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and then you go home for your tea.”

“We shall suit one another perfectly,” said Teatime.

Teatime had been thinking, in the cracking, buzzing fireworks display that was his head. What he had been thinking about was immortality.

“We don’t do jobs,” said Teatime. “We perform services.

Teatime had a truly brilliant mind, but it was brilliant like a fractured mirror,

Many fine old educational establishments had dignified memorials in some hall listing the Old Boys who had laid down their lives for monarch and country. The Guild’s was very similar, except for the question of whose life had been laid.

“And do you have a lot of friends, Peachy?” said Teatime.<…>
“I don’t have many,” he said, apologetically. “Don’t seem to have the knack. On the other hand…I don’t seem to have any enemies at all. Not one. Isn’t that nice?”

“You crept up on us,

There were indeed a number of solitary figures in the low, dark room. Most of them wore cloaks with big hoods. They sat alone, in corners, hidden by the hoods. None of them looked very friendly.

“Susan,” said Twyla, from somewhere under the blankets.
“Yes?”
“You know last week we wrote letters to the Hogfather?”
“Yes?”
“Only…in the park Rachel says he doesn’t exist and it’s your father really.

This had, <...>, left her a little twisted up.

she was destined for jobs like this for the rest of her life.

And she was, to her mild horror, naturally good with them.

She’d got Gawain on to the military campaigns of General Tacticus, which were suitably bloodthirsty but, more importantly, considered too difficult for a child. As a result his vocabulary was doubling every week and he could already use words like “disemboweled” in everyday conversation. After all, what was the point of teaching children to be children? They were naturally good at it.

The boy couldn’t possibly have a real plan, he told himself. He certainly had a skewed mind—skewed?

Downey blinked again.
<…>
“I want to be quite certain about this, Mister Teatime. You…have…applied…yourself to a study of ways of killing Death?”
“Only as a hobby, sir.”

That sort of thing led to talk.

But she’d been nearly normal for two years now, making her own way in the real world, never remembering the future at all…
Perhaps she had just dreamed things (but even dreams could be real…).

But it looked as if she was going to start remembering the future again.

Possibly, as it moves, it gets tangled like a blind man in a cobwebbed house in those highly specialized little space-time strands that try to breed in every history they encounter, stretching them and breaking them and tugging them into new shapes.