‘Your father told me Lavoisier eradicated your husband.’

I halted my surreptitious creep towards the carving knives.

‘You know my father?’ I asked in some surprise.

‘I do so hate that term eradicated,’ she announced grimly, searching in vain amongst the tinned fruit for anything resembling alcohol. ‘It’s murder, Thursday—nothing less. They killed my husband, too—even if it did take three attempts.’

‘Who?’

‘Lavoisier and the French revisionists.’

She thumped her fist on the kitchen top as if to punctuate her anger and turned to face me.

‘You have memories of your husband, I suppose?’

‘Yes.’

‘Me too,’ she sighed. ‘I wish to heaven I hadn’t, but I have. Memories of things that might have happened. Knowledge of the loss. It’s the worst part of it.’

She opened another cupboard door revealing still more tinned fruit.

‘I understand your husband was barely two years old—mine was forty-seven. You might think that makes it better but it doesn’t. The petition for his divorce was granted and we were married the summer following Trafalgar. Nine years of glorious life as Lady Nelson—then I wake up one morning in Calais, a drunken, debt-ridden wretch and with the revelation that my one true love died a decade ago, shot by a sniper’s bullet on the quarter-deck of the Victory.’

‘I know who you are,’ I murmured, ‘you’re Emma Hamilton.’

‘I was Emma Hamilton,’ she replied sadly. ‘Now I’m a broke out-of-timer with a dismal reputation, no husband and a thirst the size of the Gobi.’

‘But you still have your daughter?’

‘Yes,’ she groaned, ‘but I never told her I was her mother.’

‘Try the end cupboard.’

She moved down the counter, rummaged some more and found a bottle of cooking sherry. She poured a generous helping into one of my mother’s teacups. I looked at the saddened woman and wondered if I’d end up the same way.

‘We’ll sort out Lavoisier eventually,’ muttered Lady Hamilton sadly, downing the cooking sherry. ‘You can be sure of that.’

‘We?’

She looked at me and poured another generous—even by my mother’s definition—cup of sherry.

‘Me—and your father, of course.’

I sighed. She obviously hadn’t heard the news.

‘That’s what I came to talk to my mother about.’

‘What did you come to talk to me about?’

It was my mother. She had just walked in wearing a quilted dressing gown and her hair sticking out in all directions. For someone usually so suspicious of Emma Hamilton, she seemed quite cordial and even wished her ‘Good morning’—although she swiftly removed the sherry from the counter and replaced it in the cupboard.

‘You early bird!’ she cooed. ‘Do you have time to take DH-82 to the vet’s this morning? His boil needs lancing again.’

‘I’m kind of busy, Mum.’

‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, sensing the seriousness in my voice. ‘Was that business at Vole Towers anything to do with you?’

‘Sort of. I came over to tell you—’

‘—Yes?’

‘That Dad has—Dad is—Dad was—’

Mum looked at me quizzically as my father, large as life, strode into the kitchen.

‘—is making me feel very confused.’

‘Hello, Sweetpea!’ said my father, looking considerably younger than the last time I saw him. ‘Have you been introduced to Lady Hamilton?’

‘We had a drink together,’ I said uncertainly. ‘But—You’re—you’re—alive!’

He stroked his chin and replied: ‘Should I be something else?’

I thought for a moment and furtively shook my cuff down to hide his chronograph on my wrist.

‘No—I mean, that is to say—’

But he had twigged me already.

‘—don’t tell me! I don’t want to know!’

He stood next to Mum and placed an arm round her waist. It was the first time I had seen them together for nearly seventeen years.

‘But—’

‘You mustn’t be so linear,’ said my father. ‘Although I try to visit only in your chronological order, sometimes it’s not possible.’

He paused.

‘Did I suffer much pain?’

‘No—none at all,’ I lied.

‘It’s funny,’ he said as he filled the kettle, ‘I can recall everything up until final curtain-minus-ten, but after that it’s all a bit fuzzy—I can vaguely see a rugged coastline and the sunset on a calm ocean, but other than that, nothing. I’ve seen and done a lot in my time, but my entry and exit will always remain a mystery. It’s better that way. Stops me getting cold feet and trying to change them.’

He spooned some coffee into the cafetiere. I was glad to see that I had only witnessed Dad’s death and not the end of his life—as the two, I learned, are barely related at all.

‘How are things, by the way?’ he asked.

‘Well,’ I began, unsure of where to start, ‘the world didn’t end yesterday.’

He looked at the low winter sun that was shining through the kitchen windows.

‘So I see. Good job too. An armageddon right now might have been awkward—have you had any breakfast?’

‘Awkward? Global destruction would be awkward?’

‘Decidedly so. Tiresome almost,’ replied my father thoughtfully. ‘The end of the world could really louse up my plans to get both your husbands back, and you wouldn’t like that, now, would you? Tell me, did you manage to get me a ticket to the Nolans’ concert last night?’

I thought quickly.

‘Er—no, Dad—sorry. They’d all sold out.’

There was another pause. Mum nudged her husband, who looked at her oddly. It looked as if she wanted him to say something.

‘Thursday,’ she began when it became obvious that Dad wasn’t going to take her cue, ‘your father and I think you should take some leave until our first grandchild is born. Somewhere safe. Somewhere other.’

‘Oh yes!’ added Dad with a start. ‘With Goliath, Aornis and Lavoisier after you, the herenow is not exactly the best place to be.’

‘I can look after myself.

‘I thought I could too,’ grumbled Lady Hamilton, gazing longingly at the cupboard where the cooking sherry was hidden.

‘I will get Landen back,’ I replied resolutely.

‘Perhaps now you might be physically up to it—but what happens in six months’ time? You need a break, Thursday, and you need to take it now. Of course, you must fight—but fight with a level playing field.’

‘Mum?’

‘It makes sense, darling.’

I rubbed my head and sat on one of the kitchen chairs. It did seem to be a good idea.

‘What have you in mind?’

Mum and Dad exchanged looks.

‘I could downstream you to the sixteenth century or something but good medical care would be hard to come by. Upstreaming is too risky—and besides, SO-12 would soon find you. No, if you’re going to go anywhere, it will have to be sideways.’

He came and sat down next to me.

‘Henshaw at SO-3 owes me a favour. Between the two of us we could slip you sideways into a world where Landen doesn’t drown aged two.’

‘You could?’ I replied, suddenly perking up.

‘Sure. But steady on. It’s not so simple. A lot will be… different.’

My euphoria was short lived. A prickle rose on my scalp.

‘How different?’

‘Very different. You won’t be in SO-27. In fact, there won’t be any SpecOps at all. The Second World War will finish in 1945 and the Crimean conflict won’t last much beyond 1854.’

‘I see. No Crimean war? Does that mean Anton will still be alive?’

‘It does.’

‘Then let’s do it, Dad.’

He laid a hand on mine and squeezed it.

‘There’s more. It’s your decision and you have to know precisely what is involved. Everything will be gone. All the work you’ve ever done, all the work you will do. There will be no dodos or Neanderthals, no Willspeak machines, no Gravitube—’

‘No Gravitube? How do people get around?’

‘In things called jetliners. Large passenger aircraft that can fly seven miles high at three-quarters of the speed of sound—some even faster.’