Eleanor Moss had been dead for three days, six hours, and twenty-five minutes, and she was having a wonderful time.
There were some things you just couldn't get on earth. Talking animals, for instance. Ice cream that changed into any flavour on request and never got smaller no matter how much you ate. And wings. Oh, she'd dreamed of flying, as all young children do, but even a child's imagination has its limits, and she could never have anticipated the joy of doing a dozen cartwheels through the air before bursting through a fluffy spring rain cloud. It was like diving into a pool of liquid silk, but better.
The angel at the gate had wings, too. His name was Erwith. He was the first person, or rather person-shaped divine entity, she had met when she arrived. He was dressed in robes made of twinkling ocean spume and he was holding a golden clipboard, which he glanced down at as she approached.
"Ah, Eleanor," he said, with what was arguably verging on an inappropriate level of cheer, given the circumstances.
It wasn't so bad greeting the old folks. You knew they'd lived long, fulfilling, and, since they'd made it to Heaven, by inference, virtuous lives. They liked to be greeted with a smile. It made them feel the effort of resisting eighty years worth of temptation had all been for something. With children, especially children under the age of ten, it was a little different. You wanted to put them at ease, but, well, you couldn't exactly congratulate them, could you? That was all sorts of wrong. Anyway, practically every child made it to Heaven. It wasn't something commendable; it just was.
"Am I in Heaven?" asked Eleanor.
Every angel had developed their own procedure for booking in the youngsters. Erwith's went like this:
"Yes, Heaven, that's right. Welcome to Heaven. Nothing to be worried about. Your corporeal remains will be well taken care of, unless of course your parents opt for a cremation, but never you mind your little head about that, come this way and let me tell you about the ice cream..."
And after that he waved open the gates, and on the other side of them stood a large number of strangers, all waiting eagerly in line to meet Eleanor.
"Who are these people?" she demanded.
"These are your ancestors," he explained. "Well, some of them. There's your great-great-great grandmother Ruth, and your great uncle Laurence, and all of their brothers and sisters and their parents before them."
Eleanor frowned. "Why some? Where are the others?"
"Er - this is a bit awkward - I'm afraid some of them went the other way. Downstairs, so to speak. But you've plenty of family here, and they'll be perfectly happy to take care of you for the rest of eternity."
"Is that a long time? I want to watch My Little Pony this evening. I watch it every evening."
"Oh, you have a horse?" asked Erwith, who had never been introduced to the concept of television. (He would have liked My Little Pony. He would have been especially fond of Pinkie Pie.) "There are plenty of horses up here. I'll tell you what, you can have whichever one you like. In fact you can have two. Three! Go wild! Have as many as you'd like! Oh, and did I mention that you can fly?"
- - -
Eleanor Moss had been dead for three days, six hours, and twenty-seven minutes, and her mother was starting to crack.
There is no dignified way to lose a child, just as there is no dignified way to lose a limb, or an organ, or any other part of your flesh and blood. But Alice was damned if she wasn't going to make her loss as dignified as possible.
