by K. E. Mills
Monk was gaping. “How can I, Bibbie? You know the terms of the old fogie’s bequest! Gels cannot be permitted to set up their own establishments. I might not agree with him, in fact you know I don’t, but I’m stuck with his instructions.”
“Why? The houses belong to you now,” said Bibbie. “Surely you can do whatever you like with them.”
Monk dragged ink-stained fingers through his floppy hair. “Only up to a point! And I’m sorry, call me selfish if you like, but that point stops short of me breaking the terms of the will and seeing both places given to Aylesbury.”
“Well,” said Reg, head cocked towards Bibbie. “He’s got you there, ducky.”
“I know,” sighed Bibbie, and pulled another face. “But it’s still not fair.”
“Not fair?” Reg rattled her tail feathers. “Don’t you talk to me about not fair, madam. I’m the queen of not fair, not to mention Lalapinda.”
“Lalapinda doesn’t count,” said Bibbie, wrinkling her nose.
“It certainly does!” Reg snapped. “I was usurped, ducky. That throne still belongs to me!”
“You were usurped more than four centuries ago, Reg. The moment, as they say, has passed.”
“It’s done nothing of the sort. I’m still alive, which means I’m still the queen. I’m queen-in-exile, that’s what I am. Lalapinda’s current throne-sitter’s bum is polishing stolen property!”
Overcome by an excess of feelings, Reg launched herself off the chair-back and flapped around the dining room, swearing under her breath.
Melissande looked at Bibbie. “You had to do it, didn’t you? You had to bring up Lalapinda.”
“I didn’t bring it up,” Bibbie protested. “She did. She brings it up every chance she gets and I’m telling you, Mel, I’m pretty bored by the subject. Do you know how tedious it can be, hearing someone banging on and on and on about something that was over and done with four hundred years ago and can’t be changed?”
Melissande looked at her. “Give me a moment. Let me think…”
“ Ha!” said Reg, skidding along the table top. She collided with the salt cellar and came to a spectacular halt in a shower of condiment. “That’s telling her, Princess Pushy!”
“How many times do I have to say it, Reg, don’t call me that!” said Melissande, and seized the dreadful bird by her legs so she could hang herself upside down and flap all the seasoning from her drab brown plumage.
“Now who’s being told?” said Bibbie, still rankled.
Melissande plopped a saltless Reg back on her chair and sighed. “I’m sorry, Bibbie, I don’t mean to be nasty, but honestly, you have been-”
“Well, it’s all right for you, isn’t it?” said Bibbie, eyes swimming with angry tears. “You’re a royal highness, you’ve got a palace to go home to, haven’t you? Any time you get sick of pretending to be an ordinary person you can swan off back to New Ottosland and prance about in a carriage all day waving at your adoring subjects. You don’t have a stinking rich Great-uncle Throgmorton who says gels are good for nothing but marriage and doesn’t leave you so much as a teapot in his will. How would you like it if you knew you were as gifted as your genius brothers but couldn’t amount to anything because the world of thaumaturgics is run by stodgy old wizards.”
Too shocked to be stung by Bibbie’s cheap shot, Melissande stared. “I’m sorry,” she said gently. “I had no idea you were this upset about it.”
Bibbie folded her arms. “Yes. Well. Now you do.” She scowled at Monk, who was just as nonplussed. “You both do.”
“But-but Bibs,” he said, uncertainly, “there’s the agency. Nobody’s stopped you and Melissande from opening the agency.”
“They didn’t have to, did they?” said Bibbie. “Opening the agency was the easy part. But keeping it open? That’s the trick!”
“Don’t you stare at me in that tone of voice,” said Melissande as Monk regarded her reproachfully. “You know things are a bit slow at the moment.”
“I get the feeling it’s worse than a bit slow. You should have told me, Mel.”
“When? You’ve been working around the clock for weeks!” she retorted. “This is the first meal we’ve sat down to at the same time in the same place since the fourth of last month.”
“Well, what about the other night, at the opera? We saw each other then.”
“Only because of Department politics and anyway, who could talk over all that caterwauling? Besides-” She shot Bibbie a quelling look. “It’s nothing to worry about. We’re fine.”
“Doesn’t sound like you’re fine,” said Monk, unconvinced. “It sounds like-”
“Like Bibbie in a bad mood because of Great-uncle Throgmorton,” she said firmly. “Forget it. Honestly, Monk, you’ve only just winkled your way back into the Department’s good graces. You need to focus on keeping your nose clean, not worry about the agency’s teething troubles. Which won’t last much longer, I have no doubt,” she added, with another stern glance at Bibbie.
“Yes, but still,” said Monk, sounding hurt. “You could’ve mentioned it in passing. I know I can get a bit wrapped up in my work but I do care, you know.”
Yes, he did care. Even when he was consumed by the fires of thaumaturgical invention, Monk Markham cared. It was only one of the many reasons why she was so fond of him.
Smiling, she reached over the salt-scattered tablecloth and rested her hand on his. “And I appreciate it.”
“Oh please,” said Reg, gagging. “I’d be sick, if I’d eaten anything yet. Are we getting to the second course any time soon, by the way, or should I just start on my toes?”
“Sorry, Reg,” said Monk. “Second course coming up.”
He tugged on the servant’s bell rope… and it came loose in his hand amidst a gentle snowstorm of plaster.
“Oh,” he said. “Y’know, I’m really starting to resent whoever it was made the rule about wizards not being able to use their powers for personal gain. The Department doesn’t pay its scientists a fraction of what it’s going to cost me to repair this mouldering pile!”
“Actually,” said Bibbie, dusting plaster off her shoulders, “it was Great-great-great grandfather Thackeray who thought up that one, Monk. Yet another blithering dunderhead who should’ve been pruned off the family tree.”
“Excuse me,” said Monk, and pushed back his chair. Returning to the doorway, shedding bits of plaster like dandruff, the bell rope dangling from his hand like a murdered snake, he stuck his head into the corridor. “Dodsworth! Dodsworth? We’d like the second course now, please!”
Eventually the roast beef and dumplings and various vegetable side dishes arrived, only slightly shrivelled. After the meal was served, Dodsworth cleared his throat and looked down his nose at Monk.
“Cook’s apologies, sir, but there’ll be no strawberry syllabub dessert this evening.”
“No?” said Monk, torn between apprehension and crushing disappointment. “Ah-why not?”
“Because, sir,” said Dodsworth, rigidly disapproving, “Cook is wearing it.
Monk blinked. “Oh. I see. Well. I’m sorry about that.”
“So is Cook,” said Dodsworth. “I regret to say, sir, that pink is not her colour.”
The butler and the footman withdrew.
“Great-uncle Throgmorton?” said Melissande, surveying her laden plate with suspicion. If the old fogy really was haunting the place and his views on gels hadn’t been exaggerated, Saint Snodgrass knew what he’d done to the gravy.
Monk nodded dismally. “Great-uncle Throgmorton.” With an effort, he summoned a smile. “Silly old bugger. Let’s forget about him, eh? Let’s have a toast instead.” He raised his glass, which Dodsworth had three-quarters filled with a robust red wine. “To absent friends. Well, friend. To Gerald, wherever he is and whatever he’s doing!”
Melissande stopped her own glass halfway to her lips. “You mean you don’t know?”
“Haven’t a clue,” said Monk, shrugging. “Haven’t laid ey
es on him since that one visit to Nettleworth. Sir Alec’s lot play their cards very close to their chests. Not even Uncle Ralph knows what he’s up to. Believe me, I asked.”
Bibbie looked up from poking her fork through her spinach. Clearly she too was untrusting of her ghostly great-uncle. “Maybe he just didn’t want to tell you, Monk. You may be off probation with the Department but Uncle Ralph holds a grudge for years. He still hasn’t forgiven me for the time I turned his beard grass-green, and I was three.”
“True,” said Monk. “But I’m pretty sure he really doesn’t know. When he does know something and won’t tell, he gets this kind of smug twinkle in his eye. And when I saw him yesterday, he wasn’t twinkling.”
“Well, wherever Gerald is, he must be all right,” said Melissande. “We’d have heard if he wasn’t all right, wouldn’t we?”
“Probably,” said Monk, risking a mouthful of roast potato.
Reg looked up from dubiously inspecting her saucerful of minced raw beef. “Probably? What do you mean probably, sunshine? What kind of a Department are you people running? Wait, don’t tell me, I already know. You’re so busy impressing each other with your big bad secrets you let the little people fall through the cracks. Or worse yet, you treat them like cogs in the machine that can be replaced if they get broken! Well, my Gerald’s not a cog, young man, he’s my Gerald, and if you think you and your Sir Alec can-”
“Hey, hey, hey!” Monk protested, hands upraised. “For a start he’s not my Sir Alec. To be honest, I don’t think he’s anyone’s Sir Alec. As far as I can work out, Sir Alec calls his own tune and too bad if his masters don’t like it. Cards close to the chest, remember?”
“I don’t give a fat rat’s bum about tunes or cards or anything except Gerald!” said Reg, eyes flashing. “What’s more, I think it’s past time I checked up on that boy. Saint Snodgrass only knows the kind of trouble he’ll get himself into if I’m not around to steer him right. For all we know he’s been tossed arse over teakettle into his first assignment, and how’s he going to cope with it if I’m not there to-”
“Reg, don’t,” sighed Melissande. “You’ll give yourself indigestion. I’m sure Gerald’s fine. If he was in trouble someone would’ve told us. Anyway, it’s far too soon for them to send him out on assignment.” She turned. “Isn’t that right, Monk?”
“Mmm,” said Monk, hair flopping over his face, and attacked another roast potato.
Bibbie frowned. “ Mmm? What’s that supposed to mean? Is it too soon or isn’t it?”
“Good question,” said Reg. “Now answer it, sunshine, before I forget I’m a lady.”
Monk put down his knife and fork. “It means that given his… special talents… they put him on some kind of accelerated training program.”
“Accelerated training program?” Melissande exchanged an alarmed look with Reg. “What do you mean, accelerated training program? Are you saying they would send him off on assignment so soon?”
“I’m saying I don’t know,” said Monk. “Haven’t you been listening? Sir Alec is secretive. When I tried a little discreet question-asking I nearly got my head bitten off.”
“Well, that’s just not good enough!” Reg flapped her wings and rattled her tail feathers. “I’ve been patient, Saint Snodgrass knows I’ve been patient, but if Gerald’s out on his first assignment I want to know about it. So just you forget about finishing your dinner until you’ve found Gerald with a seeking incant so I can-”
“ Reg!” Monk pushed his plate to one side and leaned over the table, his expression a muddle of exasperation and earnestness. “Don’t you think I would if I could? Don’t you think I’m worried about him, too? He’s my best friend!”
Bibbie drummed her fingertips on the tablecloth. “You’ve already tried to find him, haven’t you, Monk? But you can’t.”
He took a deep, affronted breath, ready to bluster… then blew it out noisily. “They’ve got him muffled or screened or something,” he muttered. “I can’t pinpoint his location.”
“And if you can’t,” said Bibbie, deflating, “then nobody can.”
“Which means he could be in trouble!” said Reg. “Or even-even-”
“No, Reg, he’s not dead,” Monk said hastily. “I do know that much.”
“How can you be sure?” she demanded, chattering her beak. Her dark eyes were suspiciously bright.
Melissande rounded on her. “ Stop it, Reg. You’re being ridiculously melodramatic.”
“Melodramatic?” screeched Reg. “ Melodramatic? Have you developed spontaneous amnesia, madam? Who was it knew your deranged brother tried to kill Gerald in the woods? Me. And would anybody listen? No. And was I right? Yes. So if you don’t mind we’ll have a little less ‘You’re being melodramatic’ and a little more ‘Gracious Reg, you’re amazing, you can see trouble coming a hundred miles away with both eyes tied behind your back.’ I think we should kidnap that sneering Sir Alec and-”
“Reg, we’re not kidnapping anyone,” said Monk. “ Especially not Sir Alec. For the last time, Gerald’s not dead. I was able to get that much out of Uncle Ralph before he swatted me like a mosquito. Now can we please eat our dinner before it’s completely stone cold? If the plates go back to the kitchen untouched Cook will complain to Mother and I’ll never be allowed to borrow the servants again.”
So they ate dinner, Reg grumbling under her breath the whole time. When they were finished, Monk took them on a guided tour of the old house. It was long on dust, cobwebs and hidden passages, and short on pretty much everything else, including curtains and doorknobs.
“I’m afraid Great-uncle Throgmorton was a bit peculiar towards the end,” Monk explained, as he opened the door to the huge attic that occupied all the space beneath the roof.
“And does peculiar run in the family?” said Reg, perched on Melissande’s shoulder. “Because if it does, and you’re thinking of popping the question to madam here any time soon, you might want to think twice. There are the children to consider, after all.”
Melissande felt embarrassed heat wash through her. “ Reg!”
“Well, somebody’s got to say it,” said Reg, unrepentant. “We both know you’ll be thinking it.”
“No, Reg,” she said grimly. “Only you would think-or say-something like that.”
“ Anyway,” said Monk, pushing the attic door wide. “Here’s where I’m experimenting. See? Nothing sinister, nothing dangerous, nothing to worry the Department at all.”
“Provided they never get wind of it,” said his sister, peering in at the bubbling test tubes, the thaumic agitators, the etheretic quantifiers and the multidimensional wavelength gauges. “Honestly, Monk. No wonder you’re too skint to pay for servants and doorknobs. All this equipment! It must have cost you a fortune!”
Monk mumbled something and pulled the door shut. “So anyway, that’s the house,” he said, shepherding them back down the creaking stairs. “A bit decrepit, but with possibilities.”
“Provided you don’t blow the roof to matchsticks,” said Reg. “Because just between you, me and the cobwebs, sunshine, one of those thaumic agitators didn’t look entirely stable.”
“What?” He frowned. “Are you sure? Because I’ve realigned the wretched thing four times tonight! I don’t understand what’s going on, it won’t hold its settings, but I could’ve sworn I-”
Bibbie rolled her eyes. “Just check it again, Monk, or else you will blow the roof to matchsticks and we’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Right,” said Monk, backing up the staircase. “Right. Yes. Ah-look-this might take a while. I’ll have Dodsworth drive you home, shall I? Yes. Just give him a shout, Bibs, and he’ll bring round the jalopy. Thanks for coming, girls. I’ll see you both soon.”
“On second thoughts, madam,” said Reg, as Monk disappeared round the first bend in the staircase, “at the rate you two are progressing there’s absolutely no need at all to worry about the children.”
Melissande, staring after him, s
wallowed a sigh. Not even a chaste little peck on the cheek. Trust Reg to notice that. Sometimes I wonder, I really do wonder, if he remembers I’m Bibbie’s friend and not her sister.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go home, shall we?”
CHAPTER FOUR
Morning. Melissande groped for her glasses, slid them on, then rolled back onto her pillow.
After growing up as a princess in a palace, complete with courtiers, servants, extensively manicured gardens and frequent public outings to fulfil her “being ogled” duties, there was something deeply satisfying about living in a tiny bedsit in a tiny rented office on the top floor of an elderly four-storey building in a nook-and-cranny corner of a large and crowded city. It offered the kind of freedom she had never expected to experience, what with being a princess and then a prime minister, crushed beneath the burden of an entire kingdom’s welfare. Until Gerald hurtled into her orbit she’d more or less resigned herself to a life of duty, of obligation, of walking on eggshells around unpredictable, kingly Lional.
But Gerald… and Lional’s insanity… had topsy-turvied all her glum expectations and suddenly she’d found herself bereft of duty and obligation, given the chance to spread her wings, so to speak, and fly into a different future.
She’d snatched it with both hands and hadn’t looked back.
Here in Ottosland’s sprawling, cosmopolitan capital she was practically anonymous. She could walk the streets day or night and nobody stopped to point and stare. Or if they did it wasn’t because she was the local Royal Highness. The novelty of that was yet to wear off.
She’d definitely made the right decision… even if things weren’t entirely working out the way she’d planned.
As the city’s post-dawn symphony sounded beyond the bedsit’s single open window-chugging motor cars and clopping horse-drawn drays, optimistic street-sellers and barrow-girls and shrill messenger boys, barking dogs and rattling milk cans-she stretched beneath her blankets, luxuriating in the ongoing deliciousness of being plain Miss Melissande Cadwallader.