Wizard squared ra-3

by K. E. Mills

  “I’m not saying I agree with your uncle, or the rest of those Ministry dodderers,” she said. “I don’t. If it was up to me I’d hand you a big bag of money and say have at it! Invent me something to make the world a better, safer place!”

  He slid his arm free of hers and walked away a few paces. Shoved his hands back in his pockets and brooded down at a portable thaumic cauldron he’d said was cooking up a new and improved hex to keep Gerald’s silvery eye brown. Then he glanced at her.

  “But?”

  “But you’re forgetting about the politics of the situation,” she said gently. “And politics-”

  He pulled a face. “I hate bloody politics.”

  “I know you do, but so what? Politics is the sinew of our society, Monk. And like it or not you have to take that into account. You can’t just-”

  “No, Mel. What I can’t,” he said, turning on her, his eyes wide and full of turmoil, “is stomach this constant interference. You know, they take my work, my inventions, the ones they find out about, anyway, or that I tell them about, and the ones I’m working on down at R amp;D, and once they’re out of my hands I don’t know what happens to them. I don’t know what they’re doing with them. I don’t know if they’ve been stuck on a shelf in a warehouse somewhere, or if they’ve handed them over to some other wizard to-to fiddle with-or-” He folded his arms over his head and stamped his haphazard way around the attic, neatly avoiding his various works-in-progress. “At least I know what happens to the work I do here, Mel.”

  She’d never seen him so upset. “I don’t understand,” she said, after a moment. “Monk, are you saying you don’t-you don’t trust the people you’re working with? That you don’t trust the government?”

  With a heavy sigh he slumped against the pushbike she’d pedaled so hard. “No, I’m not saying that,” he muttered. “I just wish I had more control over what I do. Over what gets done with what I do. That’s all. Especially now, with me answering to Uncle Ralph and Sir Alec.”

  “I thought you said the arrangement wasn’t working out too badly.”

  “It’s not,” he said, and heaved another sigh. “Sir Alec says I’m making an important difference, even though he won’t go into detail. I mean, he’s a sneaky, secretive, unscrupulous bastard but funnily enough I do trust him.”

  Oh, dear. “But not your Uncle Ralph?”

  “No,” he said, grudging. “I trust him too, even though he’s an interfering, self-righteous prig. But the thing is he doesn’t work alone, does he? Neither of them does.”

  “Monk…” Stepping carefully, mindful of what her young man would say if she so much as nudged one experiment a hair’s-width out of place, she joined him at the dratted pushbike and took his hands in hers. Squeezed lightly, reassuringly. “I think you’re worrying for no good reason. You’re letting your imagination run away with you because you’re tired and crotchety and you don’t like being bossed.”

  He managed a small grin. “Well-that’s not entirely true. I mean, it depends on who’s doing the bossing, doesn’t it?”

  “Oh,” she said, feeling her cheeks heat. “Well-”

  His fingers tightened around hers. “Melly, I do wish you’d reconsider. Things are different now. With Bibbie moved in here, and Gerald, nobody could accuse you-accuse us-of doing anything improper. I’m the owner of the establishment, my sister’s the housekeeper and Gerald’s a lodger. You could be a lodger too. It’s all perfectly respectable. And there are so many empty rooms in this old pile I’d hardly notice you were here. Seriously, how much longer can you keep on living in that horrible little cubbyhole at the office?”

  I’d hardly notice you were here. Now there was a romantic invitation… “It’s respectable to have a male lodger and a relative for a housekeeper, yes,” she said, shaking her head. Pretending his careless comment didn’t hurt. “But that’s as far as it goes, Monk. Especially since I’m not like other people.”

  He groaned. “Oh come on, Mel, don’t start with all that I’m a princess malarkey again. This is Ottosland, we don’t believe in roy-”

  “Not constitutionally perhaps, but the social pages of the Times believe in it with a passion,” she retorted. “And I am not about to do anything that will reflect poorly on Rupert. Besides, I like my little cubbyhole. It’s peaceful, it’s private, and it’s very economical. I’m particularly fond of the walk to work.”

  Now it was Monk’s turn to shake his head. “I just don’t understand how you can bear to be cooped up in that little box. After growing up in a palace? It makes no sense to me.”

  And it makes no sense to me why you’ll ask me to move in here like a lodger but you won’t suggest a-a formal arrangement.

  But she couldn’t bring herself to say those terrible words out loud. For all that she’d railed against tradition back home, there were some time-honored practices she was happy to support. Like being the marriage propos ee, and not the propos er. Because there was bossy and then there was overbearing and she had no desire to cross that particular line.

  “Yes, well, you don’t have to understand it,” she said. “All you have to do is accept it.”

  Monk grumbled something under his breath, then shrugged. “Fine.”

  They were still holding hands. That was something, wasn’t it? That was-was encouraging. A sign. Wasn’t it?

  I wonder, is it being overbearing if I try to-I don’t know-nudge things along a bit? Drop a not-so-subtle hint?

  “Monk, I-”

  A flapping of wings, and then Reg was perched on top of the half-open attic door. “Oy, you two, that’s quite enough surreptitious canoodling to be going on with, thank you. Mad Miss Markham says to tell you that she’s finished telling Gerald all about Mr. Frobisher and she’s so famished now she’s beginning to feel faint, so if you don’t come downstairs this instant and start cooking her those promised pancakes then she’s going to start cooking them herself.”

  “God, no,” said Monk, paling, and let go of her hands. “She’ll have the whole kitchen on fire. Come on, Mel. Quick. Before the house goes up in flames around our ears and I’m out on the street looking for a cubbyhole of my own.”

  So they trooped on down to the cozy kitchen and she made what felt like hundreds of pancakes, each one crisp and light and flavored with laughter and friendship. Monk had abandoned the notion of keeping on a full-time staff after his late Great-uncle Throgmorton’s people refused to return to Chatterly Crescent, even though the sprite that chased them away had been sent packing to its home dimension. But it didn’t matter. He and Bibbie and Gerald managed between them, more or less, and if sometimes little chores like pantry-stocking got left up to her, well, she didn’t mind. It made her feel… needed.

  At last even Bibbie pushed her plate away. “If I eat another bite I’m going to explode,” she announced. “That was wonderful, Mel. Y’know, if the agency does end up going ass over eyebrows you can always hire yourself out as a cook.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Gerald, around his own last mouthful.

  Monk was grinning. “And you can count on us for references.”

  “Thank you so much,” she said with a sarcastic curtsey. “Truly, I’m touched.” She glanced at the kitchen clock, quietly ticking. “Golly. Look at the time.” A tug and a twitch had her apron strings untying. “I’ll have to head home. I’ve still got some I ’s to dot and some T ’s to cross with the Frobisher business.”

  “So don’t you sit there like a rabbit in the headlights, Mr. Markham,” said Reg, with a rattle of tail feathers. “Go fire up your jalopy so you can drive us back to Witches Inc.”

  “Oh,” said Monk, whose grin had faded. Now there was an all-too-familiar glazed look on his face. “Yes. Um-”

  Gerald shook his head. “Bloody hell, Markham. You’re hopeless, you know that, right?”

  “Don’t tell me, let me guess,” Melissande said, resigned. “You’ve been struck by a thaumaturgical thought and you need to follow through on it without delay.”<
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  At least Monk had the grace to be embarrassed. “Ah-”

  “It’s all right,” said Gerald. “I’ll drive you and Reg home.”

  “What?” said Bibbie. “No. I can drive-”

  “No, Emmerabiblia, you bloody well can’t!”

  The chorus of refusal was deafening. Bibbie stared back at them, offended. “Honestly, you lot. I fixed the mangled fenders, didn’t I? What more do you want?”

  “I want back the ten years you scared off my life, ducky,” said Reg. “That’s what I want.”

  As Bibbie lapsed into sulky silence, Gerald picked up the jalopy keys from the bench. “All set?”

  Monk slid off the kitchen stool. “I’ll-ah-I’ll walk you to the front door.”

  Melissande lifted her hand to him. “That’s all right. I’m tolerably sure I can remember the way by now. Reg?”

  Quietly snickering, Reg jumped onto her shoulder.

  “Good night, Monk,” she said, with all the dignity she could muster, and hung her apron on the back of the kitchen door. “Bibbie, I’ll see you in the morning. Please don’t be late, and don’t forget the post.”

  Gerald opened the kitchen door for her and she walked out, her head high… even as her heart broke, just a little.

  CHAPTER NINE

  You see,” said Gerald carefully, as he backed the jalopy out of Monk’s dilapidated garage, “the thing is, when it comes to thaumaturgics he just can’t help himself. He’s always been like that, ever since I’ve known him. Well. According to Bibbie, ever since he was born, practically. So…”

  “I’m sorry, Gerald, but I’m not entirely sure what it is you’re trying to say,” Melissande replied in absolutely her snootiest princess voice ever. And that meant her feelings really were hurt. Dammit, Monk. Sometimes I really could kick your skinny ass. “And by the way, if you don’t steer to the left,” she added, still snooty, “you’re going to undo all of Bibbie’s work on the fenders.”

  He bit off a curse and wrenched the old jalopy’s wheel hard to the right, swinging its rump just in time to clear the converted stable yard’s crumbling brick gatepost.

  “Ha,” said Reg, perched on the back of the jalopy’s rear passenger seat. “And you’ve got the nerve to call Madam Scatterbrain cockeyed.”

  Ignoring Reg he slowed, shifted the jalopy out of reverse then swung its long, blunt nose to follow the narrow driveway out to Chatterly Crescent, where he rolled to a stop. The autumn night was cool and damp, a drizzle misting before the vehicle’s bug-eyed headlamps. Thanks to the lateness of the hour the sweepingly curved street was quiet, muted lights shining cozily behind every curtained window. All those nice ordinary people, living their nice, ordinary lives. And to think he used to be one of them… those days seemed a long way off now. Another lifetime. Another Gerald Dunwoody. Abruptly melancholy, he breathed out a sigh.

  But would I go back? if there was a way, would I undo Stuttley’s and the rest of it? Wipe my life clean and go back to being that Gerald? Apologetic… marginally competent… longing for more and so afraid I’d never get it.

  The thought made him shudder. No, he was thrilled he’d left that Gerald behind. But then, remembering the price others had paid for his transformation, for his secret dreams of greatness spectacularly coming true, all pleasure died… and he felt nothing but a drowning guilt.

  “Oy,” said Reg from the back seat. “Bugalugs. Have you fallen asleep?”

  He shook himself out of pointless regret. He was who he was now. Nothing could change what was done to him. What he’d done. The only thing that mattered was what he did next.

  Chatterly Crescent remained empty of traffic. Over to the right the looming bulk of the Old Barracks cast shadows across the uneven cobblestones. The drizzle, thickening towards rain, dripped with rising determination down the windshield so he activated the wipers as he eased the jalopy into the street.

  “No, Gerald, that’s the horn,” Reg said helpfully, as an ear-splitting caterwaul shattered the peaceful night.

  “Really?” he shouted, and tried one of the dashboard’s other buttons. “I would never have guessed.” He glanced at Melissande again, hoping to surprise a smile, but no. She was still frowning. Still regally distant. Brooding over Markham, though she’d never admit it.

  Bloody hell, Monk. Have you got rocks in your head? Are you besotted with Her Royal Highness or aren’t you?

  The answer, of course, was yes. Monk adored Melissande. So it was an absolute mystery to him why his friend was holding back, why he hadn’t come right out and unequivocally declared himself. Sure, things had been a bit tricky lately, what with him being tugged to and fro between the demands of his superiors in Research and Development and Sir Alec. And then of course there was the latest unpleasantness over his extra-curricular experiments-but what did any of that have to do with romance?

  Nothing. And it’s not like he’s an idiot, or completely inexperienced. There have been other young ladies. Not many and not for long, but still.

  Which perhaps meant that this was the first time Monk had been genuinely… smitten. And perhaps that was the explanation for his reticence in a nutshell.

  Sleepy Chatterly Crescent came to an end, which meant they had the choice of turning left or right onto The Old Parade. Hitting the right indicator button, which produced an orange hand on a long lever, its fingers making a singularly impolite gesture- bloody hell, Monk! — he eased the jalopy into the sporadic westwards traffic flow. And that gave him an excuse to glance at Melissande. No two ways about it, she was definitely fed up-and quite possibly on the brink of tears. Which was so unlike her that he felt his stomach sink.

  I’m no good at this. I think it’s time to change the subject.

  “So, Melissande, I was wondering,” he said after a few moments of frantic brain-racking, as the jalopy chugged along with its narrow tires hissing on the wet road. He had to be a bit careful along here, they needed to turn off The Old Parade any tick of the clock. Easing back on the accelerator, he leaned over the steering wheel and peered through the windshield. Drat it, where was the turn-off? The night’s mizzling rain was making the world all smeary…

  Melissande shifted in the passenger seat to stare at him. “Yes? Wondering what, Gerald?”

  Hitting the indicator button again then changing down gears, he eased the jalopy to a grumbling idle and waited for an oncoming horse-and-carriage to pass. The horse was soaked, its ears pinned back to show its lack of enthusiasm.

  Poor thing, and on a horrible night like this, too.

  “Gerald!” Melissande said sharply. “Wondering what?”

  He blinked at her. “What? Oh-yes-sorry-about this problematical Frobisher person.” The hard done-by horse trotted sullenly by, carriage in tow, and he made the turn across The Old Parade. “Will you be all right dealing with him or would you like me to-”

  “Thank you, Gerald,” said Melissande icily, “but I’m perfectly capable of handling one dyspeptic senior citizen without a man’s assistance. Or a wizard’s, for that matter. In case you hadn’t noticed we are living in the modern era. It’s amazing what women can do these days without the help of men. Or wizards.”

  “Although the same can’t be said for vice versa,” added Reg. “You do know you’ve just gone the wrong way down a one-way street, Gerald?”

  Bugger. He’d turned too soon. It was all Monk’s fault.

  There was nobody coming towards them and nowhere to turn around anyway so he took a deep breath, put his foot down on the soggy accelerator and nudged the jalopy along a bit faster with the merest hint of a speed-em-up hex. Nipping out of the entrance to the one-way street, barely avoiding an unfortunate encounter with a cab that was traveling far too fast for the prevailing conditions, he eased back on the jalopy’s accelerator and the thaumaturgic rev-up and settled into the fitful traffic bowling along Central Ott Way, which would take them in more or less the direction of Witches Incorporated’s modest office.

  Melissande was so qu
iet. He glanced at her sidelong. Lord, she really was upset-and some instinct told him it was about more than just Monk and their unromantic romantic entanglement. So what else could it be?

  “How’s Rupert?” he asked casually. “Have you heard from him lately? Everything going all right back home?”

  “Rupert’s fine,” she said, distant, staring through the rain-speckled passenger window. “He’s very busy, working on his modernization program. Not everyone’s as enthusiastic about it as he is.”

  “Tradition with a capital T digging its heels in?”

  She shrugged. “Something like that.”

  “You’re not wishing you were back there, giving him a hand?”

  “ Lord, no,” she said. “And anyway, Rupert doesn’t want me involved. He says the idea of me in trousers and business is one thing but the fact of it just now would make his job harder, not easier.”

  Right. So probably she wasn’t homesick. What did that leave? He could feel Reg settled on the back seat, loudly not saying any number of things.

  Thanks, ducky. You’re a bloody big help, you are. The one time I could use some unsolicited advice…

  Really, though, there was only one other explanation for Melissande’s glum mood. He glanced at her sidelong again. From the look on her face there was a very good chance she’d bite his head off for asking…

  But she’s my friend and she’s miserable. And if I’m right it’s partly my fault.

  In which case he owed her the chance to do some biting.

  “So, Melissande, I suppose it’s time we talked about the agency. You know, how this new arrangement of ours is working out.”

  Behind them Reg snorted, softly. Melissande stiffened as though he’d stuck her with a pin. Ah-hah. In his new line of work that was called a clue.

  They hadn’t talked about it since he’d joined the girls at Witches Inc., but he strongly suspected that she still hadn’t come to terms with the agency’s new and unusual circumstances. Even though Sir Alec had kept his word-at least so far-which meant there’d been no government interference with how the agency was run-well, unless you counted clients like Arnold Frobisher-still… he thought she was unhappy. He thought she was resenting the loss of her autonomy.