by K. E. Mills
“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.”
Silence, as Sir Alec contemplatively smoked what was left of his cigarette. When it was consumed he stubbed the butt against the flower pot’s rim. “I imagine it was… disconcerting… to watch yourself die.”
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 unfolding 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.”
Bibbie’s blue eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare, Mel. Of course we’ll see him again.”
“Bibbie…” She cleared her throat. “About Gerald. Do you-”
“Quite a lot, actually,” said Bibbie. Her chin trembled. “But you mustn’t tell him I said so. He’s got this ridiculous notion he can’t be happy because he’s a rogue wizard. And a janitor. That he’s too dangerous for me to love. All nonsense, of course, but there’s no point in me trying to convince him. I just have to wait for him to work it out on his own.”
“Wait for how long?” she said, after a moment.
“Well-as long as it takes, of course,” said Bibbie, surprised. “What a silly question.”
Yes. Of course. Very silly.
“Ah hah! ” said Bibbie, and pulled a book from the shelf. “Here we go. Shadbolts Through The Ages. Technically it’s a restricted text but I’ll say this for Great-Uncle Throgmorton-he didn’t give a toss about silly rules.” She tossed it onto the library’s deep, wingback reading chair. “I’m sure there’s at least one more, so come on, Mel. Keep searching. Sir Alec could come back any tick of the clock and I want to be ready for him. I don’t think I could stand one more of his withering looks.” She pulled a face. “I’m a girl, not an amoeba, but I don’t think he’s noticed.”
She had to smile. “Don’t be so sure. I mean, he’s middle-aged, Bibs. Not blind.”
“Oh, you,” said Bibbie, shifting to the next bookcase. “You’re as bad as Reg, you are.”
“Now, now,” she said, still smiling. “I’m sure there’s no need to get nasty, Emmerabiblia.”
Bibbie pouted. “Spoilsport.”
“Well, you know. I try my best.”
A cheerful fire crackled in the library’s small fireplace, throwing warm light and dancing shadows. Its four walls were lined ceiling to carpet with bookcases, and the bookcases were crammed tight with books. It was her favorite room in Monk’s house. Most of the collection he’d inherited from his rule-breaking great-uncle Throgmorton, a noted thaumaturgical bibliophile. His own books he’d jammed in around the edges, which was making the search for shadbolt texts something of a challenge.
The library door opened as she moved on to the next row, and Monk came in carrying a tray with a teapot, and four mugs. Reg flapped in behind him and landed on the back of the nearest chair.
“Did you remember biscuits?” said Bibbie, turning.
“No,” said Monk, and scowled at Reg. “Why didn’t you remind me?”
The bird rolled her eyes. “Because, sunshine, and I quote: ‘Offer me one more piece of advice about how to make a bloody cup of tea, Reg, and I swear I’ll transmog you into a boot.’ ”
“Never mind,” said Bibbie. “I’ll fetch some.”
“Not without me, you won’t,” said Reg. “You always pick the ones I don’t like.”
She and Bibbie left the library, bickering. Monk held out the tray. “The red mug. Milk and three sugars.”
Taking her tea, Melissande perched on the edge of the wingback chair. “Tell me the truth, Monk. Do you really think we can get Gerald back?”
He put the tray on the library’s low table, then shoved his hands in his pockets. “If he is where we think he is… I think there’s a chance.”
She felt her stomach lurch. “Only a chance?”
“Mel…” Ignoring his own mug of tea, Monk rubbed a hand over his tired face. “If he is where we think he is-” He shook his head. “It’s very bad.”
“I understand that, but-he’ll have me, won’t he? I mean, the other me. And he’ll have the other Bibbie. And Reg. He won’t be alone.”
“Mel, you heard the other Monk as well as I did,” he said, looking at her with eyes full of not-quite-stifled fear. “The other you, the other Bibbie… something’s not right there. We can’t assume he’s got anyone to help him.”
Fingers wrapped tight around the red mug, she took a sip of tea. The heavy porcelain chattered against her teeth. I heard him say he loved me. “Then that’s more reason to help. You are going after him, aren’t you?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I hope so.”
“You don’t-” She leaped up, heedless of the tea splashing her shirt. “Monk, we can’t leave him there!”
“D’you think I want to?” he demanded. “D’you think I can bear thinking we might? But Mel, we’re not even certain that he is in the other Monk’s world. And even if he is, I don’t know if going after him is possible.”
“Wha
t? Of course it’s possible. You’ve got the other Monk’s portal opener, haven’t you? You could go to his world right now, if you wanted. So what are you waiting for? Open the door!”
“Mel…” Monk folded his arms as though his chest was hurting him. “I can’t. Sir Alec said-”
“Oh, bugger Sir Alec!” she retorted. “What does he know?”
Monk pulled a face. “A darn sight more than he’s letting on, I’m guessing. Melissande-”
“Don’t you Melissande me, Monk Markham. Gerald’s your best friend and he saved my country. We can’t abandon him, Monk. We can’t.”
“Now, now, ducky,” said Reg, flying into the room ahead of Bibbie, who had biscuits. “Untwist your knickers.” Settling herself on the reading chair’s high back she looked down her beak, so irritatingly condescending. “Nobody’s abandoning anybody. Not while I’m around.”
“Hear, hear,” said Bibbie, dumping the plate of biscuits beside the tea tray. “What are you guffing on about now, Monk?”
Frustrated, Monk turned away and stamped over to the fireplace. “I’m not guffing, Bibbie, I’m-I’m trying to be objective. I’m trying to look at this mess with cold, hard eyes. And like it or not, all of you, this is what I see-just because we want to rescue Gerald doesn’t mean we can. We could do the right thing for the right reason and end up making things worse. And if you think it doesn’t bloody well kill me to-”
Melissande took a breath, ready to challenge him, but Bibbie beat her to it. “Of course it does, but that’s not the point, is it? What you’re saying is balderdash. Since when do you get cold feet, Monk Markham? We are Witches Incorporated and we can do anything we set our minds to.” Eyes glittering, she tilted her chin defiantly. “So drink your tea, eat a biscuit, then do as Sir Alec asked you and brush up on shadbolts. We’re going to be ready for that sarky bugger when he gets back.”
Impressed, Melissande watched Monk’s tense shoulders slump. Sighing heavily, he turned. Even in the warming firelight he looked pale. “Fine. But when he does get back, Bibbie, we’re going to do exactly what he says. Because what we’ve stumbled into-been dragged into-it’s bigger than anything we’ve come up against before. This isn’t only about our Gerald.”
