by K. E. Mills
But Bibbie refused to listen to Reg’s demand that she take the fight for female suffrage that next important step. At least, he thought she’d refused to listen. But here she was in his bedroom with powder on her cheeks and paint on her lips and something on her eyelids and lashes that made her blue eyes almost too beautiful to bear. Wearing scarlet.
Bloody hell. How long has it been since I got into that portal?
Bibbie was grinning now, and at least that hadn’t changed. Her smile could probably power entire small countries. “Poor thing. You do look confused.”
“Um-probably because I am,” he said. With a glance down at his chest-good, he was wearing a nightshirt, except- Oh, lord, who put it on me? — he cautiously eased himself to sitting and rested his back against the knotty old bedhead. The chamber’s curtains were closed, and his clock was missing from the bedside nightstand. “What time is it?”
Bibbie waved the cigarette holder. Smoke wafted through the air, the smell of burning tobacco unpleasantly mingling with her muskily floral perfume. “Oh, yes, well, time,” she said, disparaging, and inhaled deeply on her unlikely cigarette. Tipping her head back, she proceeded to produce seven perfectly round smoke rings and then pierced all seven with a startling smoke arrow. “D’you know-Gerry-I think we’ve more important things to talk about than time.”
She’d done something different to her hair, too. On first glance he’d thought she’d just twisted it up in a new style but now, as she turned her head to watch her smoke rings on the arrow dart about the room, he could see that she’d cut it. Cut off her long golden hair and-and-slicked it down with some kind of feminine pomade. And there was something else, too. Something… unwholesome… that had nothing to do with face paint and cigarettes. A sour tang in the ether.
But that can’t be right. Bibbie would never get her thaumaturgical hands dirty. Not like that. Not Bibbie.
Dismayed, he stared at her. “ Bibbie — enough nonsense, all right? I want to know what time it is-what day it is- and I want to know what’s going on!”
She flicked him a cold glance. “You’d be wise not to take that tone with me, Gerry. I warn you, taking that tone will get you into trouble.”
His jaw dropped open. “ What? Emmerabiblia Markham, are you squiffed? Or running a desperately high fever? Or is that not exactly tobacco you’re smoking? And anyway, since when do you smoke? And-and-wear makeup. And scarlet. And when did you cut off all your hair?” Fed up with the disadvantage of being in bed, like a child, he flung back his blankets and faced her on his bare feet. “Look, either I am dreaming or the world’s been turned completely upside-”
With a blast of raw thaumic energy the bedroom door blew open and banged against the wall.
“Ha! So he’s awake at last!” said the man framed in the doorway. “ Excellent. Now we’ll really have some fun!”
“D’you think so, Gerald?” said Bibbie, pouting. “Because so far he’s not been any fun at all.”
Dumbstruck, Gerald watched as Bibbie undulated out of her chair, sashayed across the bedroom floor and-and entwined herself around-around Me! That’s me! But-but-how can that be me? I’m me. Aren’t I?
And then, with a second shock that punched right through his middle, he realized: No. That’s not me. At least-not any more.
The man lounging in the doorway wore his face. They were the same height, the same weight. All right, the man in the doorway had a-agloss, a polish, that he absolutely lacked. Nevertheless, on the outside-except for the two good eyes-they were the same man.
But on the inside? Thaumaturgically? Oh, Saint Snodgrass…
The man-the other Gerald-had a potentia that choked the room. It reeked of death. Of murder. It stirred his blood with a visceral dread.
Heart thudding, he looked at the Bibbie before him, with her short hair and lipstick and the powder on her face. At the gold-and-ivory cigarette holder and the sheer scarlet silk dress clinging to those curves that day after day he made himself not notice. He looked at the man she’d called Gerald, whose familiar face hid a heart he couldn’t recognize. Who wore the most extraordinary, outlandish scarlet and black full-length silk dressing-gown embroidered with gold dragons, and on his fingers exquisitely wrought and fabulously expensive onyx and ruby rings.
And whose brown eyes burned with a flame he’d not seen since the last time he faced mad King Lional of New Ottosland.
Lional… Lional… bloated with stolen potentias, his greedy mind teeming with the worst kind of incants ever devised and contained in the grimoires he’d kept by his bed, for handy reading.
Terrible memones woke, searing him. The man in the doorway stank of Pygram’s Pestilences, unforgettable after nine days in that cave. He reeked of Grummen’s Lexicon and other foul grimoire incants whose names he’d never learned because the texts Lional stole from Pomodoro Uffitzi had been confiscated without him ever laying eyes on them.
I had the chance to use those grimoires and I didn’t. But he did. So if this isn’t a dream-if he’s real, and he’s not me, and that’s not my Bibbie, and this isn’t my bedroom…
Sickened understanding crashed over him, so he had to sit on the bed.
Oh, bugger. So much for the theoretical part of theoretical thaumaturgical metaphysics and the postulated existence of parallel worlds.
When Sir Alec found out about this he was going to go spare. It was hard enough keeping one world safe from thaumaturgical villains. And as for Monk, well, he’d likely explode with excitement. Monk…
Oh, God. Don’t tell me he’s gone rotten too.
The thought was enough to make the room spin and his belly heave.
No. No. I don’t-I won’t-believe that. Not Monk. I have to have one friend left in this place.
The other Gerald was grinning. “I knew you’d work it out. No flies on us, Professor Dunwoody.”
He felt like an idiot in his striped flannel nightshirt, but it couldn’t be helped. All that mattered now was getting answers… and getting home.
“So I’m right? This is a parallel world? An alternative reality? You’re some kind of copy of me?”
“No, Professor, it’s the real reality,” said the other Gerald, a snap in his voice. “ Your world’s the impostor. And so are you.”
His double’s anger lit up the room like sheet lightning. Right. Yes. So not to be making him cross, Dunwoody. “Sorry. Sorry,” he said hastily. “Poor choice of words. So… how did you do it? How did you bring me here?”
His-his- counterpart — examined fingernails as beautifully manicured as Bibbie’s. “Oh, I can do a lot of things, Professor,” he boasted with airy self-congratulation. “Things you can only dream of.”
He decided to take a chance. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. “Monk didn’t help you?”
“Monk?” The other Gerald raised an eyebrow. And then he smiled. “Oh, Monk. Good old Monk. Yes. Our Mr. Markham’s been wonderfully helpful.”
Bibbie giggled. “Wonderfully.”
He had to wait for the nausea to subside before he could speak again. That horrible smile… and he’d never, never heard Bibbie giggle like that. Sly, like a nasty child. Even her voice had gone breathlessly girlish. The other Gerald’s hand trailed suggestively, possessively, up and down her bare arm. He almost squeezed his eyes shut, because that was so wrong. But even as he felt repulsed a little part of him thought: Lucky bastard.
Time for a distraction. There really is only one explanation… “It was the portal, wasn’t it? You pulled me through to your world using the Department’s unregistered portal. While I was traveling to Grande Splotze.”
And if that’s the case he must have tripped an alarm. Sir Alec will know I’ve gone missing. Everything’s going to be fine.
The other Gerald smoothed his hand over Bibbie’s hair. “Look at that, Bibs. We’re so clever, aren’t we?” He turned. “Yes. It was the portal.”
“But-how is that possible? I thought-”
“Oh, Professor!” The other Gerald
’s eyes opened wide. “Portal thaumaturgics are amazing. Convenient travel is just the tip of the iceberg.”
“But you’re- we’re — not portal thaumaturgists,” he said warily. “That’s a highly specialized strand of metaphysical study.”
“True,” said the other Gerald. “But it so happens I have at my disposal most of the finest thaumaturgical minds in the world.”
“Really?” He swallowed. Oh, lord. This isn’t going anywhere good, is it? “In my experience, getting thaumaturgical experts to work cooperatively makes herding cats look like child’s play.”
Bibbie giggled again. “Oh, no, it was easy. Gerald’s very… persuasive.”
He took a deep breath and pushed back to his feet. “Yes. I’m sure he is.”
“And in case you’re thinking-and I know you are,” added the other Gerald, “that snatching you from the portal triggered an inconvenient alarm? Sorry, Professor. I’m far too good for that.”
Oh. Bugger. Still, it couldn’t be helped, so no point dwelling. “I’m sure you are. In fact-”
“You’re curious, aren’t you?” said the other Gerald, almost taunting. “You’re dying to know about my… thaumaturgical improvements. Jealous too, no doubt.”
Really neither. Not even a little bit. “When did you do it?” he demanded, trying to keep the anger and despair from his voice. “ Why did you do it? You had to know that you’d be- changed. ”
And not for the better, but he didn’t dare say that.
Instead of answering, the other Gerald put a finger under Bibbie’s chin, tipped her face up to meet his and devoured her lips in a long, savage kiss. When at last he released her, blood glinted in the corner of her painted mouth.
“Wander down to the kitchen, Bibs, there’s a good girl. See how Melissande’s coming with breakfast, and tell her we’ve got an extra mouth to feed.”
Gerald felt the name jolt through him. Melissande? She was here? In the kitchen? But Does that mean Reg is here, too? God, I almost forgot them. Watching him and Bibbie, it’s scrambled my brain.
Bibbie was pouting. “Oh, Gerald. Can’t you just-”
“Bibbie.”
She went very still. Beneath the thin scarlet silk her breathing was shallow, and fast. A frightened pulse fluttered in the hollow of her throat.
The other Gerald flicked the end of her nose. “There’s a good girl.”
She left the bedroom without another word.
“When did I enhance my natural abilities?” said the other Gerald, as though there’d been no tense interlude. No primal, punishing kiss. Pushing away from the door jamb he strolled into the room. Wandered to the window and opened the curtains with a careless wave of his hand. Dull light spilled onto the carpet, sunshine filtering through gathering cloud. The other Gerald frowned. “It’s going to rain. Bloody weather. Y’know, once I’ve got a few other little things sorted out I think I’ll look into some meteorological thaumaturgy.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Want to help? It could be fun.”
“Ah-yes. Why not?” he said carefully. “You’re right, that-ah-does sound like fun. But just getting back to what-”
“Forget it,” snapped the other Gerald. “The diffident act doesn’t fool me. Nothing you do will fool me, Professor. Not only because you are me-well, the old me, anyway-but because since we took our different paths I’ve worked very hard to develop my skills. My potentia. So don’t waste your time. We’ve got better things to do than shadow box each other.”
Gerald let out a shaky breath. “All right then. Straight talking. I can do that. I’m thinking it was New Ottosland. You ignored Reg’s advice and got your hands on Lional’s collection of grimoires, didn’t you?”
The other Gerald’s lips curved in a small, scornful smile. “And you didn’t.”
“No. It wasn’t necessary. I still defeated Lional.”
“So I gather,” said the other Gerald, so disparaging. “And all your victory cost you was your sight.”
Unbidden, his fingers came up and touched the skin beneath his blind eye. “Only half of it. I manage. And I’d rather lose my eye than my humanity.”
“Oh, please,” said the other Gerald. “I give you fair warning, Professor-being lectured puts me in a very bad mood. And whoever’s doing the lecturing tends to end up pretty damned sorry.”
It felt like the air in the bedroom had chilled by a swift ten degrees. “D’you know,” he said softly, “you sound uncannily like Lional when you say things like that.”
The other Gerald shrugged. “Then don’t lecture me, old chap, and you’ll be spared the trip down memory lane.”
He wiped a hand across his mouth, trying to banish the foul taste of bile. “So what happened? Did you lose your nerve? Doubt yourself? You shouldn’t have. You shouldn’t have let fear make-”
“Be careful, Professor!” the other Gerald snapped, and raised a clenched fist. Bright blue thaumic power danced over his skin, crackling the air. “I don’t permit anyone to speak to me like that.” His lips bared in a snarling smile. “Not even me.”
Gerald straightened his spine. The important thing was not to show weakness. Rabid dogs always attack when they scent fear. “Something tells me you wouldn’t have brought me here only to kill me ten minutes after we met.”
“Kill you, Professor?” His counterpart’s eyebrows shot up. “Don’t be ridiculous. But it’s only fair to point out I’ve no problem with hurting you.”
He braced himself, waiting for something terrible to knock him to his knees. But nothing happened. Instead, the other Gerald sighed again and lowered his fist. “This is silly. We’re meant to be friends. How can we not be friends when you and I have so much in common?”
And that was the question, wasn’t it? Just how much did he and this-this other Gerald have in common? Take away the dark magic and how alike were they, really? If the theories and suppositions were correct, he and this man who looked like him had at least started out the same person.
So are we still alike enough for me to reach him? Alike enough for me to stop whatever insane plan he’s cooked up, that he wants me to be part of?
He had no idea yet. He needed more time-and more information. “You took them all in, didn’t you? Every last incant in those grimoires Lional stole from that criminal idiot Uffitzi.”
A small, crimson flame flickered deep in the other Gerald’s shining eyes. “Yes, I did, Professor. And let me tell you-it was the best decision I’ve ever made. I mean, I had power before. I had lots of power. But until those grimoires I had no idea what to do with it.”
“And now you do?”
“Yes, Professor,” said the other Gerald, and laughed. “Now I do.”
He cleared his throat. “Congratulations. Don’t suppose you’d like to let me in on the secret?”
The question was bold. Almost aggressive. He half-expected another threat-or worse. Instead, his counterpart thrust his hands in the pockets of his expensive silk dressing-gown and considered him in silence, through half-lidded eyes. Then, after a nerve-shatteringly long pause, he smiled.
“All in good time, Professor. All in good time.”
Bugger. It was never encouraging when villains said things like that.
And is that what he is? Is that what I became here? A villain? Is this Gerald the kind of wizard I’d be hunting, back home?
Stupid question. Of course he was.
I don’t understand. My didn’t Reg stop me? How could she stand by and let something like this happen?
Reg. Oh lord, he had to ask. And whatever the answer, he’d have to bear it. “And where’s our little feathered friend?”
“Who? Reg?” the other Gerald said carelessly. “She’s around somewhere. I’m sure you’ll see her sooner or later. Why, did you think-” He blinked, as though genuinely surprised. “Oh, Professor, come on. Anyone would think I’m a monster. But really, how can I possibly be a monster when I’m you?”
Dizzy with relief, he closed his eyes. It was crazy to care so mu
ch, of course. The Reg in this world wasn’t his Reg. Just as the woman in the thin scarlet silk dress wasn’t his Emmerabiblia. And yet… and yet…
It doesn’t matter. I still have to save them from what’s happening here. I have to save him, from himself if nothing else.
But to do that he had to survive. And to survive he had to play along, at least until he had a better idea of what he was dealing with. Until he’d found this world’s Monk, and seen Reg, and Melissande. If they were still themselves then he might have a chance. But if they weren’t… if they’d turned, like Bibbie…
No. No. I’m not going to think about that.
He opened his eyes. “All right. Bottom line, Gerald. Why the hell did you bring me here?”
The other Gerald heaved a theatrical sigh. “Well, it’s about time. I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever get to the point. Was I always this slow on the uptake, I wonder? Or is this simply a by-product of interdimensional travel?” He pulled a face. “Gosh. I hope not. When Monk emerges from his inventorly trance we’ll have him test you, or something. Because if traveling between worlds has fried your synapses, Professor, I’m going to be forced back to the drawing board. Again.”
“Monk’s inventing something? What?”
“I’m not telling you,” said the other Gerald, horrifyingly playful. “It’s a surprise. Now come on. Get dressed. It’s way past time for breakfast and I’m starving.”
The old, ornate mahogany wardrobe opposite the window was identical to his own. But the clothes inside it…
“I can’t wear these! ” he protested, looking at the boldly colored velvets and silk brocades. “They’re not me. I’ll look like a bloody-”
“Yes?” said the other Gerald, fingers caressing his black-and-gold silk lapel. “Like a bloody what, Professor?”
“Idiot,” he said, feeling suddenly reckless. “You can wear what you like, Gerald. That’s your business. But I wear tweeds or twill or wool. And if you don’t like it, feel free to send me home.”