by K. E. Mills
She might be prevaricating, but she was still right about the carpet. It was unsavoury, and dangerous. He retrieved a biscuit tin from the pantry, tipped its chocolate chip contents onto a plate, dropped in the bloodstained carpet and hexed the lid firmly shut.
“Happy now?” he asked the bird, waving the sealed tin under her beak.
She grunted. “Ecstatic.”
“I’m thrilled.” He hid the tin at the back of the top shelf in the pantry, then returned to the table. “And now you can bloody well stop dodging me, Reg. What the hell has Sir Alec, any Sir Alec, ever done to you?”
Fluffing her feathers, Reg pretended a culinary interest in chocolate chip biscuits.
“Reg.”
She gave him a look. “What?”
“Talk to me!” he insisted. “I want to know why you’re so convinced he’s the enemy!”
Mumbling imprecations, Reg hopped from the table to the back of the nearest chair and rattled her tail until its long brown-and-black striped feathers dangled neatly downwards. Then she heaved a great sigh and fluffed herself like a broody hen.
“I never said he was the enemy. And I know Gerald has time for him, so he can’t be all bad even if he is a manky government stooge.”
Monk felt his empty belly rumble, and reached for a biscuit. “He’s not bad, Reg,” he said, around crumbs. “He’s difficult, but that’s hardly the same thing. I mean, look at you.”
“Cheeky!” Reg snapped. Then she shook her tail, hard. “All right, if you must know … I can’t bear to look at the man. And that’s because every time I do, I see my Sir Alec, don’t I? And I remember how I begged my Gerald not to set him on fire then leave him burning alive until the end of time. But my Gerald wouldn’t listen to me. I failed. And so—”
Reg’s scratchy little voice broke, a dreadful sound of anguish. Biscuits forgotten, Monk picked her up and cradled her against his chest. She felt as fragile as a captive soap bubble.
“Reg, don’t do this,” he pleaded, fingers gently stroking her drooping wing. “It doesn’t help. Come on. Didn’t you agree, in this very kitchen, that we weren’t going to flog the corpsed horses any more?”
“I might have,” Reg muttered.
“Then for pity’s sake, enough! Because when you look over your shoulder, Reg, you’re making me look over mine. And I can’t keep tormenting myself with maybe and what if and why didn’t I. I can’t. I have to move on.”
Reg wriggled herself out of his grasp to land flat-footed on the table. Gazing up at him, she tipped her head to one side.
“Deary, deary me,” she said gently. “That manky blood magic hex proper took it out of you, didn’t it?”
He dragged his sleeve across his face. “I’m fine.”
“Eat another biscuit,” she suggested. “Rumour has it chocolate’s almost as good as brandy.”
Another biscuit would make him ill. “No, I’m fine.”
“Good. Then you can tell me what’s going on with Gerald that’s got you and Sir Alec scared spitless.”
Damn. He was hoping she’d forgotten. His gaze flicked to the closed pantry. “I don’t know that anything’s going on, exactly. It’s just … that blood magic hex is vicious. The worst kind of thaumaturgy.”
“I know, sunshine,” she said quietly. “I felt it. And yet seemingly our Gerald handled it like it was no more dangerous than a kitten.”
Monk felt his mouth dry. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.”
“No, you’re not, and neither is Sir Alec,” Reg retorted. “You’re worried, my boy. I’m worried. This is Gerald we’re talking about. It’s his left-over grimoire magic. And if that’s not worth worrying over, I don’t know what is.”
Feeling helpless, he stared at her. “Oh, Reg. What the hell are we doing to do?”
“What d’you think? Get the rest of those manky hexes out of him the minute he’s home.”
“If I can,” he said. “Reg—”
“Don’t you start that! You’re Monk Markham, raving lunatic and genius.” She chattered her beak. “Now why don’t you take yourself off to bed for a nice eight hours of shuteye. Your face is enough to frighten a sober woman to drink.”
“I can’t,” he groaned. “We’re testing the new and improved oscillating tetrathaumicle containment field this morning and if I leave Walthorpe and Dalrymple to their own devices they’ll blow up the lab. Or kill each other the old fashioned way, with their fists, because Dalrymple can’t mind his own business and Walthorpe won’t put up with being bossed.”
“Ha! And you call yourselves grown men.”
“Among other things.” Creakily, Monk got to his feet. “I’ll have a bath. That should help.”
But even as the watery heat soaked the ache from his muscles, the ache in his heart and mind, the briar-patch memories in his potentia, combined to rob him of relief.
Lord, I hope Gerald’s all right. I hope he and the girls are having better luck than me.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Melissande!” cried Hartwig, practically shoving past her into the stateroom’s parlour. “My dear gel, are you all right?”
Rolling her eyes, Melissande tactfully closed her stateroom’s door. “Yes, Hartwig, of course. I didn’t fall into the Canal. That was Miss Slack.”
“Indeed it was, the clumsy creature,” said Hartwig. He pulled a large red silk handkerchief from his blue velvet coat pocket and dabbed the anxious sweat from his brow. “And I hope you’ve scolded her severely for giving you such a terrible fright.”
“Actually, I’ve been a bit more concerned with making sure she hasn’t contracted pneumonia, but—”
“And as for all those fools who jumped in the Canal after her!” Hartwig flapped his handkerchief to emphasise his distress. “Nine of them. Nine! Including my idiot of a brother. What the devil were they thinking?”
“Ah … that it would rather put a damper on the wedding celebrations if Miss Slack were to drown?”
“Yes, but she didn’t drown, did she?” said Hartwig, sounding almost aggrieved. “Wretched gel swims like a frog from what I saw. Didn’t need one man diving in after her, let alone nine.”
“And how is Prince Ludwig? I hope he’s not caught a chill as a reward for his heroics?”
“He’s fine,” said Hartwig, scowling. “They’re all fine. I’m the one who’s not fine. Because now we’re going to be late for the luncheon at Little Grande Splotze! I’ll never hear the end of it from that old hag Erminium. She’s complained at me for a whole hour without stopping to take a breath! And Brunelda just sits there, with gout, being no help at all!”
Oh, dear. “I am sorry, Hartwig. You’re right. Miss Slack deserves a good scolding.” And she’d been getting one, from Gerald, but that was another story entirely. “As for Little Grande Splotze, perhaps it’s not such a disaster. We can celebrate over dinner just as easily as lunch, can’t we?”
“That’s the new plan, yes,” Hartwig grumbled. “A message has been sent ahead to arrange it. But that’s not the point, my dear. The point is that this little kerfuffle gives the Dowager Queen of Borovnik an excuse to find fault with Splotze. Just like the crab puff disaster gave her an excuse. I tell you, Melly, the way that bloody woman’s carrying on you’d think she was having second thoughts about her daughter marrying Ludwig!”
Oh, for pity’s sake. Not another sabotage suspect, surely! Hiding her dismay, Melissande offered Hartwig a sympathetic smile. “Poor Twiggy. It sounds like you’ve had a terribly trying time. I’m mortified to be the cause of it.”
“No, no, no!” cried Hartwig, turning towards her with his arms outstretched. “My dear Melissande, no! Believe me when I say that you are my sole refuge in the storm!”
Short of running away, there was nothing she could do to avoid his embrace.
“Oh, well, Hartwig, I’m sure that’s not entirely true,” she said, wriggling to avoid the worst of his wandering hands. “I’m sure dear Brunelda is with you in spirit, even if her
sad affliction means she can’t throw Erminium overboard as a gesture of support.”
Hartwig chuckled. “Minx. You shouldn’t say things like that. You’ll give me ideas.”
He already had ideas, drat him. Pushing his hand off her behind, she stepped back. “Honestly, Twiggy, why don’t you tell the Dowager Queen to direct her concerns to your Secretary of State? Let Leopold Gertz deal with her. I mean, you didn’t just bring him along for decoration, did you?”
“Oh, Leopold,” said Hartwig, in deep tones of despair. “That’s the worst thing about nepotism, Melly. It means you have to employ family.”
“He’s family?” she said, discreetly retreating to a safe distance. “I didn’t know.”
“My third cousin’s second husband. There was a gambling debt. And some monkeys. And an ostrich. All very sordid. I’d rather not talk of it, if you don’t mind.”
“No, no, of course not,” she said quickly. “In fact, Twiggy, I don’t mean to be rude, but I really should get back to Miss Slack.”
“Oh,” said Hartwig, disappointed. “Well. If you must, you must.”
“But it was lovely of you to come and make sure I was all right,” Melissande said, holding the cabin door open for him. “And please thank Prince Ludwig for me. He was very gallant.”
Hartwig cleared his throat. “Gallant. Yes. Well, of course y’know, Melly, I’d’ve dived in to save Miss Slack for you myself, only by the time I got there, well, nine men in the drink already, and I’ve got this old hunting injury, and—”
“Yes, yes,” she soothed. “I know, Hartwig. I know. Please, don’t give it another thought. I’ll see you for dinner. Lovely. Thank you!”
Heaving a sigh of relief she shut the cabin door behind him. Then, with a certain amount of dread, she returned to her bedchamber where Bibbie, bathed clean of Canal water and changed into dry clothes, sat wrapped in a blanket. Gerald, fuming, stood in a corner.
“—are making me very cross, Algernon!” Bibbie was saying, her cheeks pink with vexation. “Because I could tell you the story a hundred more times and nothing would change! I don’t remember what happened after I felt that tainted convulsion in the ether, and rushed off the promenade deck to find where it came from. It’s all gone.”
Gerald raised both hands in frustration. “Yes, Gladys, because there’s a good chance you’ve been hexed. So now we have to get the memory back.”
“Get it back?” Bibbie tugged her blanket more closely round her shoulders. “What d’you mean?”
“I mean I might know a way of jogging things along.”
Silence, as Bibbie stared at him. Then she shook her head. “No.”
He took a step towards her. “Bibbie—I mean Gladys—”
“No,” she said. “And don’t ask me why, Algernon. You know perfectly well why.”
“But I don’t,” said Melissande. “Would someone care to explain?”
Still looking at Bibbie, Gerald smiled, painfully. “She doesn’t trust me.”
Didn’t trust—oh. Of course. His grimoire magic. Damn.
“Don’t be stupid, Algernon,” Bibbie said. She couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “It’s not about trust, it’s about being prudent. You shouldn’t take it personally.”
He shrugged. “It’s a bit hard not to, Gladys.”
“Actually, Algernon, she’s got a point,” Melissande said, going to stand with Bibbie. “What if you tried something dubiously thaumaturgical on her and things went pear-shaped? She’d have to go home, which means I’d have to go home, which means you’d have to go home, and what would Sir Alec say then?”
She was right, and he knew it. A muscle leapt along his jaw. “Fine,” he said, turning. “So what do you suggest?”
He was asking her? Well. He must be feeling dire. “Obviously,” she said, “in my capacity as guest reporter for the New Ottosland Times, I interview the nine men who threw themselves into the Canal after Bibbie. There was so much hysteria and confusion at the time that there’s at least a score of wildly differing bystander accounts. We need to get the facts straight. And if those nine men were close enough to try and rescue Gladys, chances are that at least one of them was close enough to see what really happened just before she went over the hand rail.”
“Exactly,” Bibbie agreed. “But there’s something else to consider. What if one of those nine men is the man with the tainted thaumaturgics?”
“And he dived overboard after you to do what?” said Gerald. “Make sure you couldn’t tell anyone what you’d found out? And failed purely by chance? Wonderful.” He sat in the bedchamber’s other chair. “I knew bringing you two along was a mistake.”
Melissande felt a stab of fright. “Wait. Are you saying this means our villain knows he’s in danger of discovery? Does it mean your life is at risk now, Bibbie?”
Bibbie frowned. “Gladys. And I suppose it could be, only …”
“Only what?” she said, goaded. “What are you talking about? And how can you be so calm about this?”
“Why are you cross with me?” Bibbie demanded. “You’re the one who always says panic doesn’t solve anything!”
“Both of you settle down,” Gerald snapped. “And then you can tell us, Gladys, what you meant by only.”
“Well, at the risk of sounding self-serving,” said Bibbie, “if our villain does think I’ve unmasked him, that means I must’ve done something rather stupid to betray myself. And I don’t think I did. I may want to slap you silly now and then Algernon, but I’d never do anything to harm you or this mission.”
“Right then,” Melissande said, very briskly, because there was far too much emotion sloshing about her stateroom’s bedchamber. “So we’re all agreed it’s unlikely Miss Slack is in danger or that the mission’s been compromised.”
“Yes,” said Gerald, slowly. He was still looking at Bibbie, who was looking at him. “But we should be especially vigilant anyway. Just in case.”
Yes. Because the mission had to come first, so there could be no prudent running away. Melissande stared at the floor.
Only a madman would choose this life, surely.
She looked up. “Of course, and in the meantime I interview these nine men, you stand by taking notes, and with luck, if our villain is among them, you’ll know. All right?”
Gerald nodded. “That sounds reasonable.”
Well, praise the pigs for small mercies. “Then, Mister Rowbotham, I suggest we collect your writing case and start our interviews,” she said, still brisk. “I’m sure the New Ottosland Times’ subscribers will be thrilled to read all about the daring Canal rescue of Her Royal Highness Prince Melissande’s beautiful lady’s maid Gladys.” She pointed a finger at Bibbie. “Only this time, Miss Slack, you’re bloody well staying put. Show your face outside of this cabin before we get back and I swear by Saint Snodgrass, I’ll pitch you back into the Canal myself!”
They weren’t far from Little Grande Splotze by the time they’d finished interviewing all of Bibbie’s would-be rescuers.
“We might as well have saved our breaths,” said Melissande, as Bibbie helped her dress for dinner. “Because after nine hideously boastful accounts of today’s adventure, here’s what we can say happened for certain. While you were chatting with various minions on the promenade deck, you suddenly took ill and rushed back down to your cabin. Tragically, however, before you could reach it, you were overcome by your mystery ailment and knocked on someone’s door asking for help. Nine someones came dashing to your assistance, including Prince Ludwig but excluding—and I’m sure this will shock you—the Lanruvians, who it seems are allergic to heroics as well as crabs. But before our nine dashing heroes could clutch you to their stalwart, manly chests you’d had some kind of fit and tumbled into the Canal. Naturally, being men, they tumbled in after you, and were so busy fighting each other off for the chance of being the one to save you from a watery grave that they almost succeeded in drowning each other. So it was left up to me and Ratafia to haul you out of the drin
k. Which we did. The end.”
“Oh,” said Bibbie. “Well. That’s not much help. Whose door was I banging on? Because while I don’t remember, I’ll bet it’s important. I mean, I do know I wasn’t really sick. I was pretending. I’ll bet the man with the rotten thaumaturgics was behind that door and I was cunningly attempting to get a good look at him!”
Melissande fastened the clasp of her gold-and-sapphire bracelet. “That’s what Algernon thinks, too.” Except he didn’t say cunningly, he said stupidly. But you don’t need to know that. “Unfortunately, according to our sterling parade of witnesses, we have four doors to choose from, belonging to Peeder Glanzig, Hever Mistle, Grune Volker and Stani Hoffman.”
Bibbie stopped checking a silk stocking for pulled threads and stared. “Hever Mistle jumped into the Canal?”
“Yes.” She grinned. “Clearly he’s more athletic than he looks. Or more besotted.”
Putting down the first silk stocking, Bibbie took up the second and made a show of carefully unrolling it. “I can’t help noticing Algernon wasn’t one of the nine.”
Oh, Bibbie. “He wanted to dive in, but I wouldn’t let him. He needs to stay as inconspicuous as possible. You know that. Gladys …”
“Here you go,” said Bibbie, and handed over both stockings and their garters. “Do you want your gown next; or your shoes?”
“Gown,” she said, and began putting on her stockings. “Look. About Algernon. You do trust him, don’t you? I mean, you’re not afraid of him. Are you?”
Instead of answering, Bibbie made a fuss about slipping the dark green velvet evening gown from its hanger.
“Bibbie.”
“If Algernon hears you calling me that,Your Highness, he’ll go spare.”
“Bugger Algernon,” Melissande said, and caught hold of Bibbie’s hand. “Are you afraid of him?”
“No,” said Bibbie. “But I am worried for him, Melissande. He’s different.”
“Well, yes,” she said, puzzled, “and I agree, it is worrying. But we knew that before we came.”