by K. E. Mills
“Already?” said Bibbie plaintively. “But it’s only twenty minutes past nine!”
“Don’t remind me,” she said, still snappish. “Or I really will dock your salary this week. Now pay attention, both of you. That wretched Sir Alec’s here.”
Gerald turned the color of week-old skimmed milk. “What?”
“You heard me. He’s here.” She pointed. “See? That’s his car. And he’s up in the office right now, drinking tea. Reg is keeping an eye on him.”
“But why?” said Bibbie, as unattractively pale as Gerald. Did she realize she was clutching at his wool-coated arm? “Why is he here? Did he say? What does he want?”
“A word with Gerald.”
“But-but-” Gerald waved his arms around, heedless of Bibbie’s femininely clutching fingers. Which meant that whatever the two of them had done it was seriously serious. Something they couldn’t afford for Sir Alec to find out about.
Wonderful. At this rate I’ll have to move in to Chatterly Crescent, the proprieties go hang, or one of these geniuses is going to do someone else a great big mischief.
“I don’t understand,” said Gerald, staring over their heads to Witches Incorporated’s blind-shrouded front window. “If he needs to talk to me he summons me to Nettleworth. Did he say he’d tried to reach me? My crystal ball’s not on the blink. At least I don’t think it is. Did he say if-”
“No, Gerald, the subject of your crystal ball did not arise,” she snapped. And then, mortifyingly aware of the unfortunate entendre, felt herself blush in blotchy embarrassment. “So I can only assume he avoided regular communications. Which probably means that whatever he’s got to say he’s not keen for your colleagues at Nettleworth to overhear it.”
Bibbie turned to Gerald. “Or else he knows,” she whispered. “And he’s decided to handle it under the table. I mean, he’s not you or Monk but he is a powerful wizard, Gerald. Maybe he-”
“No,” said Gerald, shaking his head. “They’d have sent your Uncle Ralph to the house if that were the case.”
“You think so? Really?” Bibbie’s tired eyes shone with hope. “Because otherwise-” She blinked back tears. And tears most definitely weren’t like Bibbie. “Oh, Gerald.”
Melissande felt her insides go cold. Saint Snodgrass preserve me, what did they get up to last night? “Gerald, are you quite sure you’ve no idea what he’s doing here?”
“None,” said Gerald. “He hasn’t explained himself at all?”
She looked at him. “Suffering from a mild concussion, are we?”
“Sorry,” he said, wincing. “What’s his mood like? Could you tell?”
“Well, when I came downstairs almost half an hour ago he was perfectly polite,” she replied, feeling newly waspish and not inclined to spare their feelings. “But now he’s had almost half an hour of Reg making pointed remarks, so-”
“Bloody hell,” Gerald groaned. “Did you have to leave him with Reg?”
“I had to leave him with someone, Gerald! I couldn’t just abandon him alone in the office, could I?” she retorted, perilously close to unladylike shouting. “Now please go upstairs, find out what he wants and then get rid of him so we can get to work! Arnold Frobisher is due here at ten, if you recall, and it’s going to take me nearly every minute I can lay my hands on to calm myself enough to make sure I don’t kill him in lieu of you! ”
Gerald took a prudent step back. “Right. Yes. I can do that. And while I’m doing that, ah, why don’t you and Bibbie and Boris enjoy the sunshine? I won’t take long. Two shakes of a lamb’s tail, I promise.”
“Are you out of your mind?” she said, glaring. “Whatever he’s got to say to you he can say to me and Bibbie at the same time. We are Witches Incorporated and we are a team.”
“Oh. Um.” Gerald rubbed his nose. “Look. I know you and Bibbie signed various Secret Acts and so forth, Melissande, but given the lengths Sir Alec’s gone to for a private conversation I’m pretty sure he won’t want an audience for this.”
She spread her hands wide. “And behold me, Gerald, once again not caring.” She turned on her heel. “Now come on. I want this over with. Some of us have proper work to do.”
“It’s all right,” said Reg from her ram skull, as they marched into the main office. “All the teaspoons are accounted for. I haven’t took my eyes off him once.”
“Sir Alec,” said Gerald, very cautious, closing the office door. “Good morning.”
Sir Alec, neatly seated in the best client chair, nondescript as ever in his ordinary brown suit, slipped the notes he’d been reading back into his shabby leather briefcase.
“Good morning, Mr. Dunwoody. I wasn’t aware you kept bankers’ hours at Witches Inc.”
“No, no, that was me,” said Bibbie, her cheeks pinking. “My fault. Don’t blame him. Gerald’s always on time when I’m not around.”
“I see,” said Sir Alec. His cool gray eyes lost a little of their chill. “You and your brother. So much alike.”
“Thank you,” Bibbie said faintly. “I think.”
“Ah, Sir Alec, don’t take this the wrong way,” said Gerald, stiff and formal beside Bibbie’s desk, “but what are you doing here?”
“Have a seat, Mr. Dunwoody,” Sir Alec replied, as though these were his premises and he was in charge. “And I’ll explain. You too, Miss Cadwallader, and you, Miss Markham.
Surprised, Melissande looked at him. “You’re inviting us to stay?”
“Yes,” said Sir Alec, resigned. “Since I’m sure Mr. Dunwoody will only share with you what I tell him the moment I depart.”
Reg chattered her beak. “Saint Snodgrass’s bunions, you’re a sarky bugger, sunshine.”
“Really?” said Sir Alec, one pale brown eyebrow lifting. “Well, far be it from me to contradict such a renowned exponent of the art.”
Melissande choked back a laugh at the look on Reg’s face.
But Gerald wasn’t amused. A deep line was creased between his brows. “Sir Alec-”
“Relax, Mr. Dunwoody,” his formidable superior said, sounding bored. “When you cross the line you may believe I’ll tell you.”
“I’d rather you told us what’s going on,” said Bibbie, and dropped herself into the chair behind her desk. “This is all terribly mysterious, Sir Alec.” Elegant chin propped winsomely on her interlaced fingers, all her earlier distress carefully hidden, she fluttered her outrageously long eyelashes at him. “Have you a very special assignment for the team at Witches Inc.?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Sir Alec, spuriously apologetic. “But I do have a task for Mr. Dunwoody.”
Gerald was still standing at ramrod attention, more like a lance-corporal than a secret government agent. “A task, sir?”
“What kind of task?” said Melissande, and shifted sideways until she could rest her elbow on the top of the filing cabinet, where Reg brooded on her skull like a shag on a rock. Absolutely she wasn’t sitting down, on principle alone. “And how long will it take? Gerald’s got jobs booked, I’ll have you know. Secret government department front or not, Sir Alec, we do still operate as a legitimate business and I don’t take kindly to abruptly disappearing staff.”
Sir Alec raised that lethal eyebrow again. “I happen to know, Miss Cadwallader, that Mr. Dunwoody is not currently engaged on any jobs for this agency-but even if he were, my needs take precedence. Also, I feel compelled to note-in the interests of veracity-that since joining your intrepid band of investigators that this is the first time I’ve approached him on a matter of janitorial business, and so the term ‘abruptly disappearing staff’ does not in this case apply. At least, not to Mr. Dunwoody. Given the Markham family propensity for unauthorized thaumaturgics, I’m not prepared to speak for Miss Markham.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” said Bibbie, her cheeks becomingly flushed with temper. “Because I’m perfectly capable of speaking for myself!”
“I’m sure you are, Miss Markham, but I’d appreciate it if you’d refrain,”
said Sir Alec. “Just this once. So we can conclude our meeting in a timely fashion. I’m sure you don’t want to keep Mr. Frobisher waiting.”
As Reg muttered crossly under her breath, Melissande lifted her chin at Gerald’s aggravating superior. “And if someone does call expressly requesting Gerald’s services?”
Sir Alec shrugged “Then you’ll tell them, with regret, that he is otherwise engaged.”
“Doing what?” said Gerald. “Or can’t you say in mixed company?”
“I can’t say with complete abandon,” Sir Alec replied after a moment, “but I can assuage your colleagues’ curiosity this much, Mr. Dunwoody: you’ll be taking a short trip out of the country. Having a quiet word with someone who knows someone who knows something about something about which I would like to know.”
Melissande scowled. Honestly, all this ridiculous secret agent doublespeak. But Gerald was nodding as though Sir Alec’s gobbledegook made perfect sense. And perhaps it did, to him. He was the government agent, after all.
“Right, sir,” Gerald said, with a glint in his eye. “And you need me for this task because…?”
Up went Sir Alec’s eyebrow again. “I’m sorry. Am I required to justify myself to you, Mr. Dunwoody?”
“Oh, stop being so bloody starchy,” said Reg. “It’s a fair question and you know it. Want me to answer it? I’ll bet you five field mice I can.”
“Alas,” said Sir Alec, not even pretending to be sorry this time. “I’m bereft of field mice. But let that not stop us, Reg. By all means-answer the question. And if you get it wrong I’ll think of another forfeit.”
“Don’t, Reg,” said Bibbie, still rankled. “You don’t know what he’s got up his unfashionable sleeve.”
“Actually, I do,” said Reg. “A stringy white arm with not enough bicep on it.”
Sir Alec smiled, but his eyes didn’t lose any of their gray chill. “Stalling for time, Dulcetta?”
Reg stretched one wing above her head and yawned. “You’re sending Gerald because when he plays his cards right he’s no more of a head-turner than a genuine Ottish street sweeper and you don’t want him and your chatty friend getting themselves noticed while they’re chatting.”
“Exactly,” said Sir Alec, with a small nod, one fencer to another acknowledging a hit. “Even in our small world Mr. Dunwoody remains an unknown quantity. He’s the perfect candidate to slip in and out unobserved.”
Melissande drummed her short, blunt fingernails on the side of the filing cabinet. “In and out of where?”
“None of your business, Miss Cadwallader,” said Sir Alec.
Bloody secret government departments. With an effort she unclenched her jaw. “Fine. But I do need to know how long he’ll be gone. So that when prospective customers call wanting his help I can tell them how long they’ll have to wait for it.”
“I’m afraid I have no idea.”
“And how are we supposed to run a business when-”
Sir Alec stood, economically athletic. “That’s not my concern, Miss Cadwallader. My concern is with the security of this country. Our arrangement guarantees that Witches Inc. will remain solvent. I advise you to take comfort from that, and adjust your business ambitions accordingly.”
“Ha!” said Reg. “I’ll adjust your bloody ambitions, sunshine. In case you haven’t noticed I’ve got a long beak and I’m not afraid to use it!”
Gerald lifted his hand. “ Reg.”
“What?” Reg complained, her feathers ruffled. “He marches in here and starts bossing us around, says he’s dragging you off by the scruff of your neck without so much as a d’you mind, thanks ever so, and here’s us being left behind and-” With a timely gasp for air, she fixed Sir Alec with a gimlet gaze. “Mind you-”
“ No, Reg,” said Sir Alec. “Under no circumstances are you accompanying Mr. Dunwoody. And make no mistake-if you try I will have you restrained.”
“Fine,” Reg muttered sulkily. “Have it your way. But if anything happens to him because I wasn’t there…”
Gerald spared her an affectionate glance, then focused his attention on Sir Alec. Melissande, watching him, saw the chilling, subtle shift from sweet, thoughtful, slightly harassed Gerald to the terrifyingly powerful wizard who’d created two dragons and defeated mad, misguided Lional.
She felt her heart thud harder. In their daily Ottish life-at Chatterly Crescent, here at the agency, and on those days when they took a little time to have some fun-it was possible to forget that this darker Gerald even existed. She knew Gerald worked very hard to forget him. Though they’d never talked about it, she knew he’d still not come to grips with the man he was now. Just as she was sure he’d still not found his wizarding limit. And that frightened him. It frightened Monk, too. He’d never said it aloud, but she’d caught him looking at his best friend once or twice… and in his guarded eyes there’d been a deep unease.
But it’s the hidden, dangerous part of him that Sir Alec wants. He needs it. And he has no compunction about using it, either. Not when lives and secrets are at stake.
More than anything, she wished she could dislike the man for that. But she couldn’t. Because once upon a time she’d had a brother called Lional.
Cool and remote, almost a stranger, Gerald nodded at his boss. “You want me to come now?”
“There’s no time like the present.”
“Do I need to go home and pack?”
Sir Alec shook his head. “There’s a bag in the car for you.”
“Large or small?”
“Sufficient,” said Sir Alec, a sardonically appreciative glint in his eyes. “I’ll give you a moment to make your farewells. But only a moment. Time is a factor.”
“Thank you,” said Gerald. “I’ll see you downstairs.”
Sir Alec picked up his briefcase and offered the smallest of bows. “Ladies. Always a pleasure.”
“Ha,” said Reg, staring down her beak at him. “Speak for yourself, sunshine.”
At the door, Sir Alec hesitated and turned back. Looked at Bibbie, no warmth at all in his eyes. “Miss Markham, a word to the wise which you might like to pass along to your brother.”
Bibbie’s bright smile was the equivalent of a cocked pistol. “Which one?”
Sir Alec’s answering smile was razor-thin. “Guess. Then tell him this: bravado is an admirable trait on the sporting field. Elsewhere, however, it more often than not backfires. Tell him he might like to practice discretion for a change. Doubtless it will have all the charm of novelty.”
“You know, Gerald,” said Bibbie thoughtfully, as the door closed behind him, “I could probably dislike your boss without much effort at all.”
“Don’t be silly, Bibs,” Gerald said, surprisingly sharp. “He’s the best friend we’ve got.”
Bibbie lowered her gaze, looking hurt.
“Reg,” said Gerald, and crossed to the filing cabinet. “Stay out of trouble, will you? At least till I get back?”
“ Me?” said Reg, with a valiant attempt at outrage. “That’s rich, that is, coming from you.”
Reaching up, he dropped a brief kiss on the top of her head. “I’ll be fine. Home by tomorrow night, I’ll bet you five field mice.”
She sniffed. “You know perfectly well I hate field mice, Gerald. They taste like cow poop. I was just twisting his tail.”
“And a champion tail-twister you are, ducky,” he said. “Melissande-”
She wasn’t going to cry. She wasn’t. Gerald Dunwoody was a trained secret agent with more wizarding power in his crooked little finger than any other First Grader in the world. There was nothing to worry about. He was going to be fine.
“Good luck with Mr. Frobisher,” he said, and brushed his fingers down her arm. “Don’t take any nonsense from the silly old fart, even if he is an old family friend of Sir Alec’s.”
She tilted her chin at him. “As if I would. After a lifetime of Lord Billingsley? Arnold Frobisher doesn’t scare me.”
He kissed her cheek.
“I’ll see you soon.”
“Good luck, Gerald,” said Bibbie, admirably composed. “Bring us back a souvenir.”
Gerald’s smile wasn’t quite steady. “I’ll do my best, Bibbie. Tell Monk to keep his nose clean or I’ll kick his ass when I get back.”
The door closed behind him and immediately the sunlit, crowded office felt cold and empty.
Bibbie fished a hanky out of her pretty new reticule and savagely blew her nose. “I have an influenza,” she said, stabbing Reg with a baleful glare.
“Did I say you didn’t?” Reg protested. “Blimey. Don’t take my head off, ducky, it’s not my fault he’s gone.”
Melissande finished blinking back her own tears and pushed away from the filing cabinet. “It’s not anyone’s fault,” she said, going to her desk. “He works for Sir Alec. He only pretends to work here. And since that was never a secret we can’t moan about it now.”
Reg heaved a sigh. “His first assignment without us. You realize he’s going to go ass right over elbows.”
“He’ll do no such thing, you revolting old hag!” Bibbie snapped. “He’s Gerald Dunwoody.”
“Yes, ducky, I know,” said Reg, giving her a look. “Which means on the way home one of us better light a candle to Saint Snodgrass.”
“ Anyway,” said Melissande, before the feathers started flying. “We’ve got horrible Arnold Frobisher arriving any tick of the clock. And then what do we do with ourselves for the rest of the day?”
“Mount a prayer vigil at the church,” said Reg. “That boy’s going to need all the help he can get.”
“ Once, Mel,” said Bibbie, her perfect teeth bared in a snarl. “Let me hit her just once. She’ll only be unconscious for a minute. I promise.”
“No!” she said, and banged her fist on the desk. “The only person doing any hitting around here will be me, and that’s only if Arnold Frobisher pinches my behind again.”
“Now, now,” said Reg, scolding. “Hitting’s hardly royal behavior.”
Melissande rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. You want to poke him in the unmentionables. And I suppose poking men in the unmentionables is royal, is it?”