by K. E. Mills
He nodded. “Yes, Mister Methven.”
“Pssst!” said Melissande, crept up behind him. “Gerald, what the—”
“No, no, not here,” he muttered, keeping an eye on the other wizards who’d returned to their own tasks. They hadn’t noticed anything but that wouldn’t last long. Robert Methven, scuttling to catch up with Errol and Ambrose Wycliffe, was looking back over his shoulder, his expression still unfriendly. “Employee garden. Lunch at one.”
“But my lunch is at—”
“Then change it. Goodbye.”
And he hurried off before Melissande could try arguing with him. Because she would, he just knew it. He was convinced the first word she ever spoke was “but.”
He spent the next two and half hours trying not to speculate on the reason for Melissande’s presence at Wycliffe’s, and collecting test result sheets from the other labs and the wizards working on various projects at their benches, and filing them. Well, surreptitiously reading them and then filing them, making mental notes of anything that might even remotely have to do with his reason for being undercover at Wycliffe’s in the first place.
He paid particular attention to Errol’s results. Errol, who’d joined Wycliffe’s not quite a month after the Stuttley’s debacle. Who’d taken one look at him, his first day at the firm, and simply… erased him from the landscape. It had actually been a little frightening: the contempt. The desire for him to disappear. To not exist. Today had been the first time Errol had acknowledged his presence.
Which is fine. It’s quite suited me, really, all things considered. Only—why did his bloody staff have to explode?
Monaghan and another Second Grader—Phipps—were cleaning out the Pit now, decontaminating it and neutralising the overcharged thaumic particles. He sighed. It was a shame he’d not get the chance to inspect what was left of Errol’s staff, or the stricken experimental Ambrose Mark VI. He’d rather like to know why the prototype engine had exploded. From what he could tell it was sound… and ingenious. No two ways about it, Errol had a definite flair. And then the clock struck one and he stopped filing. He’d have to think some more about that later. Now it was time to meet Melissande for lunch.
Doing his best to appear nonchalant, he entered the employee garden and found an empty bench to sit on, located a convenient distance from the other dozen or so staff who’d been allotted a one o’clock lunch. Luckily there was a goodly amount of conversation going on that would cover nicely anything he and Melissande had to say to each other. Pretending interest in his packed lunch of fish-paste sandwich, iced cupcake and an apple, he kept a sideways eye out for her arrival.
And there she was, tit-tupping along in that dreadful long black skirt—lord, that was a hideous outfit!—looking so regal, so self-possessed, so Melissande, it brought a lump to his throat. Six months and more since he’d seen her? It felt like six years… and at the same time, six minutes. She was Monk Markham’s young lady and, after the events of New Ottosland, the next-best thing he had to a sister.
Disdainfully she wandered by him, ever-so-artfully letting the book she was carrying with her lunchbox slip to the grass. He dived for it and held it up.
“Excuse me, Miss! Oh, Miss? I think you dropped this.”
Turning, she looked over her glasses-rims and down her nose at him. Just the way she’d looked when he stepped out of the portal in her brother’s palace. It was all he could do not to smile like a loon.
“I beg your pardon?” she said, deliciously snooty. “Did you address me, sir?”
He stood. “Yes. Yes. Gerald Dunwoody at your service, Miss. You dropped this,” he said, thrusting the book towards her.
As she reached out to take it from him he heard a soft, muffled thud close by. And then one of Permelia Wycliffe’s other gels shrieked and pointed.
“Oh! Oh! How awful! A bird just dropped dead, right out of that tree!”
Melissande whipped round, book in hand, and stiffened. “Oh, blimey,” she muttered. “Don’t look now, but Reg just fainted.”
Reg? Reg was here? He turned and yes, there she was, his very own Reg, toes turned up on the mulched garden bed beneath an ornamental fig-tree.
Reg.
“Don’t worry, Miss!” he said to the horrified gel, now being supported by two of her equally horrified friends. “I’ll take care of it. Don’t you distress yourself, or come any closer. For all we know it could be diseased.”
“Gerald—”
He pulled a hush-up face at Melissande and rushed over to the garden bed where Reg lay unmoving. Heart thudding so hard he felt sick, he dropped to his knees beside her and stroked a fingertip down her limp wing.
A cold cave. A dead bird. A cruel hoax that he’d believed.
“Reg,” he whispered, trying not to move his lips. “Reg, can you hear me? Reg, it’s me. Gerald. Come on, Reg, please, open your eyes.”
Two of her toes twitched. Then she coughed, faintly, and half-raised her closed eyelids. “Gerald? Gerald, is that really you?”
He choked down a laugh, relieved almost to tears. “Yes, it’s really me.”
Both of her eyes popped wide open. “Gerald Dun-woody!” she said, out of the side of her beak. “How long have you been back in town? And what do you mean, not coming to see me? I’ve been worried sick about you, sunshine. I’m going to have your guts for garters, I’m going to hang your silver eyeball as a New Year’s decoration, I’m going to—”
He snatched her up and kissed the top of her head. “I’m fine,” he whispered. “I miss you. Fly home. We’ll talk properly when this job’s done, I promise.” Standing, he tossed her high into the air. Watched her scramble her wings into action and flap away squawking her outrage like a fishwife.
“Oh!” cried Permelia Wycliffe’s gel. “I thought it was dead.”
“No, Miss,” he said politely, offering her a bow. “Merely a slight case of sunstroke. No harm done.”
The gel and her companions returned to their seat, and Gerald rejoined Melissande. “How very gallant of you, Mister Dunwoody,” she said, still haughty. Behind the prim glasses her eyes were sparkling.
“Not at all, Miss—ah—”
“Carstairs. Molly Carstairs.”
Really? “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Carstairs. Perhaps you’d care to join me for lunch?”
“That would be very pleasant,” said Melissande, dropping to the bench. “Reg is all right?” she added softly.
“She’s fine. Cross as two sticks, but fine,” he replied, equally softly. “Melissande… what are you doing here?”
“Molly. And I was about to ask you the same question.”
“I’m on an assignment for the Department.”
She smiled, a very chilly curve of her lips, just in case they were being watched. “Fancy that. I’m on an assignment for the agency.”
He stared. “Who hired you?”
“Permelia Wycliffe. Who hired you?”
“Nobody.” In case anyone was watching, he pulled his fish-paste sandwich out of his lunch sack and took a bite. “I can’t talk about it.”
“You can’t talk about it here,” she said, opening her lunch box and taking out her own sandwich. It was ham and tomato, and looked singularly unappetising. The tomato had turned the bread all pink and soggy. “But you are going to talk about it, Gerald. There’s a very good chance you and I could help each other.”
“I doubt it,” he replied, and laughed as though she’d just said something amusing. “In fact, I think you should forget all about your job for the agency. Things around here might get a little… tricky… soon.”
“You mean you might try and blow something up?” she replied, and put her soggy sandwich back in the lunch box with a refined shudder. “That would have all the charm of novelty.”
He turned his shoulder to the rest of the garden and squinted his blind eye meaningfully. “I’m not joking, Melissande. You’ve no idea what’s brewing around this place.”
“Not r
ight now, no,” she agreed. “But I will as soon as you tell me. And Reg, and Bibbie. Tonight. At Monk’s new establishment. Nine o’clock sharp. Don’t be late.”
What? “Monk’s what? What are you talking about?”
She reached into his lunch sack and took out the cupcake. The icing was luridly green: it had been the only one left in the baker’s that morning. “You haven’t heard? Great-uncle Throgmorton died and left him two houses,” she said around a mouthful. “He’s living behind the Old Barracks in Central Ott. Twenty-four Chatterly Crescent.” She finished the cupcake, pulled a napkin from her lunchbox and daintily dabbed her lips clean. “You know where that is?”
“I’ll find it,” he said, then shook his head. “That is, when I can find time to visit him. Which won’t be tonight, or any night soon. Mel—”
“Say you’ll come or I’ll make a scene,” she said, dropping the napkin back in her lunchbox. Her lips were smiling, but her eyes were deadly serious. “Do you have any idea how worried Reg has been about you? She’s in such a state she’s practically moulting.”
A pang of guilt spiked through him. “Yes, well, I’m sorry about that, but—”
“Not as sorry as you’re going to be if you’re not at Monk’s place by nine,” she said, and stood. “Say you’ll be there. Go on. Say it.”
Oh, lord. Sir Alec was going to roast him alive. Or he will if he finds out. So I’d best make sure he never does. “All right,” he snapped. Bloody woman. I must have been mad thinking I was pleased to see her. “Nine o’clock. But don’t get your hopes up, thinking I’m going to give you chapter and verse about my assignment, because—”
“Well, Mister Dunwoody, thank you so much for the pleasant chat,” she said loudly in her best royal highness voice. Holding her lunchbox like a shield… or a weapon. “We must do it again sometime. Good day.”
Dumbfounded, he watched her mince out of the garden, collecting other black-clad gels along the way. Honestly, she was impossible. Hah. Miss Carstairs his—his arse. Melissande was born a princess, she’d die a princess, and live every damn day in between a princess.
Just like Reg.
Moulting? Reg had been so worried she was moulting? Oh no. She was so vain about her feathers…
Flayed with remorse, appetite ruined, he put his lunch back together and returned to the R&D complex. Three steps through the side door a hand clamped mercilessly around his upper arm.
“A moment, Dunwoody. I want a word with you.”
Gerald felt his heart plummet. Errol, Errol. Do we have to do this now? Making certain to keep his expression suitably chastened and subservient, to keep the surge of anger from showing in his eyes, he didn’t fight but let Errol drag him sideways into a convenient corner.
“Ah—Mister Haythwaite—I really am sorry about your staff,” he muttered, keeping his gaze lowered. “I’ll purchase you a new one, you have my word. It might take some time—my salary, you know—but—”
Errol, whose blistered hand had been bandaged, let go of him and leaned close. As always when he was displeased his immaculate accent had sharpened to a lethal edge. “What are you playing at, Dun-woody? What exactly are you doing here?”
Abruptly, he decided to drop a little of his Third Grade act. He’d never bowed and scraped to Errol at the Wizards’ Club and, assignment or no assignment, he saw no reason to completely humiliate himself.
“I’m earning a living,” he said, meeting Errol’s savage stare calmly. “Just like you.”
Errol ignored that. “What really happened in New Ottosland, Dunwoody? The truth. Because I don’t for a moment believe King Lional broke his neck hunting. Not if you were anywhere around.”
Damn. Trust Errol to let his petty vindictiveness spoil everything. They’d been doing such a good job of avoiding each other, too. And now the time had come for him to lie through his teeth.
Please, please, let me be a good liar.
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Errol,” he said carefully. “But there’s nothing more I can tell you. King Lional’s death was a horrible accident. One in which I was not involved. And I’m back in Ottosland because the new king didn’t want a royal wizard. That’s the truth, but whether you choose to believe it or not is entirely up to you.”
Errol was staring at him, his contempt mixed with—with confusion? “There’s something… different about you, Dunnywood. I don’t know what—I can’t put my finger on it—but it’s there. I can feel it. And I’ll work out what it is, I promise you that.”
Oh, really damn. Errol wasn’t supposed to be able to sense anything through the anti-thaumic shield. He really is a bloody good wizard. “I’m sorry, Errol. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please, I need to get back to work.”
“Work.” Errol fairly spat the word. “You’re a waste of space, Dunwoody. Truscott’s must have a screw loose, sending you somewhere like this.” He leaned close again. “Ambrose is too stupid to see that you’re a menace. A bloody great disaster waiting to happen. He won’t sack you. At least not yet. But until he does you stay away from me and my projects. I don’t want you so much as sharpening one of my pencils, is that clear? And if I catch you even looking at the next Mark VI prototype I will tear you limb from limb. Is that clear? Do you believe me? Gerald?”
Without waiting for an answer, Errol stalked away.
Gerald looked after him, shocked to realise he was actually shaken. Errol was positively overflowing with venomous hatred. He didn’t understand it.
At least he could wait till I’ve proven he’s the traitor Sir Alec’s looking for.
“Mister Dunwoody!” called Robert Methven, standing beside a crowded lab bench. “If you’ve quite finished wasting Mister Wycliffe’s time, there are several pieces of apparatus here that need to be cleaned.”
Gerald closed his eyes, took a deep breath and rearranged his expression into the epitome of suitably Third Grade submission.
“Yes, Mister Methven,” he said. “Coming, Mister Methven.” And he hurried forward to do Robert Methven’s bidding.
This bloody assignment can’t end fast enough.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Blimey,” said Monk, standing at his open front door. “Gerald?”
“Oy,” said Gerald, glancing over his shoulder at the late night emptiness of Chatterly Crescent. “Not so loud. Voices carry. Can I come in?”
“Come in?” said Monk, still staring. “Oh! Of course, mate. Sorry.”
As Monk retreated he stepped over the dilapidated but still stately house’s threshold into the old-fashioned vestibule, which was—to put it very kindly—sadly shabby.
“What are you doing, Markham, answering your own door?” he demanded. “Isn’t a place like this meant to come with a butler?”
“It did, but—well. Long story,” said Monk, pushing the front door closed again. “And anyway, I don’t really need ancient retainers hobbling about the place. They just get in the way. Gerald, I can’t believe you’re standing in my vestibule.”
Grinning, he accepted Monk’s back-slapping embrace. “Neither can I. Mind you, I can’t believe you’ve got a vestibule. Two vestibules. Greedy sod.”
“How did you hear about that?” said Monk, stepping back. His eyes widened in alarm. “Gerald, are you telling me Sir Alec’s got—”
‘Don’t be stupid. Melissande told me.”
Monk frowned. “Melissande? When did you run into Melissande?”
“She hasn’t said?”
“I haven’t seen her. Or heard from her,” said Monk. “She, Bibs and Reg are up to their eyeballs in a job.”
He pulled a face. “I know. At the Wycliffe Airship Company. That’s where we bumped into each other.”
“You’re at Wycliffe’s?” said Monk, eyebrows shooting up. “Since when?”
“Look, I’ll tell you what I can,” he said, shrugging out of his overcoat, “but isn’t there somewhere we can talk in comfort?”
“Sure, sure,” said Monk, then took the coa
t and slung it onto the vestibule’s coat stand. “Sorry. Come into the parlour.”
Gerald followed Monk down the creaky-floorboarded hallway into another shabby room made cheerfully warm by a leaping fire in the fireplace. A laden drinks trolley stood beside the curtained window and a lopsided table took up half of one wall. Two overstuffed armchairs were angled to take comfortable advantage of the warmth. The armchairs were both so elderly their leather had crazed and cracked, leaving tufts of horsehair stuffing poking out like bristles on a caterpillar. A faded, cosy two-seater sofa completed the room’s furnishings.
“What?” he said, looking around. “No experiments all over the floor? Don’t tell me you’ve reformed.”
Grinning, Monk collapsed into the nearest armchair. “Who, me? Perish the thought. No, they’re all over the attic.”
He grinned back at his friend and sat himself in the matching chair. “Of course they are.” Typical Markham. “It’s good to see you, Monk.”
“And you. I notice that colour-incant’s worn off. How’s it working out?”
He rubbed his silver eye. “Good. It’s good. I had to tweak it a bit—I’m putting in a ten-hour at Wycliffe’s. Can’t afford it fading at an embarrassing moment.”
Monk sat up. “You what? You tweaked one of my incants? Oooh, Gerald, you shouldn’t have done that. You might explode your eyeball.”
“Ah… no,” he said, gently smiling. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh,” said Monk, slumping again. “You know, for a moment there I forgot.” He shook his head, bemused. “Huh. You tweaked one of my incants. There’s a turn-up for the books.”
Was he jealous? No. Not Monk. There wasn’t a jealous bone in his friend’s lanky body. He was just… adjusting.
And he isn’t the only one. I’m still not used to it and I’ve spent the last six months finding out what I can do.
“It’d be good if you could tweak it a bit more, though,” he added. “Whatever I did to it makes my eye itch.”
