"Gaaaaah," was all I managed as the kitchen floor rushed up and hit me in the forehead. Stupid rushing floor, why did it have to move when I''d had a terrible, terrible shock? Oh, wait. I''d fallen and I couldn''t get up. That old lady in the commercial had a buzzer . . . Where was my buzzer? I wanted a buzzer. Bring me a buzzer! The queen has spoken. "Too much . . . weirdness . . . blacking out . . ."

    Nick (?) helpfully dripped smoothie on my forehead and I realized Sinclair was rubbing my hands between his while Marc tried to check my vitals.Advertisement

    "Why do I always do this?" he bitched. "Why do I ever try to get a pulse or BP off you?"

    "Because you''re an idiot in every timeline." I resisted the urge to shout that into the bell of his stethoscope.

    "I must apologize." Sinclair''s dark eyes were wide. He was rubbing my hands so hard, I assumed he was trying to start a fire. "My poor queen! I should have predicted your reaction."

    "Why? When have you ever been able to do that? I''m all right." If I had a dollar for every time I ended up ass over teakettle, smack-o on the floor when I was startled or freaked or shot, I''d-well. Since Sinclair''s fortune was now mine, I actually did have a dollar for every time. "Let me up."

    "No," at least three of them said at once. Then Marc added, "Your pulse is seven. I''ve mentioned before: that''s incompatible with life, right?"

    "It''s just a lot to take in."

    "Tell me! Everything about you is incompatible with life."

    "Not my pulse, dumbass. Nick, if you drop one more fruity drop on me-it''s in my hair!-I will take you to at least three shoe sales."

    He jerked his glass away so quickly he almost dropped it. Ah-ha! So this was a potent weapon in both timelines. Excellent.

    One of the worried faces above mine was Garrett''s. He looked like he did in my timeline . . . sort of rumpled and fierce, like he could dart off at any moment and his clothes wouldn''t hinder him. He was too thin-I always wanted to hook him up to a milkshake IV-and he was sort of flinch-ey.

    It''s hard to describe . . . he came off as high strung yet calm. Like someone who freaked out at the thought of speaking in public but didn''t mind being in a choir. Someone who froze at the thought of back-to-school shopping but didn''t mind going to the dentist. Someone who didn''t fret about what to wear, but always wore clean clothes.

    Garrett was technically an old man-he was an old-timey actor from 1940s Hollywood; how was that for retro?-but his swimmer''s build and blond, shoulder-length hair were more Playgirl than AARP.

    "I made you afraid," he commented, gazing down at me with eyes that were mild as chocolate, yet I remembered times when they could glare with fury.

    "You sure did. You''ve got a lot of nerve being alive." I could hardly believe my eyes. And seeing he had a canvas bag hanging off one shoulder that was stuffed with balls of yarn and bulging with several sizes of knitting needles, I wanted to laugh and give thanks. Garrett, the Fiend formerly known as George, could crochet a mean baby''s blanket in this reality as well.

    It''s corny, but as I reached up to touch his dear face, I felt blessed. I hadn''t gotten a chance to know him before he died. Hadn''t bothered, was more like it. And to be honest, my sadness after his suicide had been more guilt than anything else. But I would make up for that. Hadn''t I just been thinking about how great it was to get a do-over in Nickie/Dickie''s case, how in real life that almost never happened? Here were two, not even five minutes apart.

    "I''m so happy to see you. Is-is Antonia . . . ?"

    "Yes. She died protecting you. But don''t worry, Majesty."

    Worry? Was he kidding? I don''t think I''d ever been less worried in my life. "Okay."

    "You told me your plan."

    "I did? How awesome of me. And I know, I''m sure, it was a wonderful plan, a great plan, my most genius plan ever. A plan I was brilliant to think up and you were privileged to hear." I cleared my throat and glared at Jessica and Marc, who were rolling their eyes. "D''you mind reminding me what my plan is?"

    "Oh, that. Sure. You and I and the Antichrist are going to hell to get my wife back."

    And here it came. Stroke number two.