Reaper Man

"And that blade will work, will it?"

I DON'T KNOW. IT'S A MILLION TO ONE CHANCE.

"Oh. " She seemed to be considering something. "So you've got the rest of the day free, then?"

YES?

"Then you can start getting the harvest in."

WHAT?

It'll keep you busy. Keep your mind off things. Besides, I'm paying you sixpence a week. And sixpence is sixpence."

Mrs. Cake's house was also in Elm Street. Windle knocked on the door.

After a while a muffled voice called out, "Is there anybody there?"

"Knock once for yes," Schleppel volunteered.

Windle levered open the letter-box.

"Excuse me? Mrs. Cake?"

The door opened.

Mrs. Cake wasn't what Windle had expected. She was big, but not in the sense of being fat. She was just built to a scale slightly larger than normal; the sort of person who goes through life crouching slightly and looking apologetic in case they inadvertently loom.

And she had magnificent hair. It crowned her head and flowed out behind her like a cloak. She also had slightly pointed ears and teeth which, while white and quite beautiful, caught the light in a disturbing way. Windle was amazed at the speed at which his heightened zombie senses reached a conclusion. He looked down.

Lupine was sitting bolt upright, too excited even to wag his tail.

"I don't think you could be Mrs. Cake," said Windle.

"You want mother," said the tall girl. "Mother! There's a gentleman!"

A distant muttering became a closer muttering, and then Mrs. Cake appeared around the side of her daughter like a small moon emerging from planetary shadow.

"What d'yew want?" said Mrs. Cake.

Windle took a step backwards. Unlike her daughter, Mrs. Cake was quite short, and almost perfectly circular. And still unlike her daughter, whose whole stance was dedicated to making herself look small, she loomed tremendously. This was largely because of her hat, which he later learned she wore at all times with the dedication of a wizard. It was huge and black and had things on it, like bird wings and wax cherries and hatpins; Carmen Miranda could have worn that hat to the funeral of a continent. Mrs. Cake travelled underneath it as the basket travels under a balloon.

People often found themselves talking to her hat.

"Mrs. Cake?" said Windle, fascinated.

"Oim down ‘ere," said a reproachful voice.

Windle lowered his gaze.

"That's ‘oo I am, " said Mrs. Cake.

"Am I addressing Mrs. Cake?" said Windle.

"Yes, oi, know," said Mrs. Cake.

"My name's Windle Poons."

"Oi knew that, too."

"I'm a wizard, yoysee -"

"All right, but see you wipes your feet."

"May I come in?"

Windle Poons paused. He replayed the last few lines of conversation in the clicking control room of his brain. And then he smiled.

"That's right, " said Mrs. Cake.

"Are you by any chance a natural clairvoyant?"

"About ten seconds usually, Mr. Poons. "

Windle hesitated.

"You gotta ask the question," said Mrs. Cake quickly. "I gets a migraine if people goes and viciously not asks questions after I've already foreseen ‘em and answered ‘em."

"How far into the future can you see, Mrs. Cake?"

She nodded.

"Roight, then," she said, apparently mollified, and led the way through the hall into a tiny sitting-room.

"And the bogey can come in, only he's got to leave ‘is door outside and go in the cellar. I don't hold with bogeys wanderin' around the house."

"Gosh, it's ages since I've been in a proper cellar," said Schleppel.

"It's got spiders in it," said Mrs. Cake.

"Wow!"

"And you'd like a cup of tea," said Mrs. Cake to Windle. Someone else might have said "I expect you'd like a cup of tea", or "Do you want a cup of tea?" But this was a statement.

"Yes, please, " said Windle. "I'd love a cup of tea."

"You shouldn't," said Mrs. Cake. "That stuff rots your teeth."

Windle worked this one out.

"Two sugars, please," he said.

"It's all right."

"This is a nice place you have here, Mrs. Cake," said Windle, his mind racing. Mrs. Cake's habit of answering questions while they were still forming in your mind taxed the most active brain.

"He's been dead for ten years," she said.

"Er," said Windle, but the question was already there in his larynx, "I trust Mr. Cake is in good health?"

"It's OK. Oi speaks to him occasional," said Mrs. Cake.

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Windle.

"All right, if it makes you feel any better."

"Um, Mrs. Cake? I'm finding it a little confusing. Could you... switch off... your precognition... ?"

She nodded.

"Sorry. Oi gets into the habit of leavin' it on," she said, "what with there only bein' me an' Ludmilla and One-Man-Bucket. He's a ghost," she added. "Oi knew you was goin' to ask that."

"Yes, I had heard that mediums have native spirit guides," said Windle.

" ‘Im ‘E ‘s not a guide, "e's a sort of odd-job ghost," said Mrs. Cake. "I don't hold with all that stuff with cards and trumpets and Oo-jar boards, mind you. An' I think ectoplasm's disgustin'. Oi won't have it in the ‘ouse. Oi won't. You can't get it out of the carpets, you know. Not even with vinegar."

"My word, " said Windle Poons.