by K. E. Mills
Melissande retreated to the client armchair and sprawled, heedless of wrinkling her day dress. When Reg didn’t make a cutting remark about princesses who carried on like ruffian football players—and why not? Is it because she doesn’t know she’s supposed to, or because I really am in disgrace?—she fixed Monk’s beautiful, temperamental sister with an earnest gaze.
“I’d tell you if I could, Bibbie, only Sir Alec refused to tell me. Not the particulars, anyway. According to him, all we need to know is that Gerald will be on assignment, I’m to provide him with a reason for being there and you’re coming along to protect my reputation. Absolutely no janitoring from us, at all, under any possible circumstances whatsoever. Or else.”
“What?” Bibbie sat up, fresh colour rushing to her peaches-and-cream cheeks. “D’you mean to say we’re going as—as—gels?”
She nodded, gloomily. “I’m afraid so.”
“Oh! That manky Sir Alec!” Incensed, Bibbie zapped her bowl of paperclips with such a strong levitating hex that instead of floating, they melted.
“Do be careful, Bibbie!” Melissande protested. “Paperclips don’t grow on trees. Melt any more and I’ll have to dock your wages.”
“Really?” Bibbie folded her arms. “D’you know, Mel, you’ve never been the same since you did that stint in the Wycliffe Airship Company office.” Her hot stare shifted. “Don’t you think so, Reg? Don’t you think she’s just like that dreadful, miserly Petterly woman? I swear, next thing we know she’ll be pilfering the bloody biscuits!”
“Petterly woman?” said Reg. “Sorry. Never heard of her.”
And lo, the second ghastly silence of the day.
Clearly mortified by the mistake, her sapphire-blue eyes wide with dismay, Bibbie reached a hand towards Reg, then let it fall. As though she hadn’t seen the gesture, Reg ruffled her feathers then sleeked them to her too-slender body.
“Think I fancy a lazy turn or two about the city. I’ll see you young hoydens at supper. Mind my mince is fresh, or we’ll be having words.”
And with a soft flapping of wings, she hopped around on the windowsill, launched herself into the mid-morning air and swiftly vanished.
“Blimey,” said Bibbie at last. “How awful. Mel, you have to believe me, it was an accident. I just didn’t think, I keep forgetting she’s not—that she wasn’t here for the Wycliffe case or—really, they look practically the same, and—”
“It’s all right, Bibs,” Melissande said gently. “We’re still getting used to her. Reg understands it’s going to take time for things to settle down.”
Bibbie shivered. “If they ever do.”
“They will,” she said, sounding far more confident than she felt. “Now, about this wedding business …”
“Yes?” Bibbie said, brightening a little. “What?”
“Even though Sir Alec clutched his cards so close to his chest I’m astonished he could breathe, I’m positive that trouble really is brewing. I think something’s happened to his janitor in Splotze. And that can only mean there’s a certain amount of—well—”
“Danger?” Bibbie’s eyes sparkled. “Excellent. I’m so tired of Gerald and Monk having all the fun. It’s about time you and I were allowed into the thick of things! Gels.” She made a rude sound. “By Saint Snodgrass’s elbow, I’ll give them gels.”
Helplessly, Melissande stared at her. At moments like this, Bibbie seemed like a child. But then, was it fair to expect she’d understand? She hadn’t seen Lional and his dragon and what they’d done to New Ottosland. To Gerald. Evil had never left its filthy fingerprints on careless, mercurial Emmerabiblia Markham.
“Excuse me?” said Bibbie. “Melissande Cadwallader, don’t you dare think at me in that tone of voice! I know exactly what I’m letting myself in for, thank you. Wasn’t I in Permelia Wycliffe’s firing line when she was brandishing the poisoned hairpins? Didn’t I shadbolt myself on purpose to help Monk?” Her lips trembled. “And wasn’t I standing mere inches away from that other Monk when he died?”
“Yes,” Melissande admitted. “But this is different, Bibbie. We’ll be in a foreign country, a long way from home and help. If someone really is trying to disrupt the Splotze-Borovnik wedding, well, chances are they’re not wearing kid gloves.”
Bibbie shrugged. “So? I don’t always wear kid gloves myself, you know. Trust me, Melissande, if anyone tries to get clever with me, or with you, or with Gerald for that matter, I’ll—”
“Yes, but Bibs, don’t you see?” Bubbling with agitation, she shoved herself out of the client armchair and picked her way between the office’s clutter of furniture. “That would be precisely what Sir Alec’s trying to avoid.”
The potted Weeping Fireblossom was looking parched. Needing a moment to think, she fetched the watering can from her room and splooshed the poor thing.
“We simply can’t rush about Splotze drawing attention to ourselves, Bibbie,” she added, setting the emptied watering can by the office door. “That might put Gerald in even worse danger than he’ll already be in. Besides, I’m going to this wedding in my official Royal Highness capacity, remember? Which means whatever I and my staff do will reflect upon Rupert. I won’t have him embarrassed or backed into an awkward corner or embroiled in some ghastly international incident because of you, is that clear?”
“Yes, Your Highness,” said Bibbie, sickly sweet.
Glowering, Melissande returned to the client armchair and sat, trying not to notice the unoccupied ram skull on top of the filing cabinet. “You can joke all you like now, Bibbie, but once we’re in Splotze you will have to call me Your Highness. You won’t be able to speak in public until you’re spoken to. And you’ll have to wear very plain, very unBibbie dresses. Trust me, you aren’t going to enjoy being my lady’s maid at all.”
Bibbie waved an airy hand. “Nonsense. It’s going to be a rollicking adventure. But I give you fair warning, Mel … I’ll do my best not to embarrass you, but I won’t stand idly by twiddling my thumbs if I see Gerald’s in trouble. Besides, we both know that if I didn’t save him you’d never speak to me again.”
Unfortunately, that was true. Filled with foreboding, Melissande nibbled the edge of her thumb. Then a thought occurred. “Of course, Bibbie, if your parents object to the idea of you coming with us, and Sir Alec can’t convince them to let you risk yourself on his say-so, then—”
“Stop sounding so hopeful,” said Bibbie. “The Markham hasn’t been born yet who’d think twice about throwing his or her offspring onto the sacred altar of duty.”
“Oh.” So Sir Alec had been right about that? Damn. She nibbled her thumb again. “Yes, but your mother is a Thackeray, and—”
“And when it comes to duty,” Bibbie said, grinning, “the Thackerays think the Markhams are amateurs.”
Really? No wonder Monk was so driven to be the best Research and Development thaumaturgist in government history.
But even so …
“I think perhaps you’re underestimating the strength of parental feeling,” she said. “After all, Bibbie, you are their only daughter.”
“What’s that got to do with the price of eggs?”
“Well, it’s a bit late now for them to think of hatching a replacement, isn’t it?” she pointed out. “You know. If anything happened to you.”
Bibbie’s grin faded. “Oh yes, I see what you mean.”
“So maybe you shouldn’t set your heart on coming with us, just in case your mother and father—what?”
Staring into mid air, Bibbie was holding up one intimidating finger. “Melissande,” she said, dreamily thoughtful. She wound a curl of blonde hair around the finger. “Your brother. Rupert. By any chance is he still about?”
A little pang. “No. He had to portal home again before anyone realised he’d popped out.”
Bibbie pouted. “That’s a pity. I suppose, since you’re going to Splotze on his behalf—well, his and Sir Alec’s—he’ll be greeting you—us—upon our return? Congratulations on a job well done, an
d so on, and so forth?”
“I don’t know,” she said, trying to blink away the memory of Rupert’s worried, washy blue eyes as Sir Alec hustled him out of the office before they’d had the chance to talk properly, in private. “Probably. Why?”
Instead of answering, Bibbie yanked open her desk’s middle drawer and pulled out her small but exquisitely calibrated, very expensive personal crystal ball. Fingers dancing over its surface, she hummed a vibration address under her breath, then waited. A moment later, from her vantage point in the armchair, Melissande saw the back of someone’s head swim into focus out of the crystal ball’s clouded depths.
“Oh,” said Bibbie, staring at the someone’s face. “It’s you, Aylesbury. I don’t want you. I want Mother. What are you still doing there, anyway? I thought you were meant to be in Aframbigi on business.”
“I’ve been delayed,” said the deep, not unattractive voice of Monk’s older brother. “I’m going tomorrow, or the next day. Not that it’s any business of yours. Why do you want Mama?”
Although Bibbie smiled, her eyes remained scornful. “I’ve something to tell her. Not that it’s any business of yours. Now do stop being difficult and fetch her, would you?”
The back of Aylesbury’s head vanished, to be replaced a moment later by the back of a head covered in tight blonde curls. Sofilia Markham. Melissande felt herself shrink a little. She’d met Monk and Bibbie’s mother a number of times since she’d taken up residence in Ott, at this social event and that one. Their encounters had been perfectly polite. But even though Sofilia Markham knew that her younger son was paying attention to the king of New Ottosland’s only sister, there’d been no invitation issued to a dinner at the Markham mansion. No, not even to a piddling afternoon tea.
And even more telling, as far as she knew Monk had not once pushed for it.
Is it any wonder I lurch from one day to the next without any idea if he’s serious or not? I mean, if he can’t make up his mind, how am I supposed to make up mine?
A question it was best she didn’t dwell on. At least not at the moment. But sooner or later, she’d have to.
Sofilia Markham was going on about some important university dinner she and her genius husband were due to host. Bibbie sat stiff and straight in her chair, mouth opening and closing as she tried to get a word in edgeways.
In the end she gave up and shouted. “Mother! Please! There’s something I need to tell—I mean, ask you!”
Interrupted mid spate, Monk and Bibbie’s mother caught her breath. “What?”
Bibbie smiled, winningly. “Well, Mother, the thing is, Melissande—my friend the princess, remember?—well, her brother King Rupert has asked her to do a favour for him, but she can’t unless I do a favour for her. So I need you to say that I can. Do this favour for Melissande, I mean. Which, you know, is like me doing a favour for King Rupert.”
The back of Sofilia Markham’s head looked suddenly very interested. “Really, Emmerabiblia? How terribly fortunate. Wonderful timing! What kind of favour?”
“Well, she’s had a change of heart, and now she is attending the Splotze-Borovnik wedding for her brother, King Rupert, and she wants me to go too. As a companion. You know, royal protocol and so forth. Because she’s a princess. So can I go with her, Mother? Please?”
Melissande stared. How many times did Bibbie need to mention Rupert’s name? Or his title? Or her own, for that matter? Did Bibbie think her mother’s wits were wandering? And what did Sofilia Markham mean, this was terribly fortunate and wonderful timing? That was a very odd thing to—
Bibbie’s fresh squeal of delight shattered the thought.
“Oh, Mother, thank you! I knew you’d think it was an excellent idea. And you’ll smooth Father’s feathers if they get ruffled, won’t you? I mean, it’s funny how things turn out, isn’t it? Gosh. Only, y’know, I think this should be our little secret. Not a word to anyone but Father. Because you just know that nasty cat Honoria Diddlecombe and her crowd will turn grass green with envy when they hear, and then try and spoil things for me. And now I must dash, I’ve got so much to do. If I can’t come to dinner before we leave, I promise I’ll come as soon as we get back. Thank you, again. I’ll see you soon, I hope. Goodbye!”
As Bibbie disconnected the crystal ball vibration, Melissande pushed out of the client armchair. “Bibbie—”
Holding up that imperative finger, Bibbie tugged the office telephone towards her—in the interests of fair play, this month it took pride of place on her desk—and dialled.
“Yes, hello, this is Emmerabiblia Markham. I wish to speak to Sir Alec.”
With a roll of her eyes, Bibbie listened to the voice on the other end of the telephone.
“No—no—now, look, I’m sorry, I think you mustn’t be paying attention,” she said, interrupting. “This is Emmerabiblia Markham. Now stop being tiresome and fetch Sir Alec to the telephone, or transfer this call, or whatever it is that you do out there at Nettleworth.”
“Really, Bibbie,” Melissande murmured, not sure whether to be appalled or impressed. “Have you never heard the one about catching more flies with honey than vinegar?”
Bibbie huffed, impatient. “Yes, well, if I was there I’d just bat my eyelashes at him, wouldn’t I? But I’m not, so I have to be firm. If you knew—oh! Sir Alec! This is—oh. Good. Well, then, I’m just calling to let you know that my parents are perfectly fine with me going to Splotze with Gerald and Melissande, and they’ve said they’ll keep it secret, so there’s no need for you to speak to them, or send Uncle Ralph to do it, if that’s what you were thinking. In fact, it would be a good idea if you didn’t mention this to Uncle Ralph at all. Not until I’ve gone, anyway.—Why?” Bibbie rolled her eyes again. “Fancy you having to ask me that, seeing as he’s your friend.—Well, because Uncle Ralph is tediously old-fashioned about some things and—” More eye-rolling. A sigh. “Yes, Sir Alec. Yes, Sir Alec. Yes, I promise, Sir Alec.—Didn’t I just say I would? Yes. Goodbye.”
“What did you promise?” said Melissande, as Bibbie slapped the telephone receiver back in its cradle.
Bibbie groaned. “What d’you think? That I’d remember I’m not a janitor, that I’m going as a lady’s maid and nothing more, and that I won’t go looking for trouble or distract Gerald or give him away. Honestly.” She returned her crystal ball to its place and pushed the drawer sharply shut. “You’d think Sir Alec thinks I’m a nincompoop.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Melissande said, cautious. “A bit over-enthusiastic sometimes, perhaps.”
“Ha,” said Bibbie, scowling. “I’ll give him overenthusiastic.” Then her expression lightened. “But never mind boring, stuffy Sir Alec. What matters is that Mother’s agreed I can go, and she’ll make sure Father doesn’t get all twitty and mulish and difficult about it.”
“Yes,” she said, and folded her arms. “Let’s talk about that, Bibbie. Not that I’m not pleased you’re coming, but you did rather belabour the point about doing King Rupert a favour.”
“Did I?” said Bibbie, the picture of innocence.
Melissande gave her a look. “You know bloody well you did. What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“No, it’s something,” she retorted. “Bibbie, by any chance is there a ridiculous notion floating about the Markham mansion that perhaps you and my brother might possibly—I mean to say, that you and he could—”
She couldn’t finish the preposterous sentence.
Bibbie heaved her deepest sigh yet. “Well … yes.”
“Emmerabiblia Markham!”
“Now, now, Mel, there’s no need to panic,” Bibbie protested. “I’m not the one dreaming of tiaras. It’s a silly idea Mother’s got into her head, that’s all. I mean, as you say, the notion’s ridiculous, isn’t it? Me marrying your brother and you—”
Surely three ghastly silences in one morning was setting some kind of record.
“Look,” said Bibbie, very sober now. “Mel. If it’ll help, I
’ll have a word with Monk. I’ll do more than have a word. I’ll hex him to the eyebrows until he—”
“No!” she said, and banged her fist against the filing cabinet. “Emmerabiblia Markham, you’ll keep your nose out of whatever it is that’s between me and Monk. I know you mean well, and I appreciate it, truly, but you really must mind your own business.”
“All right,” said Bibbie, after a moment. “Only whatever you’re going to do about it, I wish you’d hurry up. The fun is fast going out of watching you two treading all over each other’s toes in this dance.”
“Really?” Melissande said crossly. “Then I suggest you close your eyes, and tell me where you’ve got to with Doctor Jellicoe’s bunion plasters.”
Chilled, Gerald watched the desperate message from Abel Bestwick for a third time. He could feel Sir Alec’s tightly controlled impatience like a blast of hot air from a furnace. And of course, his enigmatic superior was right. Even if he watched the recording a hundred more times he’d glean no further information from it. The blood wouldn’t suddenly become any less red and Abel Bestwick’s pain and fear wouldn’t magically diminish.
“The wedding tour leaves Grande Splotze in three days,” said Sir Alec, very cool, as though the sight of his janitor bleeding like a stuck pig was neither here nor there. And who knew? Perhaps it wasn’t, to him. He’d been in the business a long time. “And it will wend its way around the capital’s home districts before returning to the capital to celebrate the nuptials. King Rupert has agreed to suffer an incapacitating stomach complaint, thus opening the door for Miss Cadwallader to represent New Ottosland at the festivities.”
Impressive. Sir Alec’s reach had no limit, apparently. “And I’ll be going with her?”
“As Her Royal Highness’s personal secretary,” said Sir Alec, his chilly grey eyes ever so faintly amused. “And general dogsbody.” The amusement faded. “Miss Cadwallader will also be accompanied by Miss Markham, who will act as her lady’s maid.”
Gerald blinked. Blimey. When Monk hears about this he’s going to go spare. He could easily go a bit spare himself. Bibbie, playing at janitor? His Bibbie? Well, all right, so she wasn’t precisely his. Most likely would never actually be his. But he cared about her. More than cared about her, if he could bear to let himself admit the truth.