by K. E. Mills
“Perhaps you’d care for some assistance, Your Majesty?” said Sir Alec.
“What?” said Rupert, startled. “Oh—yes—er, why not? You can help, if you like.”
Gerald watched them head back to the palace, his crimson gaze amused. “So funny,” he murmured.
“What is?” said Melissande, crouched beside Lional and dabbing his forehead with a surprisingly frilly, feminine hanky.
“Sir Alec, of course,” said Gerald, his eyes wide. “Thinking that I don’t know he’s going to try and contact the Department. Warn them about me.” He pretended to shiver with fear. “Take precautions.”
Monk exchanged a look with Reg, who raised one wing in a tiny, tiny shrug. The gesture was eloquent. You fix this, sunshine. I’m all out of ideas.
“I don’t know, Gerald,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I mean—”
“I do,” said Gerald, the contemptuous amusement dying out of his face, leaving it cold and remote, the face of a stranger. “But that’s all right. Trust me, I have everything under control. You’ve got nothing to worry about, Monk. The world will never have to fear a Lional of New Ottosland again.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ottosland, nearly three months after the
Wycliffe Airship Company affair
Come on, Reg, flap harder!”
“Harder? Harder? If I flap any harder my bloody wings are going to fall off!”
“Then I’ll hex them back on again, all right? Just flap!”
“Y’know,” Melissande said to Bibbie, leaning sideways on her stationary pushbike, “this would actually be funny if it wasn’t so ridiculous.”
“Hey!” said Monk, turning on her. “If you’ve got breath to talk you’re not pedaling fast enough! Mush!”
She glared at her improbable and wild-eyed young man, beads of unladylike sweat dripping off her nose and chin. “I beg your pardon? What did you say?”
“You heard me!” Monk retorted, dancing around the experiment-crowded attic like a demented dervish with ants in his pants. “Come on, Mel, this is important. Pedal!”
“Why don’t you pedal, you lazy plonker!” panted Bibbie, madly pumping the pedals of her own stationary bike. “Why are we the ones doing all the work?”
“Good question,” said Gerald, who was busily plunging an etheretic agitator up and down in its housing, by hand. “I wouldn’t mind an answer to that myself.”
Monk dashed along the row of thaumatic containers that he’d crammed up against the attic’s windowless wall, checking each one’s fluctuating capacity gauge.
“You know why! Come on everyone, this is important.”
It was Gerald’s turn to mop sweat from his face. “Well, yes, Monk, we know it’s important to you. But explain again why it’s important to us?”
“Why?” Abandoning the slowly-filling containers, Monk gaped at him. “Well—because it’s important to me, of course! Gerald, how can you even ask me that?”
“He can ask,” said Bibbie, only half-heartedly pedaling now, “because if anyone finds out about this it’ll be our necks in the noose alongside yours!”
“Oh, Bibbie, stop being such an alarmist,” said Monk, and held up an etheretic pressure gauge to the attic’s fitful light. “Nobody’s going to find out.”
Still flapping in front of the pedestal fan Monk had converted into a thaumaturgic generator, Reg hooted breathlessly. “You keep saying that, sunshine,” she panted, “but so far your Department watchdogs have found out about the portable portal, the tetrathaumic compressor, the etheretic particle slicer and the go-lightly hex.”
“Yes, but not the interdimensional portal opener!” said Monk, triumphant. “Or the bits and pieces I’ve got going in here. So you see? We’re all perfectly safe.”
“From everything except heart failure; said Bibbie, and collapsed over the handlebars of her pushbike. “That’s it. I’m done.”
“And so am I,” added Reg. She swooped away from the fan, landed heavily on the nearest thaumic container and skewered Monk with a smoldering glare. “Flapped to skin and bone, I am. So mark my words, you bloody young reprobate. There’d better be some prime beef mince in my very near future or there’ll be prime trouble. Savvy?”
Monk ran at her, hands waving. “Reg, Reg, what are you doing? Get off there, get off! I’ve nearly killed myself building up enough thaumic charge to last the week and you’re going to tip that container over and waste it!”
“You’ve nearly—you have—” Reg gobbled incoherently, tail rattling. “Right. That’s it. Gerald Dunwoody, get him out of my sight, quick, before I forget I’m a lady!”
“Now, now, everybody, just calm down,” said Gerald, abandoning the agitator and staggering between Reg and Monk, both arms outstretched. “There’s no need for violence.”
“Speak for yourself, sunshine!” Reg screeched. “Right now my need is bloody overwhelming!”
“Reg…” He wiped his shirt-sleeve across his sweating face. “Look, I know he’s irritating but fair’s fair. I mean, we did agree to this, didn’t we? We did promise we’d help him out of his temporary difficulty. So I don’t think it’s right to start complaining now.”
“When it comes to difficulties there’s nothingtemporary about your muggins of a friend!” Reg retorted. “He lurches from one crisis to the next dragging us in his wake! And don’t try to deny it because we both know it’s true!”
“Well, sometimes it’s true,” said Gerald, fighting a grin. “But then you could say the same about me, couldn’t you? In fact, I seem to recall that you do. Quite often.”
“That’s different,” said Reg, sniffing.
Aggrieved, Monk stared at her. “Why?”
“Because he’s my Gerald, that’s why. And you, Monk Markham, are trouble with a capital T on two bandy legs!”
Melissande sighed and let her feet slip off her own pushbike’s pedals. Time for the voice of reason to speak up. “I’m not going to say he isn’t, Reg, but he’s my trouble on two legs. Which aren’t bandy at all, if you don’t mind. So leave him alone.”
“And get off that container, Reg, please,” Monk added. “It’s not designed to take your weight.”
Gerald snatched her up before she could launch herself at Monk with beak and talons. “Settle down, Reg. He didn’t mean it that way.”
“I’m parched,” said Bibbie, still draped over her handlebars. Still managing to look beautiful, of course, even when pink-cheeked from exertion and damp with perspiration. “And famished. What’s in the pantry?”
“Don’t ask me,” said Monk, eagerly rechecking the thaumatic containers capacity gauges. “When did you last go shopping?”
“When did I—” Bibbie straightened, her vivid blue eyes lighting up with temper. “It’s your turn this week. It was your turn last week, too, and the week before that but you never go. You’ve always got some pathetic excuse. Monk—”
“Gotcha,” said Monk, with his crazy, anarchic grin. “Honestly, Bibbie. It’s like stealing sweeties from a baby.”
Bibbie glowered. “Monk Markham, I loathe you.”
“No, you don’t,” he said cheerfully. “You love me.”
“Believe me, Monk, I loathe you,” she retorted. “Reg is right. You’re nothing but a walking talking disaster, brother of mine. If you hadn’t gone and upset Uncle Ralph—again—we wouldn’t have to be panicking about the levels of ambient thaumic energy usage around here and that means we wouldn’t be nearly killing ourselves trying to generate enough of it to store and power your ridiculous experiments.”
“Hey!” said Monk. “Do you mind? They’re your ridiculous experiments too!”
Bibbie slid off her stationary pushbike and marched towards him, hands fisted on her slender, muslin-swathed hips. “For your information, Monk, my experiments aren’t ridiculous,” she said, halting in front of him. “My experiments are adding invaluable knowledge to the field of sympathetic ethergenics. And most importantly, Monk, my experiments are sanctione
d, which is more than we can say for yours!”
“Sympathetic ethergenics,” Monk muttered. “Hocus bloody pocus, you mean.”
Melissande exchanged an alarmed look with Gerald, who tucked Reg into the crook of his arm and raised a warning finger at his friend. “Hey! Remember the house rule? No disparaging witchcraft!”
“I don’t see why I can’t disparage it if I want to,” said Monk, truculent. “I mean, it’s my bloody house.”
Bibbie stamped her stylishly-shod foot. “Oh fine, yes, rub it in, why don’t you? Honestly, Monk, why is it you never pass up the chance to remind me that I’m only living here out of charity and—and your insatiable need to feel superior? And your inability to keep a housekeeper for longer than five minutes?”
Sighing, Melissande rolled her eyes. Truly, I might as well hobnob with the inmates of the Ott Insane Asylum. I mean, it’s not like there’s any appreciable difference. She looked at Gerald again.
“Feel free to hex the pair of them, Mr. Dunwoody. I won’t object.”
“No,” he said, grinning, “but Sir Alec probably would.”
“Oh, who cares about him?” said Reg, hopping onto his shoulder. “That tight-lipped, dictatorial, secret Department stooge.”
Gerald flicked her wing with his fingertip, still grinning. “As it happens, I care. You know, seeing how he’s my boss. In fact, seeing how he’s everyone’s boss, at least in a roundabout way, I’d say we should all care.” Then he turned back to squabbling Monk and Bibbie. “That’s enough, you two! Monk—”
“I know, I know,” Monk groaned, and flicked his exasperated sister a grudgingly apologetic look. “Sorry, Bibs. It’s just—I’m going spare here, not being able to work at full capacity.” He dragged his fingers through his floppy dark hair. It needed cutting. Monk’s hair almost always needed cutting. “Honestly, I don’t know how much longer I can stand it.”
Bibbie’s crossness collapsed into heartfelt sympathy. “Oh, Monk.” She smothered him in an enthusiastic hug. “I know. It’s awful. But it won’t be forever. At least, it won’t be forever if you manage not to tip off Uncle Ralph. Are you sure you’re not doing anything up here that’s going to trigger one of his stupid alarms?”
“Of course I’m sure,” said Monk. Then he frowned. “Well. You know. Pretty sure.”
“You need to be more than pretty sure,” she said, leaning away from him. “I mean, those alarms of his are dreadfully sensitive.”
Monk wriggled free of her. “I know, Bibbie. I’m the one he tricked into souping them up, remember?”
Bibbie giggled. “I still can’t believe you fell for that, you silly goose. The whole family knows you never trust a thing Uncle Ralph says.”
“Yeah, well,” Monk muttered. “I won’t be trusting him again any time soon.”
“So,” said Gerald brightly. “Are we done now? Have we generated enough thaumic energy to keep you experimenting for a couple of days at least?”
Monk checked the monitors on his row of thaumatic containers. “I think so,” he said at last. “Mainly it depends on what happens with the multi-dimensional etheretic wavelength expander.”
Melissande looked at the expander, Monk’s latest pride and joy, which was the most convoluted contraption she’d ever laid eyes on. Taking up a full third of the large attic’s floor, a complex, confusing tangle of wiring and prisms and conductive coils and strange, disconcerting bits and bobs of questionably borrowed Department equipment, it had the alarming habit of drifting in and out of dimensional phase. The thaumic dampeners he’d set up to contain its etheretic undulations were supposed to prevent that, but the restrictions his incensed uncle Ralph had placed on his thaumic usage meant that the contraption’s containment was sporadic, at best.
She jumped as Monk put his hand on her shoulder. “How many times do you need me to say it?” he murmured. “I promise, Mel. It’s perfectly safe.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, with a little shudder. “I can’t help it. I don’t mean to doubt you, it’s just I wish it looked safe.”
Even as they stared at the expander it began another dimensional slide. Shimmering like a mirage, random sections of its convoluted construction started fading then pulsing back into brief visibility.
“Dammit!” said Monk, and leaped for the contraption’s control box. “Why does it keep doing that?”
“Um,” said Gerald, diffident behind them. “I can take a gander at it, if you like.”
Melissande watched Monk hesitate. Not because he didn’t trust Gerald’s thaumaturgic abilities, but because the only thing in the world he was possessive about was his experiments. Generous to a fault, willing to strip himself naked to clothe someone less fortunate, when it came to his experiments he was the most miserly man she knew.
“Ah,” said Monk, his gaze sliding sideways to his precious interdimensional expander. “Well—”
Gerald sighed. “Sorry. I should know better than to—”
“No, no, it’s me, mate,” said Monk, hair flopping into his face the way it tended to when he was annoyed. “Not you. I’m a pillock and a plonker.” He waved an inviting hand and retreated. “Go on. Have at it. Lord knows I’ve tried a dozen times to stop its bloody shenanigans.”
Melissande looked at the bird, still perched on Gerald’s shoulder. “Come sit on me, Reg. Just in case.”
Reg hopped across, and with an almost shy smile Gerald hunkered down beside the fluctuating expander. Held his right hand out over the bit nearest him, fingers spread, and closed his eyes.
“What’s he doing?” Bibbie whispered, joining them. “Saying a prayer? Gosh. I didn’t realize it was that far gone.”
“No, he’s not saying a bloody prayer,” Monk whispered back. “I don’t know what he’s doing, exactly. He’s—he’s pulling a Dunnywood.”
Reg looked down at her beak at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“That’s what we call it down at the Department,” said Monk, half-amused, half-sheepish. “Nobody understands what he does, you see. Or how he does it. According to everything we thought we knew about thaumaturgics what Gerald can do isn’t supposed to be possible. Mind you, Gerald’s not supposed to be possible.” He shrugged. “And yet there he is, large as life and twice as tricky.”
“Oy,” said Reg. “Mind your language, sunshine. My Gerald’s not tricky.”
“Well, Reg, he’s something,” said Bibbie, and whistled. “Phew! Feel those etheretic particles dance, Monk!”
Not for the first time, and definitely not the last either, she knew it, Melissande felt a sharp twinge of regret as her erratic young man and his scatty sister marveled in low voices at something she’d never be able to feel. Very nearly a year now she’d had to get used to the knowledge that whatever else she was destined to be in this world, a dazzlingly stupendous witch wasn’t part of the picture.
Almost a year. Shouldn’t it have stopped hurting by now?
Startled, she felt Reg’s beak brush swiftly and lightly against her braided hair. “Takes all kinds, ducky,” the bird said softly. “Flash and fireworks are all fine and dandy provided someone’s remembered to stock the pantry—and don’t you forget it.”
Oh, yes. The pantry. “I didn’t know you knew about that.”
“Ha,” Reg snorted. “Bugger all escapes these beady eyes, madam. And if that young man of yours starts making a habit of taking credit where it’s not due I shall definitely be poking him in the unmentionables.” Another snort. “I must say I’m surprised at you for letting him get away with it.”
“Oh well,” she said, resigned. “It’s just this once. I mean, he’s been so terribly depressed about having his thaumaturgic usage curtailed. You know what he’s like, Reg. Without his experiments and inventions I think he’d curl up and die.”
“Who’d curl up and die?” said Monk, turning aside from Bibbie. “What are you going on about?”
She smiled at him. “Nothing. What’s happening now?”
“Your guess is as good as
ours,” said Bibbie. “Gerald, what are you doing?”
But Gerald didn’t answer. Still hunkered down beside Monk’s wonky contraption, his pleasantly plain face was oddly serene. His outstretched hand moved gently, waving above the dimensionally-sliding equipment.
And then he nodded, sharply. “Right. I see it. That’s your trouble, Monk.” He opened his eyes. “You’ve got an inherently unstable connection between the dimensional phase inducer and the etheretic sub-stabilizer. They’re like you and Bibbie—put them side by side and they can’t stop themselves from squabbling.”
“Huh,” said Monk, frowning. “So are we talking fatal or fixable?”
Gerald straightened out of his crouch. “Oh, fixable,” he said confidently. “Completely.”
“Yeah, but by whose standards?” Monk said, his smile wry. “I mean, I’m only a genius. You’re the freak of thaumaturgics, mate.”
Reg rattled her tail feathers so hard she nearly overbalanced. “Right. That’s it. Call him a freak one more time, my boy, and I really will poke you in your unmentionables!”
“Reg…” Gerald shook his head. “Honestly. What have I told you?”
“Bugger all worth listening to when it comes to Monk bloody Markham!”
Melissande dug her elbows into Monk’s ribs. “For the love of Saint Snodgrass just apologize, would you?” she muttered. “Or Reg’ll go on about this until the end of next week and I’m the one who has to live with her.”
“Sorry, Reg,” said Monk, rubbing his side. “Sorry, Gerald. Just kidding. No harm meant.”
“Ha!” said Reg, and chattered her beak. “I’ll remember that sincere apology for when I poke you in your—”
“Reg, give over, would you?” said Gerald. “We both know you’re not poking him anywhere.”
“You don’t know anything of the sort,” Reg said darkly. “Because there’s a great deal you don’t know about me. I may be a sweet and harmless bird these days, sunshine, but when I was a queen I did more with men’s unmentionables than poke them!”
“Anyway,” said Monk, breaking the hotly embarrassed silence, “about my wonky wavelength expander…”
