by K. E. Mills
“Of course he is,” said Reg. “Every last genius I ever met was both oars short of a rowboat. And even then you can’t trust them to paddle. Don’t see why your young man should be an exception.”
Melissande turned to Bibbie. “Did you know about this?”
Bibbie shrugged. “Of course.”
“And you didn’t try to stop him?”
“Stop him?” echoed Bibbie, eyebrows raised. “Why would I stop him? You heard him, Melissande. Inventing is what Monk does.”
Very carefully, Melissande folded her hands and rested them on the dingy white tablecloth. Saint Snodgrass, I beg you, give me strength… “Monk, as a recent beneficiary of your illegal inventing I suppose I shouldn’t criticise, but honestly. I do wish you’d think first and invent later. The stink from what happened in New Ottosland has barely evaporated. You’ve only just been released from probation. So why would you risk running foul of the Department again so soon after—”
“I’m not risking anything!” said Monk, defensive. His untidy black hair flopped over his eyes. As a rule she found it appealing, but now it annoyed her. He was hiding. “Because I am off probation, and that means I’m free to—”
“Frighten a bunch of servants with your thaumaturgical shenanigans!”
“Mel, I’m telling you, the domestic staff quitting has nothing to do with me!” said Monk. “It’s Great-uncle Throgmorton’s fault. He won’t leave.”
Bibbie sat back, staring. “What do you mean, he won’t leave? He’s dead, Monk. He left weeks ago.”
“Huh,” said Monk. “That’s what you think.”
Melissande exchanged a look with Reg. The wretched bird dropped one eyelid in a rollicking wink, clearly prepared to take her entertainment where she could find it.
Much help you are, Reg. Thanks ever so.
She turned back to her perplexing and frequently infuriating young man. “Are you saying the house is haunted, Monk?”
Monk slumped. “I think so. Yes. It’s the only explanation I can come up with.”
“But that’s silly,” said Bibbie. “There’s no such thing as ghosts, every wizard worth his staff knows that.”
“Well, someone forgot to tell Great-uncle Throgmorton,” said Monk morosely. “Because the boot boy swore blind the old geezer kicked him down the scullery stairs. Cook claimed he flattened five soufflés in a row. And both the parlour-maids were certain he pushed them out of bed. Twice! Sadie said he pushed her into the chamber pot—which she hadn’t got around to emptying. So everyone quit, which is why I had to ask Mother to lend me some of her people. But she can’t spare them for more than a few days because Father’s invited the High Hantofeermi of Tetin to stay with us after next week’s international symposium. And even if she hadn’t, and I could keep them, there’s already been muttering and they only got here this morning. I very much doubt this lot will stay the night. Oh, Bibbie—” He turned to his sister, beseeching. “I do wish you’d move in. You know how Great-uncle Throgmorton felt about gels. He’d run away screaming if he thought he’d have to share the house with you.”
“Well, Monk, flattered as I am by your generous offer,” said Bibbie, pink with crossness, “I’ll have to decline.”
“Decline?” Monk was almost wailing. “But why? I mean, you could have your own work room here, Bibs. You know you miss having your own work room. And I wouldn’t keep coming in telling you how you’re doing it all wrong, like Father always does. Why wouldn’t you want to move in?”
“Why?” Bibbie echoed. “I swear, Monk, for a genius you can be such an idiot. Because I’ve only just moved out of one family home, that’s why, and I’m not the least bit inclined to move into another. I like being on my own, thank you very much.”
“But you’re not on your own,” Monk objected. “You’re sardined in that boarding house with a bunch of other girls. Every time you turn around you’re tripping over one of them, you said so yourself.”
“Maybe I am,” said Bibbie, her colour still heightened, “but the point is, Monk, that not one of them is related to me and that’s as good as being on my own.”
Reg chuckled. “That’s the way, ducky. Twist the knife. The only good brother is a squirming brother.”
“And another thing,” said Bibbie, with a pleased nod at Reg. “Great-uncle Throgmorton left you two houses—this one and the terrace in Pilkington Mews. But I don’t seem to recall you asking me if I’d like to live there. If you’re so worried about me turning into a sardine, why not hand over its front door key right now?”
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 fo
lded 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 eyes 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 se
eking 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.
