by K. E. Mills
Monk felt his face warm. “Oh. Sir Alec, I—”
“Which is why,” Sir Alec added, ruthlessly severe, “your thoughtless rompings are so frowned upon, young man. If we worry about the wrong people getting their hands on Mr. Dunwoody, you can believe we worry no less about you.” He shook his head, exasperated. “Dear God, you invented an interdimensional portal opener! By accident. Young man, you are lethal.”
“Um…” He cleared his throat. “Well. You know. Not on purpose.”
Sir Alec’s lips twitched. “The answer, incidentally, is no, Mr. Markham. The existence of parallel worlds is held to be nothing more than a fanciful, far-fetched theory.”
“Yeah,” he said. “All right. Only… there’s a dead man upstairs that proves the theory’s a fact.”
“Indeed there is, Mr. Markham,” said Sir Alec, most pensive. “But I suggest we tackle one hurdle at a time.” He rubbed the side of his nose. “I suppose the appalling bird is demanding that you all go charging off to rescue Mr. Dunwoody?”
“Yes, sir,” he said. “Although, to be fair, Reg isn’t the only one afraid of sitting around doing nothing. We all want to get Gerald back home safe and sound. I’m assuming you do too.”
Sir Alec reached inside his coat and pulled out one of the confiscated portal openers. Tossed it sideways without looking. “Catch.”
He snatched the innocuous stone mid-flight and wrapped his fingers tightly around it. Felt the sizzling tingle of powerful thaumics embedded deep in its igneous heart.
“So whose is that one?” said Sir Alec, contemplating the distant, twinkling constellations. “Yours? Or his?”
The trick, Gerald had told him once, was never to let Sir Alec get the upper hand. “Can’t you tell?”
Sir Alec’s lips twitched again, in what might have been a dry smile. “Pretend that’s the case.”
“His,” he said, and felt a funny little catch in the back of his throat.
“And how can you tell?”
Blowing out a breath, watching it mist the air, he rubbed his fingers over the other Monk’s extraordinary invention. “There’s a—a twist in the thaumics,” he murmured. “The operating incant’s matrix, it’s—different. More complex. Same principles as what I did with mine, only—expanded. And a lot trickier.”
Sir Alec nodded. “Could you get it to work, do you think?”
“Oh, yes. Absolutely. I mean, it’s keyed to my—I mean his—thaumic signature. Which is, y’know, my thaumic signature. Why? Did you want me to—”
“No, no,” said Sir Alec. “That’s quite all right. I believe you, Mr. Markham.”
“Fine, only if we are going to rescue Gerald then—”
Sir Alec stabbed him with a look. “I said no, Mr. Markham. First things first, understood?”
He swallowed. “Yes, sir. Understood.”
“I wonder,” said Sir Alec, his voice soft again, one pale brown eyebrow quizzically raised. “How long would it have been, d’you think, before you put the same thaumic twist into your own unsanctioned interdimensional portal opener?”
He felt his fingers fist again. “I can’t help it, you know. I mean, it’s not like I sit around twiddling my thumbs and thinking of ways to get up the Department’s nose. I don’t go out of my way to flout authority.”
“No?” Sir Alec slid his hand back inside his coat, withdrew a slim silver case and a lighter and took a moment to extract then ignite a fresh cigarette. With case and lighter returned to his coat, he inhaled deeply, then exhaled fresh smoke. “And if we went upstairs to your attic right now, Mr. Markham? What would we find?”
“Look,” he said, feeling another hot rush of blood to his face. “You don’t understand. Ideas come to me. I can’t stop them. Even while I’m sleeping, they fill up my skull. They never leave me alone. And if I don’t—if I don’t do something with them, if I don’t turn them from dream to reality, it’s like—” Frustrated, he yanked his hands out of his pockets and folded his arms. “I suppose you’re going to tell Uncle Ralph?”
Sir Alec looked at him, cigarette idly balanced between the first and second fingers of his left hand. His chilly gray eyes were lazily intent. “Just as a matter of interest, idle curiosity, no more than that—what are you working on, up in your attic?”
And now he knew how a rabbit felt, frozen in the middle of the road with a car bearing down on it…
If I tell him he’ll make me pull the plug. But if I don’t tell him he’ll—
“Relax, Mr. Markham,” said Sir Alec, his regard still intent. “I’m not a compliance officer. I only want to know because it’s likely we’ll soon be engaging in some… questionable… thaumaturgics. Given the delicacy of our situation I’m concerned we don’t inadvertently mix our etheretic messages. The last thing we need tonight is a complication of consequences.”
Questionable thaumaturgics? What did that mean? “Oh. Right. Well, I’ve got a few things percolating at the moment, as it happens, but only one big project.” He swallowed. “A multi-dimensional etheretic wavelength expander.”
Sir Alec stared at him. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“A multi-dimensional expander.”
“Yes.”
“And you thought that was a good idea, did you? In some fevered flight of deranged fancy you thought that tampering with the etheretic boundaries between dimensions was a productive use of your time? Is that it?”
Oh, bugger. “I don’t know if I’d put it quite like that, sir, but—yes.”
“Why?”
“What?” he said, blinking.
“Why did you think it was a good idea, Mr. Markham?”
There was another flower pot handy and he really wanted to sit on it, but he didn’t dare. The look in Sir Alec’s eyes had him sweating.
“Sir Alec—it’s what I do,” he said, feeling helpless. “I make improbable things probable. I—think outside what’s known and accepted. That’s what Research and Development is. And when I ended up disproving Herbert and Lowe’s notion that sprites are just another postulation of theoretical thaumaturgical metaphysics, well, it got me thinking and—”
“I’m sorry, said Sir Alec, one finger raised. “You proved the existence of sprites?”
He swallowed again. “Well, yes. But not on purpose.”
Sir Alec took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. His cigarette, forgotten, slowly burned itself to death. “No. Of course not. And tell me, Mr. Markham, whose cherished theory were you intending to accidentally disprove with this wavelength expander of yours?”
“Nobody’s,” he said warily. “I just thought it might be a good idea to get a stronger grasp of interdimensional thaumaturgics. You know. What with the sprite, and everything.”
“Yes,” Sir Alec mused. “I find it’s the and everything part that has me pissing my pants.”
“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “But—well—it’s not like anybody’s been hurt. And anyway, this is about exploration, Sir Alec. Exploration is always risky.”
Sir Alec nodded. “That’s true. But what is also true, Mr. Markham, is that you walk a fine line between bold and reckless. Genius is not infallible. Brilliance does not guarantee success.”
As if he didn’t know that. “So. Sir. Are you going to tell Uncle Ralph?”
“Perhaps,” said Sir Alec. “It depends.”
“On what?”
“I don’t know yet. Tell me, Mr. Markham… would you have done what your alternative self did? Fiddle with your portal opener until you hit the right etheretic harmonics in the right sequence at the right time to punch a hole between this metaphysical reality and the next?”
“Honestly?” He scuffed his heel to the cobblestones. “I can’t say. I might’ve done. Maybe not deliberately. Just—thinking about it, and jiggering. I might have.”
Sir Alec looked away. “As I said, Mr. Markham—you are a dangerous young man.”
“Not as dangerous as the Gerald next door, I promise you.”
That was one word for it. He felt the broken bits inside him shift, and stab. “A bit.”
“You’re all right?”
And that wasn’t a question he’d been expecting. Taken aback, he stared at his best friend’s unfathomable superior. “Yes. No. I will be. I’ll be fine once Gerald’s home. Sir Alec—”
Sir Alec stood. By his best guess there were some thirty years between them, if a calendar was used. But looking at the man’s face in the mud-room’s washing lamplight he realized, with a sickening swoop in his guts, that when it came to experience—and disconcerting experiences—the two of them were more like centuries apart. There was a grim endurance in Sir Alec that he’d never noticed before. And beneath that, a thin blade of sorrow that never lost its edge.
“Sir Alec,” he said again, and didn’t care how young and frightened he sounded. “What are we going to do?”
“What do you think we should do, Mr. Markham?”
He wanted to shout and stamp and wave his arms around.
Me? Me? Why are you asking me? You’re the one who cloak-and-daggers his way through life and takes afternoon tea with Lord Attaby and Uncle Ralph and is on a first-name basis with at least ten world leaders. Don’t ask me! I’m terrified and I don’t have a bloody clue!
But since he obviously couldn’t shout or stamp or wave his arms or say any of that, he pulled a face. “I think we need to find out what the Gerald next door has up his sleeve. Only short of actually going next door, I don’t see how we can. And I don’t see Lord Attaby giving us the nod to go sight-seeing around a parallel world. But even if he does give us a green light and we go—if I go—and it has to be me, since I won’t meet myself there—Sir Alec, it’s a bloody huge risk. I could get taken and if I get taken I’ll get used. That shadbolt…” He shivered. “Only how can I not go? We’ve got to get Gerald back. But if I am going I’d be mad to go in blind. Somehow we have to find out what I’d be walking into. Only I don’t have the first idea how.”
Another brief, dry smile. “A largely incoherent but not inaccurate assessment, Mr. Markham.”
“Thank you, sir.” I think. “So… you agree with me? You think I should—”
But Sir Alec wasn’t listening. “There’s something I need. I don’t have it with me. I must go and fetch it. While I’m gone, Mr. Markham, I suggest you study that other Monk Markham’s portable portal. Familiarize yourself with its incant matrix but under no circumstance attempt to activate it. The life of your friend—and perhaps the fate of our world—is absolutely depending on you controlling yourself. Is that clear?”
Chilled, he nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Also, you might like to refresh your memory on the construction of shadbolts,” Sir Alec added. “If you’re tempted to twiddle your thumbs before I return.”
Shadbolts? Why shadbolts? “Yes, sir. Um—Sir Alec—we are going to rescue Gerald, aren’t we?”
Sir Alec looked at him. “Yes. If it’s warranted.”
“If it’s warranted?” he said, incredulous. “And what the hell is that supposed to—”
“It means, Mr. Markham, that my job is frequently distasteful.”
“But Sir Alec—”
“Mr. Markham,” said Sir Alec, his cold eyes abruptly weary. “Save your breath. We both know Mr. Dunwoody will never again spare himself at the expense of other, innocent lives. You must come to terms with the notion we might not get a happy ending this time.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s nearly four a.m. How many hours has it been since your visitor expired?”
Stunned and dismayed, he had to think for a moment. “Ah—about five.”
Sir Alec frowned. “That’s cutting it fine but we should be all right. Back inside with you, Mr. Markham. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
“Well?” Reg demanded as he walked into the kitchen. “You were gone long enough. What’s going on? When do we go after Gerald? I hope you know I’m coming with you. You’ll need a good pair of eyes, and the wings’ll come in handy too. A flying spy, that’s what I’ll be.” She peered behind him. “Where’s that manky Sir Alec got to? What are you playing at, Mr. Markham?”
Abruptly exhausted, Monk dropped into the nearest chair. The other Monk’s portable portal was in his coat pocket, weighing him down. “Reg, I’m not playing at anything,” he said, around a face-splitting yawn. “I’m following orders.”
“What orders?” said Bibbie, still sitting at the table with her head propped in her hands. The long night was telling on her too, purplish shadows shading under her tired eyes. But at least she’d stopped weeping. He supposed that was something. “I’m with Reg on this one, Monk. What the devil’s going on?”
Melissande, being Melissande, had already washed their tea mugs and toast plates and was now doggedly blacking the old-fashioned kitchen range. As though tedious domestic tasks could somehow alleviate anxiety and grief. Blacking had smudged itself on the end of her nose and across one freckled cheek. Unlike Bibbie, she never could keep herself clean.
“At the risk of being accused of ganging up on you, Monk,” she said, “I’m going to throw in my lot with Reg and Bibbie. No more mysteries, please. Not tonight.”
“Sorry,” he said, and rubbed at his burning eyes. “Mysteries are all I’ve got. If I knew what was going on I’d tell you, but I don’t so I can’t. Sir Alec’s buggered off to fetch something. He didn’t say what. He wants me to get familiar with this—” He pulled the other Monk’s portable portal from his pocket and placed it on the table. “And brush up on shadbolts, the construction thereof. And no—” he added, as Reg opened her beak. “He didn’t explain why.”
Reg closed her beak with a snap, rattled her tail feathers and snorted. “I think I’ve had about as much of that Sir Alec as I can stomach,” she growled. “It’s time that young whippersnapper was put in his place.”
“Really?” Bibbie dredged up a grin. “Make sure you give me plenty of warning. I’ll sell tickets.”
“No,” said Melissande, and dropped the blacking tin and polishing cloth into the kitchen’s cleaning box. “You won’t. He’s only doing his job.”
“Ha!” said Reg, rolling her eyes. “And there she goes defending the bureaucrats again. I swear, ducky, there are days when I can’t tell which side of the bread you’ve spread your butter!”
Oh, bloody hell. He looked at Bibbie, who heaved a put-upon sigh then stood. “We’ve some books on shadbolts in the library,” she said. “Mel, come and help me find them, would you?”
As she and Melissande left the kitchen, he looked at Reg. The bird was hunched painfully on the back of a chair, feathers fluffed out again as though she were cold, or ill. He’d long ago given up trying to understand Gerald’s attachment to her—or her fierce devotion to him, for that matter. For himself he hardly knew how he felt about her. She was unbearably autocratic and sweepingly opinionated, given to tantrums and hectoring. But then in the next breath she’d be so funny and so wise, supportive, protective. Heart-stoppingly brave.
Talk about enigmas. She makes Sir Alec look as complicated as a blank sheet of paper.
Leaning sideways, he stroked his fingertip down her drooping wing. “We’ll find him, Reg. We’ll get him back.”
She rattled her tail again. “’Course we will,” she said, in a tone of voice that meant, Are you sure?
No. He wasn’t. But if he admitted that out loud he’d hex their chances for sure. “Hey,” he said. “I’ve always wondered—if I can ask—why Gerald? Of all the wizards you’ve come across since you were—” He cleared his throat. “In all this time. Why did you pick Gerald to adopt?”
For a moment he thought she wasn’t going to answer. Then she sighed, sleeked her drab brown feathers close to her body, and stared into the distance as though watching the sweet un
folding of a memory.
“He reminds me of someone,” she said softly, her eyes warm. “Someone I knew a long time ago.” Then her gaze sharpened, and she looked down her beak at him. “As for why he let me adopt him, Mr. Nosy Markham, and why he puts up with my crotchets and moods, you can ask Gerald that yourself when he gets back.”
If he gets back. If I can get him back. If Sir Alec lets me try. But he didn’t say that aloud. Instead he crossed to the sink, collecting the kettle on the way. “I could use a cup of tea,” he said, pretending he hadn’t seen the fear in her eyes. Pretending she couldn’t see the fear in his. “One to drink, this time. Do you fancy a mug?”
“Why not?” she said, after a moment. “Just make sure you warm the pot first.” She sniffed. “The man hasn’t been born who remembers that.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Crouched on the library floor trying to read book spines, Bibbie sighed. “Melissande, you’re staring.”
Melissande winced. Rats. And there’s me thinking I was being so surreptitious. “Sorry.”
“If you want to know something, ask,” said Bibbie, sitting back on her heels. “I mean, I might say none of your business but that’s not the same as biting your head off.”
“True.” She pressed her finger against the last book checked so she didn’t lose her place. “All right. So here’s the thing. I was wondering if you—that’s to say, I’ve been feeling somewhat—you see, there’s this—”
“Yes, Mel, Monk cares for you,” Bibbie said kindly. “And no, I’m sorry, I’ve no idea why he’s not made a formal declaration. All I can tell you is, well, don’t give up hope. He’s never once looked at anyone the way he looks at you. He’s just slow on the uptake. He is a man, after all.”
Suddenly ashamed, she stared at the old library carpet. “You must think I’m awful,” she murmured. “Worried about my silly feelings while Gerald’s missing and there’s a dead Monk upstairs and—” She bit her lip, shatteringly close to an inappropriate emotional outburst. “It’s just—I can’t bear to think about any of that. About how we might never see Gerald again.”