There were roses. It was a rose garden, full of plump black blooms. Susan felt her jaw drop before her fury overtook her shock.

'What the hells has he done?'

Teatime was glancing around with polite disinterest. 'It's just a rose garden. I suppose it's quite beautiful if you like that kind of thing. The black is a nice touch though.'

Susan had an epiphany. Death was trying to kick start the courting idea with this garden. Rose gardens appeared everywhere in romantic fiction as a setting conducive to anything from proposals to illicit affairs.

As she looked around she realised Death must have put some work into it. He had positioned it so that it overlooked the golden fields of wheat that were the only colour. He had set out neat gravel paths. When she looked closely at the roses each one was perfect and unblemished, with a sweet scent that infused the entire area. She had conclusive proof, however, that he had got the idea from some fanciful book or other when she noticed none of the roses had thorns. Because in airy romantic novels, amongst the details that are omitted (like real life isn't that neat, or the heroine's husband isn't that bad really, or a Countess could never run away with a blacksmith) is the fact that roses have vicious thorns quite capable of ripping your hand (or that of your lover's) to shreds.

Susan sighed. Always it was the small, details that gave Death away. What had he been thinking?

Teatime had noticed the roses' flaw too.

'A rose without a thorn.' He seemed highly amused by it. He plucked one from the great mass that surrounded them and presented it to her, with a slight flourish. 'Perhaps you should have it. After all you are a thorn without a rose.' He was grinning manically. Seeing Susan annoyed was better even than theorizing how to inhume the Soul Cake Duck. She was so delightfully rational and yet so dangerously violent.

Susan felt her grip tighten on the poker, but regained control in time to avoid attempting to stab Teatime with it. Instead she swung it around in an arc that beheaded the rose and left black petals floating in the air.

Teatime laughed and seized her hands before she could pull away.

'How unkind. Really Susan, you could try to curb your temper.'

He had somehow managed to end up only inches away from her without either stepping forwards or pulling her closer. His eerily mismatched eyes were gazing into hers with a twinkle that clearly said 'I know how much you're hating this and really it's just too entertaining to let go.' His mouth was twisted into a truly insane and exceedingly childish expression of amusement.

Susan tried to squirm out of his grip, but when that failed to work she stopped fighting, hoping that the boredom of her new reaction would cause Teatime to release her. It didn't. He just pouted.

'I expected better from you. Come on Susan.' Before she could stop him he had snatched the poker from her, holding her hands tightly in one hand and twirling the poker with the other.

Susan was practically glowing with rage-to say she was incandescent was a massive understatement, like calling the moon a pebble. But, despite her best efforts to think of one, no way of getting away from Teatime presented itself. The only possible route was to call him by his name and see what happened. This in itself presented many options. She could say TEAtime again, but then she would probably die inelegantly. She could say Teh-ah Tim-eh and it was just possible that he might let her go. Or, as a last resort she could use Jonathan, but the gods only knew how he would react then. Susan didn't care too much. Anything was better than this. He was still twirling the poker.

'Jonathan...'

His face lost its grin. Ah thought Susan. Now I'm going to die. And what for? Not saving the world or in bed at the grand old age of 97. No I'm going to die for calling an assassin by their first name. And then the normal, instinctive Susan made her voice heard and told her to rip the poker out of his hands RIGHT NOW. So she did.

Teatime was just looking at her. 'Why did you call me that?' He seemed genuinely confused. And, for the first time since Susan had met him, not actually on the verge of some terrifically violent act. Although he wasn't that far away from the edge of violence. His permanent air of insanity stuffed with contained death was still there.

'Because it's your name, perhaps?'

'Yes but no one ever uses my name. I'm just Teh-ah Tim-eh.'

That explains it, thought Susan. No wonder he developed a complex about being called Teatime if no one called him Jonathan. Mind you it is very difficult to call him Jonathan. Jonathan is not the name of someone more cracked than a mirror that's been used as an elephant's trampoline.