"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.

"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.