Landen under his breath, “I may have to kill him myself.”

“Don’t even think about it. The world needs Gavin—or his intellect anyhow—and Tuesday seems to be fond of him in an unfathomable sort of way. Besides, if they can figure out how to make the shield work, Joffy in the cathedral and the felons up at Wroughton don’t get fried, Swindon gets to keep the hundred million pounds from Smite Solutions, and the library gets some funding. Best of all, I don’t have to transport a righteous man around all tomorrow morning. You know how tiresome those can be.”

“You’re right,” he said. “Children first.”

We stood there in silence for a while, contemplating the unusual turn of events and the mixed feelings they engendered. We were glad that Tuesday had a boyfriend, just disappointed it had to be Gavin.

“What now?” asked Landen.

“I need to get back to the office. Duffy and Spoons will be organizing a garage sale to try to fund the library service.”

Landen said he would drop me there on his way home. I could use my official car to get home, or call a taxi.

“We can drop into Image Ink on the way,” he added.

“Okay—but let’s not forget this time.”

34. Thursday: Evening

34.

Thursday: Evening

John de Hepburn’s Eleanor of Aquitaine tell-all of 1209, Bonkeing Kinges for Pleasure and Profite, was the first true celebrity bio. Despite receiving rave reviews and a massive two-figure advance for a sequel, the book did not find favor with King John, Eleanor’s son, and de Hepburn was found dead the following winter, having apparently “Atempted to swim, with dire foolishness, the river Cherwell while disporting himself chained to an anvile.”

James Finisterre, Genres in Classical Literature