'Yes.' I smiled. 'And my fingernails, too.'

'Really?' Mary reflected. 'I've heard rumours about that but I thought it was just one of those Outlandish legends. I suppose you have to eat, too? To stay alive, I mean, not just when the story calls for it?'

'One of the great pleasures of life,' I assured her.

I didn't think I'd tell her about the real-world downsides such as tooth decay, incontinence or old age. Mary lived in a three-year window and neither aged, died, married, had children, got sick nor changed in any way. Although appearing resolute and strong minded she was only like this because she was written that way. For all her qualities, Mary was simply a foil to Jack Spratt, the detective in Caversham Heights, the loyal sergeant figure to whom Jack explained things so the readers knew what was going on. She was what writers called an expositional, but I'd never be as impolite as to say so to her face.

'Is this where I'm going to live?'

I was pointing at the shabby flying boat.

'I know what you're thinking.' Mary smiled proudly. 'Isn't she just the most beautiful thing ever? She's a Sunderland; built in 1943 but last flew in '68. I'm midway through converting her to a houseboat, but don't feel shy if you want to help out. Just keep the bilges pumped out, and if you can run the number-three engine once a month I'd be very grateful — the start-up checklist is on the flight deck.'

'Well — okay,' I muttered.

'Good. I've left a précis of the story taped to the fridge and a rough idea of what you have to say, but don't worry about being word perfect; since we're not published you can say almost anything you want — within reason, of course.'

'Of course.'

I thought for a moment.

'I'm new to the Character Exchange Programme,' I said. 'When will I be called to do something?'

'Wyatt is the inbook exchange liaison officer; he'll let you know. Jack might seem gruff to begin with,' continued Mary, 'but he has a heart of gold. If he asks you to drive his Allegro, make sure you depress the clutch fully before changing gear. He takes his coffee black and the love interest between myself and DC Baker is strictly unrequited, is that clear?'

'Very clear,' I returned, thankful I would not have to do any love scenes.

'Good. Did they supply you with all the necessary paperwork, IDs, that sort of thing?'

I patted my pocket and she handed me a scrap of paper and a bunch of keys.

'Good. This is my footnoterphone number in case of emergencies, these are the keys to the flying boat and my BMW. If a loser named Arnold calls, tell him I hope he rots in hell. Any questions?'

'I don't think so.'

She smiled.

'Then we're done. You'll like it here. I'll see you in about a year. So long!'

She gave a cheery wave and walked off up the dusty track. I watched until she was out of sight then sat upon a rickety wooden seat next to a long-dead tub of flowers. I let Pickwick out of her bag. She ruffled her feathers indignantly and blinked in the sunlight. I looked across the lake at the sailing dinghies, which were little more than brightly coloured triangles that tacked backwards and forwards in the distance. Nearer to shore a pair of swans beat their wings furiously and pedalled the water in an attempt to take off, landing almost as soon as they were airborne, and throwing up a long streak of spray on the calm waters. It seemed a lot of effort to go a few hundred yards.

I turned my attention to the flying boat. The layers of paint that covered and protected the riveted hull had partly peeled off, to reveal the colourful livery of long-forgotten airlines. The perspex windows had clouded with age, and high in the massive wing untidy cables hung lazily from the oil-stained cowlings of the three empty engine bays, their safe inaccessibility now a haven for nesting birds. Goliath, Aornis and SpecOps seemed a million miles away — but then, so did Landen. Landen. Memories of my husband were never far away. I thought of all the times we had spent together that hadn't actually happened. All the places we hadn't visited, all the things we hadn't done. He may have been eradicated at the age of two, but I still had our memories — just no one to share them with.

I was interrupted in my thoughts by the sound of a motorcycle approaching. The rider didn't have much control of the vehicle; I was glad that he stopped short of the jetty — his erratic riding may well have led him straight into the lake.

'Hello!' he said cheerfully, removing his helmet to reveal a youngish man with a dark Mediterranean complexion and deep sunken eyes. 'My name's Arnold. I haven't seen you around here before, have I?'

I got up and shook his hand.

'The name's Next. Thursday Next. Character Exchange Programme.'

'Oh, blast!' he muttered. 'Blast and double blast! I suppose that means I've missed her?'

I nodded and he stared up the road, shaking his head sadly.

'Did she leave a message for me?'

'Y-es,' I said uncertainly, 'she said she would — um — see you when she gets back.'

'She did?' replied Arnold, brightening up. 'That's a good sign. Normally she calls me a loser and tells me to go rot in hell.'

'She probably won't be back for a while,' I added, trying to make up for not passing on Mary's message properly, 'maybe a year — maybe more.'

'I see,' he murmured, sighing deeply and staring off across the lake. He caught sight of Pickwick, who was attempting to out-stare a strange aquatic bird with a rounded bill.

'What's that?' he asked suddenly.

'I think it's a duck although I can't be sure — we don't have any where I come from.'

'No, the other thing.'

'A dodo.'[1]

'What's the matter?' asked Arnold.

I was getting a footnoterphone signal; in the BookWorld people generally communicated like this.

'A footnoterphone call,' I replied, 'but it's not a message — it's like the wireless back home.'[2]

Arnold stared at me.

'You're not from around here, are you?'

'I'm from what you call the Outland[3]

He opened his eyes wide.

'You mean … you're real?

'I'm afraid so,' I replied, slightly bemused.

'Goodness! Is it true that Outlanders can't say "Red-Buick-Blue-Buick" many times quickly?'

'It's true. We call it a tongue-twister.'

'Fascinating!' he replied. 'There's nothing like that here, you know. I can say: "The sixth sheikh's sixth sheep's sick" over and over as many times as I want!'

And he did, three times.

'Now you try.'

I took a deep breath.

'The sixth spleeps sics sleeks sick.'

Arnold laughed like a drain. I don't think he'd come across anything quite so funny in his life. I smiled.

'Do it again!' he urged.

'No thanks.[4] How do I stop this footnoterphone blabbering inside my skull?'

'Just think "off" very strongly.'

I did, and the footnoterphone stopped.

'Better?'

I nodded.

'You'll get the hang of it.'

He thought for a minute, looked up and down the lake in an overtly innocent manner, and then said:

'Do you want to buy some verbs? Not any of your rubbish, either. Good, strong, healthy regulars — straight from the Text Sea — I have a friend on a scrawltrawler.'

I smiled.

'I don't think so, Arnold — and I don't think you should ask me — I'm Jurisfiction.'

'Oh,' said Arnold, looking pale all of a sudden. He bit his lip and gave such an imploring look that I almost laughed.

'Don't sweat,' I told him, 'I won't report it.'

He sighed a deep sigh of relief, muttered his thanks, remounted his motorbike and drove off in a jerky fashion, narrowly missing the mail boxes at the top of the track.