by K. E. Mills
Sighing, because clearly Rupes was in one of his butterfly moods, Melissande stepped aside so her brother and Gerald could clasp cordial hands. Feeling Bibbie staring at New Ottosland’s casual king, all a-bubble with repressed excitement, she was very careful not to look at the wretched girl.
“Your Majesty,” said Gerald, offering a slight bow. Wizard to king. Equal to equal. “It’s been too long.”
“Hasn’t it, though?” Rupert agreed warmly. “But no doubt that Sir Alec of yours is keeping you on the hop. Doesn’t strike me as a lazy layabout kind of chap.”
Gerald almost smiled. “Ah … no. When it comes to Sir Alec, those aren’t the first words that spring to mind.”
“And how have you been? Mel doesn’t tell me much. Well. Really, she doesn’t tell me anything. Very good at keeping secrets, my sister. Though I do understand you’ve joined her at the agency?”
“That’s right, sir,” said Gerald. “When I’m not acting under orders from Sir Alec, I’m giving the girls a hand with their clients.”
“Excellent,” said Rupert, approving. “It’s good to know they’ve a sound chap like you to lean on.” With a pat on Gerald’s shoulder, he turned. “And speaking of the girls … Melissande, I don’t believe your charming friend and I have been introduced.”
Oh, lord. That wasn’t a roguish twinkle in Rupert’s washy blue eyes, was it? She could feel Gerald, beside her, retracting like a snail.
“Sorry,” she said. “I forgot you two haven’t actually met. Your Majesty, this is Emmerabiblia Markham. Bibbie, my brother, His Majesty King Rupert the First.”
“But please, you must call me Rupert,” said Rupert, taking Bibbie’s outstretched hand in his. Smiling, he touched his lips to her knuckles. “Melly’s told me so much about you, I do feel as though I know you quite well already.”
Bibbie was dimpling. “It’s a great pleasure to meet you at last, Rupert. Melly adores you so completely, and I’m sure that now I know why.”
Melissande felt her stomach turn over. Oh, lord. Monk’s incorrigible sister was flirting with him. So much for her protestations of disinterest in tiaras.
Bibbie, how could you?
And then, belatedly noticing the laden gold-and-silver tea trolley pushed against the wall, and the small table and chairs placed strategically nearby, she breathed a sigh of relief.
“Rupes, you thought of refreshments? How hospitable of you. I’m impressed. So now you can toddle back to bed and we can amuse ourselves quite happily until it’s time to go. No need to worry about the portal, Gerald can operate that for us, can’t you, Gerald?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” said Gerald. “I’m—”
But Rupert was wagging a finger at her. “No, no, no, Melissande. I won’t hear of it. We hardly had a chance to speak the other day, Sir Alec hustled me out of your office so fast. You can’t deprive me of this chance to enjoy your company. The busy life you lead these days, Saint Snodgrass alone knows when we’ll catch up again.”
Bibbie batted her eyelashes. “Quite right, Rupert. Make hay while the moon shines, that’s my motto.”
“And a charming motto it is, too,” said Rupert, terrifyingly gallant. “Shall we, Miss Markham? Or might I be so bold, given these extraordinary circumstances, as to call you Bibbie?”
Another devastatingly dimpled smile. “Rupert, I’ll be cross beyond measure if you don’t.”
Breathless with horror, Melissande watched her brother escort Monk’s appalling sister across the opulent portal chamber to the table, seat her, then trundle over the gold-and-silver tea tray.
She glanced sideways. “Gerald …”
“What?” he said, his voice tight with self-control.
They’d never properly discussed his feelings for Bibbie. What she knew of them, she knew mostly from watching him watch the girl he’d convinced himself he could never have. But while there might well be some solace in the notion that the sacrifice was noble, it could only be shattering to see the object of that sacrifice batting her eyelashes at another man. Worse, a king. Not that Rupert was looking particularly kingly, in his patched shirt and baggy trousers. And even when he was done up in his royal best, not even the kindest sister would mistake him for shockingly handsome Lional. But the absence of dashing good looks aside, Rupert was a king and Gerald … wasn’t.
“Well, you two, don’t just stand there,” Rupert called, expansively genial. “Come and drink this tea while it’s hot. And you must try the scones. Zazoor sent me three crates of best Kallarapi dates and the palace cook’s been going mad trying to use them up.”
So they sat at the table for nearly an hour, drinking tea and eating date scones and cream cakes and discussing the world at large. There was much rueful merriment from Rupert about the ongoing difficulties of modernising his tiny kingdom without entirely abandoning Tradition with a capital T. Bibbie overflowed with sympathy. She could completely understand, she said. Didn’t she battle the forces of hidebound tradition every day at home? She was so deeply impressed that Rupert never dreamed of treating his sister like a gel.
Melissande pushed her empty plate away, decisively hinting. “No, indeed, as brothers go Rupert’s very nearly a paragon. And now, while this little interlude has been delightful, I’m afraid we really must be pushing along. By my reckoning it’s past ten o’clock tomorrow morning in Grande Splotze, and we’ll be expected.”
“Oh,” Bibbie groaned. “Really? Does that mean it’s time to put on Gladys Slack?”
Rupert looked bewildered. “I’m sorry? Who is Gladys Slack?”
“Gladys Slack is my lady’s maid,” said Melissande. “And yes, Bibbie, it’s time she made an appearance. Same goes for Algernon Rowbotham, Gerald.”
“Ah,” said Rupert. There was a smidgin of disapproval in his voice. “And Algernon Rowbotham’s to be your secretary, I suppose?”
“He is,” said Gerald, who’d hardly said a word since they sat down. “Thanks to some hex disguises we’ve worked out, we’ll be unrecognisable.”
Bibbie giggled. “We just have to cross our fingers that we don’t break out in a rash. That can happen, you know, Rupert, with these kinds of thaumaturgics.” Another giggle. “Once, my other brother Aylesbury lost a bet with Monk and he had to wear a hex for a whole month. Brought him out in green spots. The young lady he was seeing at the time laughed at him so hard he had to rusticate in the country for ages. I don’t believe he’s forgiven Monk to this day.”
“Yes, well,” said Gerald. “With all the tweaking I’ve done to our hexes, Bibbie, I doubt we have to worry about spots of any colour.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” said Bibbie, waving a careless hand. “Gerald’s always fiddling with incants and things, Rupert. He’s almost as bad as Monk when it comes to having no time for anything else.”
Rupert shook his head. “Extraordinary, the things you witches and wizards can achieve these days. You know, Gerald, when this little matter of the wedding’s taken care of, I really must have a chat with your Sir Alec. I’m sure there’s a great deal to be done in New Ottosland, thaumaturgically speaking, and I can’t imagine anyone better to give me the benefit of his experience.”
Melissande tried to picture Sir Alec as a thaumaturgical consultant, and failed.
“Or,” Rupert added, “perhaps, Bibbie, you might care to share some insights with me. I’m sure you’d offer a most unique perspective.”
Oh, lord. “That’s a very interesting suggestion, Rupert,” Melissande said, standing. “Only we really don’t have time to talk about it now. Gerald and Bibbie might be dressed for their parts, but I’m afraid their faces are all wrong.”
“Of course,” said Rupert, disappointed. “Duty before pleasure, always. Melissande, perhaps we could have a word while Bibbie and Gerald are assuming their disguises, yes?”
“What is it?” she said, as Rupert drew her aside. “Is everything all right?”
The rackety nonsensicality she remembered in him from his butterfly days faded.
“That’s a silly question, Mel, don’t you think?”
“Oh, Rupes.” She stroked her hand down his arm. “Honestly, there’s no need to worry. I’m not the one who’ll be in danger. That’s Gerald. He’s the janitor. I’m just the other half of his disguise.”
Her brother frowned. “You thought there’d be no danger when you agreed to help Permelia Wycliffe, and look how that turned out.”
“Careful, Rupes,” she said, giving him a little poke. “You’re starting to sound like the very opposite of a paragon.”
“And you, Princess Melissande,” he retorted, “are becoming uncomfortably reckless. I wish you’d remember your position. And mine. D’you know what’ll be said about me if anything happens to you?”
Closing her fingers on his shirt front, she shook him. “As if you ever gave a fig for what other people say!”
“They’ll say I held you too lightly,” he continued, ignoring her. “And they’ll be right. Melissande, it’s not too late to change your mind. You don’t work for Sir Alec or his dubious Department. There’s no reason for you to risk yourself like this.”
She smoothed the wrinkles she’d left in his shirt. “Would you still say that if I wore trousers all the time, instead of the occasional dress when I have to? I don’t think so. Please don’t tell me you’re going to break my heart now by treating me like a gel.”
“Melissande …” Sighing, Rupert touched his knuckles to her cheek. “I’ve already lost my brother. I couldn’t bear it if I lost my sister too. I’m not cut out to be an only child.”
She stepped back. “And I’m not cut out to be a dress-up doll princess. Of course I have to do this. Quite apart from any considerations of international tranquillity, there’s Gerald. He needs my help, Rupert, and I owe him. We owe him. This kingdom. The chance to make a better future for our people. Oh, everything. And I know you’re a man who’s scrupulous about repaying his debts.”
Rupert’s face clouded until he looked so sad and serious she almost wished for the gormless butterfly prince to return. Then, without speaking, he crushed her in a desperate embrace that threatened to turn her ribs into matchsticks. She hugged him too, just as hard, heedless of her corsets, until she was in danger of flooding with tears. Then she released him, and stepped back.
“Right, then,” she said briskly. “I think that’s quite enough unseemly emotion for one visit. Gerald? Bibbie? Are you—”
“Gosh,” said Rupert, staring. “How utterly bizarre.”
Before them stood meek Gladys Slack, with her dark bun and her brown eyes and plain spectacles, her black skirt and white blouse, and Algernon Rowbotham, wearing inconspicuous brown tweeds. His straw-coloured hair was slicked close to his skull and his green eyes peered short-sighted through his own wire-framed spectacles. Ink splotched his fingers.
Used to the startling transformations by now, Melissande grinned. “Clever, isn’t it? Not so much as a hint of Bibbie or Gerald. I tell you, Rupes, between them those two possess more thaumaturgics than Sir Alec’s entire Department.”
“So I see,” said Rupert. “Extraordinary.” He didn’t sound altogether approving.
“And now we really do have to go,” said Gerald, in a voice hexed half an octave higher than normal, with a slight nasal whine added to it for good measure. “Thanks for your assistance, Rupert. I know the Department is deeply grateful.”
“So long as the Department takes good care of my sister,” said Rupert, “it will have my assistance whenever there’s need.”
Gerald nodded. “I’m sure Sir Alec understands that, Your Majesty.” Walking forward, he held out his hand. “I promise you I do. I’ll keep her safe, sir.”
Rupert took Gerald’s offered hand and shook it, firmly. Then he turned to Bibbie and bowed. “Bibbie. Or should I say Miss Slack? It was delightful to meet you. I look forward to seeing you again soon.”
Bibbie, who was taking her role as Gladys more seriously than any actress, sank into an impeccable curtsey. “You’re too kind, Your Majesty.”
“Right, then, Rupes,” said Melissande, and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “We’ll be off. Now, mind you don’t portal us to Babishkia by mistake and please, don’t let that dreadful old goat Billingsley bully you while I’m gone.”
With a nod at Bibbie and Gerald she led the way back into the portal, then smiled at Rupert until the doors closed in her face and the whirling thaumaturgics whisked them away.
“Princess Melissande! You’ve come! How utterly delightful!”
From his subservient position in the rear, with Bibbie demurely reticent beside him, Gerald watched Melissande stand formidably straight.
“Crown Prince Hartwig,” she said, her austere reserve pitch-perfect and quintessentially, royally Melissande. “How kind of you to meet me. I wasn’t expecting such an honour.”
“My dear Melissande, so formal!” Splotze’s ruler protested, his Ottish correct but strongly accented, approaching with both heavily beringed hands outstretched. “When you and I have known each other for so many delightful years. You must call me Twiggy when we are spared the rigours of public observances. And I shall call you Melly, just as that good chap Rupert does.”
Anyone less twig-like, Gerald couldn’t imagine. Splotze’s Crown Prince was nearly as wide as he was tall, an impression not helped by the miles of gold braiding on his crimson tunic and trousers.
“Well, Twiggy,” said Melissande, accepting his hands so she could hold them at bay, and suffering him to kiss her noisily on both cheeks. “That sounds lovely. And tell me, how is Brunelda?”
The Crown Prince sighed, lugubrious. “Sadly afflicted with the gout. Today is not a good day, or she’d have come with me to greet you.” Another sigh. “Don’t tell her I told you, eh? There’s something quite lowering about a Crown Princess with the gout. I’m afraid Brunelda feels it keenly.”
“I imagine she does,” said Melissande. “I understand it’s a most uncomfortable complaint.”
“Yes, yes, it’s devilish discommoding,” said the Crown Prince, vigorously nodding. “I’ve had to turf her into a spare bedchamber, Melissande. She was quite cutting up my sleep!”
Wincing, Gerald dropped his gaze to the gold-chased tiles beneath his feet. Sir Alec would go spare if his mission ended five minutes after it began because Melissande lost her temper with their stuffy, middle-aged host.
Bite your tongue, Mel. For pity’s sake, for all our sakes, please bite your tongue.
“Oh, dear, poor Hartwig,” she sympathised. “That’s too utterly bad. And you with so much to contemplate, now that Ludwig’s getting married at last.”
He breathed out relief. Shame on him for doubting the redoubtable Miss Cadwallader. After a lifetime of dissembling in the face of Lional’s tempestuous instabilities, of course she wouldn’t stumble over such a small hurdle. Stupid of him to think that she might.
“Oh, lord, Ludwig!” said the Crown Prince, rolling his bloodshot brown eyes. His florid complexion burned brighter as he tugged his luxuriant fox-red moustache. “If you have the smallest care for me, Melly, do not utter my brother’s name. Not after last night. He went out carousing with some men from Harenstein and didn’t stumble home until dawn.” Reluctantly releasing her, he waved a hand about the palace room into which they’d arrived. “Now, here’s a sweeter topic for conversation. How d’you care for my privy portal chamber, eh? A bit of extravagance, really. With our dodgy etheretics it only works one day out of five, if we’re lucky! But even so—it’s pretty delightful, don’t you think?”
No, pretty hideous, Gerald thought, but kept his face blank. Hartwig and Lional must’ve attended the same art classes.
Melissande, escorted by the Crown Prince, was taking a slow turn around the portal reception chamber, exclaiming in apparently sincere admiration at the plump, naked cherubs and the taxidermied foxes and stoats and the enormous glass domes under which were trapped colourful, taxidermied birds, caught forever in mid-flight.
Domes …
Shuddered by memory—that other Ott’s parade ground, full of the other Gerald’s hideously tortured victims—Gerald thought he felt the gold-touched tiles beneath his feet tilt.
Bibbie sidled closer. “Ger—I mean, Algernon. Mister Rowbotham. Are you all right?”
He nodded, a curt dip of his head. Bloody Bibbie. Flirting like that with Melissande’s brother. Did she think he was made of cold stone?
But how stupid am I, to feel betrayed by a little flirting? I haven’t declared myself, have I? I don’t even know if she cares. If she’s ever thought of me as anything more than her brother’s best friend.
With a wrenching effort, clenching his fingers so his neatly trimmed nails bit his palm, he drove the treacherous thought deep inside. Dammit. Let Bibbie distract him on this mission and Sir Alec would rightly skin him alive—assuming that said distraction didn’t get him killed first. Which it might well do, if he wasn’t careful.
On second thoughts, maybe bringing her as camouflage wasn’t such a good idea.
Rebuffed, Bibbie inched away again. A glance at her profile showed him her feelings were hurt.
Yes, well, my girl. That’s what those of us born and bred in Nether Wallop call tit for bloody tat.
Melissande, adroitly managing to evade Crown Prince Hartwig’s suggestive hand hovering near her waist, paid the eye-searingly over-decorated chamber one last fulsome compliment, then halted.
“Now you know, dear Twiggy,” she said, fingertips brushing his braided forearm, in a voice amazingly close to a simper, “that while it’s a lovely morning here, back in New Ottosland it’s still practically midnight and I’m afraid any moment now I’m simply going to wilt. Would you be a dear and excuse me until afternoon tea? I’m sure I’m keeping you from any number of important matters and I feel quite overcome with guilt.”
Clearly not one to be easily dissuaded, the Crown Prince snatched Melissande’s hand and pressed a damp kiss to it.
“Of course, Melly. What a brute I am, keeping you on your delicate feet so I can boast of my lovely new portal chamber, when you should be reclining in the palace’s most sumptuous guest suite.”
