by K. E. Mills
“Never mind, Bibbie,” said Melissande, so quietly he could hardly hear her. “I’ll fetch the brandy.”
The brandy. Yes. He’d put the bottle down somewhere, hadn’t he? Mel would find it. She was good at things like that. Being organized. Being tidy. Efficient. He had to stay here and not think about shoes.
The man on the sofa, who wore dark trousers and a pale shirt and a slightly tired three-quarter length blue coat that looked horribly familiar—but I am not not not going to think about that—stirred and started muttering. Nothing intelligible, just nonsense words laced with pain. Monk felt another violent shiver run through him. That was his voice. That was the way he sounded when he was in pain. He kept staring at the shoes. It seemed safer that way.
Bibbie was crouched beside their completely unnecessary visitor, holding his hand in a firm but gentle grasp. “Hush,” she said softly. “It’s all right, Monk. You’re safe.”
Monk? Monk? Bibbie, what are you doing? You can’t call him that! He’s not Monk, I am.
As though she could hear his thoughts, his little sister turned and skewered him with a glare. “I don’t begin to know how this is possible but this man is you, Monk. He is. Look at him. Look at his face and tell me he’s not you.”
Oh, Saint Snodgrass and her forty-seven descendants. Feeling sick, feeling dizzy, he dragged his gaze away from the shoes he’d bought seven months ago and looked at the face of the man on the sofa. Made himself take a few steps towards him and look again.
Bloody hell. That’s me.
Although… now that he came to actually pay attention… it wasn’t exactly him. Not the him living this life, at any rate. The face of the man on the sofa was thinner. Oddly older. And it had lines in it… deep lines… that only suffering could carve. The Gerald they’d found in the cave, his face had been lined the same way after that mad bastard Lional had spent days playing with him—but eventually those lines had smoothed and then, praise Saint Snodgrass, they’d disappeared, leaving only occasional blank looks and patches of silence in their wake.
Whoever had been playing with this man—this not-him—they were still playing. But where? And how?
Melissande returned with the brandy and an empty glass. Bibbie poured a little into it, slipped an arm around the man’s—the other Monk’s—shoulders and helped him sit up a bit.
“Here,” she said, with a small, encouraging smile. “It’s all right. It’s just brandy.”
He heard a rattle of tail feathers and looked at Reg, still perched on the back of the sofa. The wretched bird was giving him a meaningful look. Then she looked at Melissande, head tipped to one side again. His heart banged like a drum.
Oh, lord. Mel.
She was so pale all her freckles stood out like fallen leaves on a snowfield. Even without a magnifying glass he thought he could count every last one of them. Not even in the middle of the Lional-crisis or the Wycliffe-kerfuffle had he seen her looking so shaken and unsure.
Gingerly he joined her and wrapped his fingers around hers. Her skin was icy. “Hey. You know that’s not me, right? This is me. I’m holding your hand.”
“I know,” she said, and slipped free of him. “But if he’s not you, Monk…”
Exactly. Then who is he?
Beside them, Reg snorted. “Well, if I didn’t know better, sunshine, I’d say he was your evil twin. But since I do know better I’m going to say you’re his.”
He didn’t even bother to glance at her. “Thank you, Reg. That’s terribly helpful.”
“I don’t know,” Reg added, huffy. “That poker-assed Sir Alec picked a fine time to whisk Gerald off in a cloud of secrecy, I must say. We could do with his nattering around about now.”
The man on the sofa flinched and jerked his head away. Brandy spilled down his chin and the front of his coat.
The coat Bibbie gave me three Solstices ago.
Saint Snodgrass’s bunions, this really was insane.
Bibbie held out an impatient hand, fingers snapping. Straight away Melissande took a plain, unfrilly hanky from her tweed trousers’ pocket and passed it over.
“There you are,” said Bibbie, dabbing the man dry. “All better. Can you talk sensibly now?”
“Not if he’s anything like our Monk Markham, he can’t,” said Reg. “Honestly, ducky. Do remember who you’re dealing with.”
“Melissande…”
“Please, Reg,” Mel said, her voice low and not quite steady. “You really aren’t helping.”
Reg chattered her beak. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I’m helping. If you’re flapping at me you’re not going into hysterics, are you? That’s called keeping up morale, that is.”
Mel turned to him. “Monk, he didn’t like it when Reg mentioned Gerald. How can he know Gerald? And why would mentioning his name upset him?”
“Why?” said the man on the sofa, his eyes dragging open. “How can you even ask me that, Melissande? How can you—” He pressed trembling fingers to his chapped lips. “Oh. Sorry. I keep forgetting. I’m all over the place from the transition. And—and—” A terrible shudder racked him head to toe. “And then there’s the shadbolt.”
“Shadbolt?” said Bibbie, and leapt to her feet. “What shadbolt?” Closing her eyes she reached out with her potentia, then after a moment pulled back again. Her eyes were wide and brimful of shock. “I don’t understand. How can that even be poss—”
Alarmed, Monk abandoned Melissande and went to his little sister. “Bibbie, what is it? What did you fee!?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around her ribs. “I’m not sure.”
“Well, is he shadbolted or isn’t he?”
“I just said I don’t know,” she snapped. “Why don’t you look, Monk, instead of asking stupid questions. Have a poke around in his aura and—and tell me what you feel.”
What? Poke around in the etheretic wrapping of a man wearing his face? And his shoes? Not to mention his coat. But that was the last thing he wanted to do.
“Well?” said Bibbie. “What are you waiting for?”
“It’s all right, Bibs-and-bobs,” the man on the sofa whispered. “I knew this was going to be difficult. He just needs some time. You all do.”
Bibbie dropped the hanky. “Bibs-and-bobs? Only Monk calls me that. And he hasn’t called me that in years. How could you possibly—”
“Because I know you,” said the man on the sofa. “I know all of you. Sort of.”
“Bibbie,” said Monk, jerking his head. “A word? You too, Mel. And you, Reg.”
“But Monk—”
“He’s not going anywhere, Bibbie,” he said sharply. “Please?”
Reg hopped onto Melissande’s shoulder, Bibbie reluctantly retreated from the sofa, and the four of them huddled like conspirators on the other side of the room. Their unexpected and mysterious guest closed his eyes, his right hand folded protectively over his coat pocket.
“Mel?” Monk said, keeping his voice down. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
She’d regained a little of her color, but still she was disturbingly unbossy. She nodded. “I’m fine. It’s just like—he—said… this is a shock.”
“I suppose we really are awake,” said Bibbie. Whatever she’d sensed, looking for the shadbolt, she had herself in hand again. “I mean, there’s no chance this is one of your stupid practical jokes, Monk? A dream-hex gone bonkers?”
“Cross my heart,” he said fervently, and swiped a finger twice across his chest. “No chance at all.”
“Fair enough,” said Bibbie, frowning. “But it could still be a hex, couldn’t it? Some kind of disguise incant, to make one person look like another? An alive person, I mean. Dead is easy.”
Monk chewed at his lip. “I doubt it. We’ve been trying to come up with one for over a year now and—what?” he said, when all three girls stared at him. “What?”
Bibbie was giving him her best gimlet glare. “You never said anything about working on that kind of
project, Monk Markham. That kind of project’s a bit risky, isn’t it? Not to mention illegal.”
“Of course it’s risky,” he said, impatient. “But you can bet every government in the world has got someone like me working on it. And technically it’s not illegal if the government’s doing it. You know, as an anti-criminal preventive measure. Or something.”
Reg snorted. “Political hypocrisy. Got a lovely smell, hasn’t it?”
“Look, forget about this being any kind of doppler hex,” he said. “And forget I mentioned I was working on one, would you? I’ve been sworn upside down and inside out to secrecy.”
Rolling her eyes, Bibbie sighed. “So in other words whoever this man is it’s unlikely he’s someone hexed to look like you.”
“Exactly. And anyway, a hex wouldn’t explain how he knows us,” said Melissande. “Or our nursery nicknames.”
He nodded. “Or how he’s wearing my coat and my shoes.”
“So him practically having a heart attack when I mentioned Gerald,” said Reg. “What do we think that was about?”
“You mentioned Sir Alec, too,” said Bibbie. “Maybe that’s what upset him. I mean, Reg, you practically have a brainstorm every time his name’s mentioned.” She snuck a quick look over her shoulder. “What if this is some dastardly plot against Monk, and Sir Alec’s a part of it?”
He blinked at her. “Dastardly plot? Bibbie, have you been reading Gerald’s awful cloak-and-dagger novels again?”
“It’s no secret you’ve got enemies,” she retorted. “So he could be one of them. Or—or—he could be some dreadful thaumaturgical experiment gone wrong! What if he’s been a prisoner somewhere in the Department of Thaumaturgy building—or maybe out at Nettleworth—and he’s escaped and come to us for help?”
Reg looked down her beak at her. “Forget the sensational novels, ducky. How much brandy have you had this evening?”
“Fine,” said Bibbie. “Then you explain him, Queen Smarty-pants.”
“Obviously none of us can explain him,” said Melissande. “The only person who can explain him is him. But first—” She folded her arms. “About this shadbolt he claims to have. Would someone care to explain what that is? Nothing so simple as an embarrassing skin condition, I suppose?”
“Sadly, no,” he said, and fought the urge to look at Bibbie. “It’s like a pair of thaumaturgical handcuffs, only it fits around your head. There are lots of different kinds, some more severe than others.”
“They bind a witch or wizard’s etheretic aura,” Bibbie added. “Shackle their potentia. Criminals often use them to stop themselves—or others—from talking if they get arrested and questioned.”
Melissande grimaced. “Sounds positively barbaric.”
“Um,” said Bibbie, staring at the carpet. “Yes. You could say that.”
“But useful,” added Reg. “And not just to the crims. With a little bit of tweaking you’d be surprised what information a shadbolt’ll get you out of the nasty little spy who’s been impersonating a diplomat.”
They stared at her.
“Oh, please,” she said. “You think being a queen in the olden days was easy? Try it sometime. You’ll be ordering shadbolts by the gross.”
“So, these shadbolts,” said Melissande, heroically ignoring her. “Why is it I’ve not heard of them?”
Monk shrugged. “They’re not common knowledge. Not beyond official circles—and the criminal classes, of course.”
“Really?” said Melissande, eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Bibbie seems pretty well-informed.”
“One of the drawbacks of being a Markham,” Bibbie told her. “I grew up hearing things I wasn’t meant to know.”
He managed a smile for her. “Only because you used to listen at keyholes.”
“And only then when your eavesdropper hex stopped working.”
“Blimey,” said Reg. “Talk about the criminal classes.”
Bibbie poked her tongue out. “And you of course would be speaking from personal experience.”
“So these shadbolts,” Melissande murmured, frowning, one finger pointedly raised to keep Reg quiet. Amazingly, it worked. “You can feel them?”
“Yes,” said Bibbie, nodding. “They leave a distinct imprint in the etheretic aura of whoever’s wearing one.”
“But you couldn’t sense one shackling him?”
“No,” said Bibbie, after the briefest pause.
Monk looked at her closely. All right, Bibs, my girl. What is it you’re not telling us? But before he could ask, Melissande said, “Are you saying he’s lying?”
“About wearing a shadbolt? I don’t see why he would.”
“No, no, why would he lie?” said Reg, and chattered her beak. “Because there’s nothing the least bit hinky about any of this at all.”
“She’s got a point,” Monk said. “Much as I hate to admit it. Bibbie—”
“No, Monk, I wasn’t mistaken,” his sister snapped. “I should think if anyone knows what a shadbolt feels like, it’s me.”
Behind her perfectly polished spectacles, Melissande’s green eyes were narrowed again in a look that boded no good. “And if that wasn’t a loaded comment then I’m a giraffe. Shut up, Reg. Bibbie—”
Bibbie touched Melissande’s arm lightly. “Not now, Mel. This isn’t the time. We’ve got far more important things to worry about.”
“Don’t call me Mel.”
Bugger. She really was cross. “Bibbie’s right, Melissande,” he said, strategically apologetic. “It’s a conversation for another time, when there’s only one of me in the room.”
“Fine,” said Melissande, and belligerently folded her arms. “But don’t imagine that conversation won’t be taking place.”
Gosh. To think he’d thought his heart couldn’t sink any lower. Melissande on the warpath. Just what we need. “Bibbie, when you looked for the shadbolt, what did you feel?”
To his dismay, Bibbie’s blue eyes flooded with tears. “I told you, I don’t know,” she said, her voice a broken little whisper. “I was imagining things. I had to be. It was a trick. He’s hexed. He must be. This can’t be real.”
“Hey, hey,” he said, sliding his arm around her shoulders. She was trembling. Bibbie. Shocked, he pulled her close. “It’s all right, Bibs. Come on, now. It’s all right.”
“No, it’s not all right, Monk,” she said, and wrenched herself out of his hold. “And do you know why? Because I felt you. I felt your potentia. And since that can’t be possible, I must be going mad!”
“No, you’re not, Bibbie,” said the man on the sofa. “You’re perfectly sane. You did feel his potentia. Because he’s me… and I’m him.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Bibbie, glaring. “There’s only one Monk Markham and I’m standing beside him.”
The man on the sofa nodded painfully. “You’re almost right. There’s only one Monk Markham in every world. But you see… this isn’t my world, Bibbie. My world’s next door.”
“Next door?” said Melissande, breaking the heavy silence.
“In a manner of speaking,” said the man on the sofa. “At least, that’s the easiest way to explain it.”
Bibbie took a hesitant step towards him. “You’re not making this up?”
“Bibbie…” The man managed a smile. “When it comes to metaphysics when did I ever make things up?” His voice cracked on the last word, and his haunted, horribly familiar eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Bibs. It’s really you. I’d forgotten how you used to be. It’s been so long and—oh—damn—damn—”
“Monk? Monk, what’s the matter?” cried Bibbie, and dashed to the sofa.
Dazed, Monk watched his sister hold the man—another Monk—against the shudders of pain running through him without relief. They seemed to go on and on forever. But at last, just when he thought he couldn’t stand it any more, the man on the sofa let out a sobbing sigh and relaxed.
“What was that?” Bibbie demanded, easing back to a crouch. “Monk, what�
�s been done to you?”
The Monk from next door wiped a shaking hand across his face. “It’s the shadbolt,” he muttered. “He doesn’t like it when I talk out of turn.”
“Who?” said Bibbie fiercely. “Who put the shadbolt on you, Monk? And what kind of shadbolt is it that can stay hidden like that?”
“A special one,” said the Monk from next door, then winced and gasped. “Please—don’t ask me to explain—it hurts too much—it hurts—”
“Sorry, sorry,” Bibbie whispered. “Look, obviously you need help. Tell us how we can help you.”
“You can get it off me,” said the Monk from next door. “Please. Monk?”
“What? No,” said Monk, feeling sick. Feeling his other self’s desperate stare punch him in the gut. “I can’t. Are you bonkers, mate? No.”
The Monk from next door’s face had drained to a sickly, sweaty gray. It was scarred, too. He’d not noticed that before. A cut along the left cheekbone, the kind of mark left behind by a blow from a fist made of fingers heavy with rings. Seeing that scar, knowing that if he looked in a mirror he wouldn’t see it reflected back at him, he felt a dreadful premonition whip through his blood like roaring flames of ice.
He’s a me from somewhere else not far enough away—and wherever that is, it’s got big problems. And now he’s brought those problems with him. Here. To me.
Oh, bloody hell.
“Look,” he said tightly. “Mate. I’m sorry, but you’ve made a mistake. Go home. We can’t help you.”
Shocked, Bibbie turned to him. “What? No—Monk—listen, we can’t just—”
“No, Bibbie, you listen!” he retorted. “Don’t you see this is wrong? He’s not meant to be here. Saint Snodgrass alone knows what damage he’s doing to our etheretic integrity. He could be putting our whole world at risk.”
“You don’t know that!” said Bibbie hotly “You could be wrong!”
“And what if I’m right?” he said. “Are you willing to take that risk? Bibbie, we don’t even know how he got here!”
The Monk from next door laughed, a rusty, unused sound. “Yes, you do, Monk. You bloody well do. You stare at the ceiling at night when you’re meant to be asleep, wondering. Thinking, Is it even possible? I bet it is. I bet I could… We both know you do, mate. You can’t lie to me.”
