Witches incorporated

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I think it’s time you stopped sulking, madam,” said Reg, with a rattle of tail feathers. “You can’t tell me you don’t understand about difficult choices. Every princess knows all about those. Well. Every princess worth her tiara, anyway.”

Melissande looked up from her horribly early breakfast of hard-boiled egg and glowered. “I am not sulking.”

“All right, then. Moping… with a snooty look on your face,” said Reg. “Same thing.”

She sprinkled more salt on her egg. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Look,” said Reg, hopping down from the bedpost onto the bed, and strutting back and forth like a teacher in front of her class. “What did you think was going to happen when Gerald agreed to work for that Sir Alec? Did you think he was going to be romping through alpen fields picking daisies? He’s in a dirty business now, ducky. He’s going to get grimy.”

“Fine,” she snapped. “If he wants to get grimy that’s his choice. But now there’s a chance his grime is going to rub off on me!”

Reg stopped strutting and fixed her with an angrily gleaming eye. “Like your grime rubbed off on him, do you mean? Back in New Ottosland?”

“That was different,” she muttered. “I didn’t know Lional was a raving lunatic.”

“Yes, well, I think we’ll leave what you did and didn’t know about Lional for another argument,” said Reg. “Let’s stick to this one for now, shall we?”

Shocked, Melissande stared at her. “I don’t-what are you-I resent that insinuation, Reg!”

“Yes, I’m sure you do,” said Reg, looking down her beak. “Now as I was saying, it’s time you pulled yourself together, madam. Gerald risked everything by telling us why he’s at Wycliffe’s. And since it has nothing whatsoever to do with why we’re at Wycliffe’s we are going to leave him alone to get on with things. We’re still owed half our retainer, remember?”

“I don’t understand why you’re defending him,” she complained, ignoring that. “I thought you weren’t even talking to Gerald.”

“Ha!” said Reg. “Didn’t you know? I’m ambidextrous. I can be itching to kick his arse and yours at the same time.”

Abandoning her other egg, Melissande got off the bed and stalked over to the window. Gazing across the rooftops, she caught sight of something floating through the sky, flashing silver in the light of the rising sun. A Wycliffe airship.

Floating not on the air but on a river of innocent blood.

She turned. “I’m not just worried about me, you know. About how I’ll feel if there’s another portal incident and more people get hurt or-or even die. What about Gerald?”

“Gerald’s a big boy,” Reg said quietly. “He knew what he was getting into when he jumped in the boat and started rowing with that Sir Alec. There’s no such thing as a perfect solution, ducky. There’s the best you can do at any given moment on any given day and that’s all. Besides, we don’t know what else that Sir Alec knows. If we go wading into the middle of this now, throwing our weight about just because we’re royalty and we think we were born knowing better than everyone else, we could make things worse, not improve them. Is that what you want?”

“No, of course it’s not,” she said. “And I do not think I was born knowing better than everyone else!”

“No?” said Reg. “Oh well. If you say so.”

Melissande choked down the impulse to scream. Reg was the most impossible, infuriating, outrageous -

“Hey!” Bibbie called from beyond the closed door. “Is anybody here?”

She marched to the bedsit door and flung it open. “Of course,” she said, stamping into the office. “Where else would we be?”

“All right, calm down. There’s no need to bite my head off,” said Bibbie, perching on the edge of her desk.

“Well?” she said, ignoring that. “Did you bring the hexes?”

Bibbie rolled her eyes. “No. I just slaved through the night finishing the last of them, and making sure they worked, and then left them behind at the boarding house for Mistress Mossop to find. She snoops, you know. I’m starting to think I might have to take Monk up on his house-sharing offer after all.”

“Good idea,” said Reg, gliding in from the bedsit to land on her ram skull. “Then you can play chaperone and we can move in with you. I’d very much appreciate a bedroom of my own. Madam here snores like a combine harvester.”

Melissande gasped. “I do not!”

“No?” said Reg. “Then get Mad Miss Markham to leave a recording incant on in the bedroom and prove me a liar.”

“I don’t care if Mel snores so loudly all the roof tiles fall off,” snapped Bibbie. “Why would I want to share a house with two people who can’t be bothered to say thank you after someone’s slaved through the night on their behalf!”

Oh dear. Melissande exchanged a guilty glance with Reg and cleared her throat. “Sorry, Bibbie. Did you really slave through the night?”

Bibbie stifled a yawn. “I slaved through two nights,” she said, waspish. “Because as you very well know my days have been spent slaving in here!”

“Yes, I do know,” she said in a small voice. “And I appreciate it. We both appreciate it, don’t we, Reg?”

“I’d appreciate a good night’s sleep more,” said Reg.

“Oh well,” said Bibbie, with another of her lightning-swift mood shifts. “I suppose it could be worse. I could be impersonating a Wycliffe gel.” She tipped her head, consideringly. “Because honestly, Mel, that awful blouse-and-skirt ensemble doesn’t get any more attractive with the passage of time.”

Melissande looked down at her black-clad self and sighed. “It doesn’t, does it?”

“And you being such a fashion plate I’m sure it’s breaking your heart,” said Reg. “But you need to glue the pieces back together again, ducky, because if you don’t leave in the next five minutes you’re not going to get into Wycliffe’s early enough to set our trap. So haul out those hexes, Emmerabiblia, and let’s get cracking.”

The single most irritating thing about Reg was that too often she was right. “Yes, Bibbie,” she said. “Quickly, explain what I’m supposed to do with them.”

Bibbie reached into the carpetbag she’d dumped on her desk and pulled out a smoked-glass jar with its lid screwed on. “All right. So what you do is put a hex on any item you think is at risk of being stolen. Things that generally speaking stay put in the office, that don’t have any business being taken out of it? Yes?”

Melissande pulled a face. “That’s easier said than done. You’re talking about practically everything in the place.”

“Then choose the thief’s favourite targets,” said Bibbie. “Like Permelia’s special biscuits. One hex for each item, and whatever you do be careful. Anyone who touches a hexed item with bare skin is sort of painted with a detectable thaumic signature, so whatever you do don’t handle the hexes or the items you’re marking without wearing gloves. Otherwise we’ll be wasting a lot of time chasing you instead of our mystery pilferer.” She held out the jar. “I made a hundred. Please don’t tell me you’ll need more than that.”

“A hundred?” she said, cautiously taking the jar. “Bibbie, that must have cost a fortune. We may be getting more clients now but we can’t afford-”

“Yes, well,” said Bibbie, beautifully blushing. “You forget I’m a Markham, which means I’m not exactly poor.”

Ambushed by sudden emotion, Melissande blinked hard then cleared her throat. “Oh, Bibbie. You used your own money? You shouldn’t have done that.”

“What are you talking about?” said Reg. “Of course she should. We each do what we can, ducky. You wave your tiara about, Little Miss Markham here empties her piggy bank and I–I-”

“Remind us of things we keep forgetting,” said Melissande. “Especially when we don’t want to remember them.”

As her eyes met Reg’s she managed a very small smile. Reg sniffed, pretending not to understand, but her feathers ruffled ever so slightly.

“Anyway,” said Bibbie, and pulled a stoppered test tube out of the carpetbag. “Once you’ve marked all the at-risk items, put one of these hexes on all the doors and windows. Gloves again or there’ll be hell to pay. The two hexes react antithetically, you see. They’re a lot like dogs and cats, they start snarling and spitting when they get too close to each other.” She grinned. “Just like Monk and Aylesbury, actually. Probably that’s what gave me the idea. Well. When that happens-” She handed over the stoppered test tube and pulled out a small blue crystal. “-this hex detector will light up. It’s different from the first one we tried. Much more powerful, and operating on a different etheretic vibration.”

Melissande shook her head. “That’s marvellous, Bibbie.” And it was. Her inventiveness was amazing. “Except-what happens if the thief triggers the hex detector when I’m not around to see it?”

“Well, if you’re not on the premises then we’re out of luck,” said Bibbie. “But if you are-even if you’re at lunch in the garden-the hex detector will still react. Its range is good enough, I made sure of that.”

“And if it does go off while I’m at lunch?”

“Then you’ll have to find a way to sort of-wave it past everybody,” said Bibbie, shrugging. “It’ll go off again when it detects the presence of the triggered hex-marker on the guilty party.”

“Excellent,” said Melissande. She retrieved her own carpetbag from the bedsit, stowed the smoked-glass jar, the stoppered test tube and the blue crystal hex detector inside, and straightened. “Is that it?”

“Not quite,” said Bibbie, and fished again in her own carpetbag. “This is a confounder,” she added, handing over a small perfume spritzer. “For the picking of locks both large and small. One tiny squirt in the keyhole will get you into Permelia’s office, and anywhere else you need.”

“A confounder,” she repeated. “I see. Ah-something tells me this is a gift horse I shouldn’t look in the mouth.”

Bibbie grinned. “And something tells me you’re right. Illegal doesn’t begin to cover it.”

“So is it one of Monk’s little-”

“Monk?” said Bibbie. She sounded annoyed. “Why do you assume Monk had something to do with it? Honestly, Mel, if you let being sweet on my brother turn your brains to slush I’m going to be very disappointed in you.”

“Sorry, sorry,” she said hastily. “I wasn’t thinking. So- you made it?”

Mollified, Bibbie tapped a finger to her nose. “Gift horse, remember? No peeking allowed. And whatever you do, don’t let anyone catch you with it. Since it’s a liquid hex, at a pinch you really can pretend it’s perfume but I don’t recommend more than a single short spritz. Now shoo. So many hexes to distribute, not very much time.”

Melissande looked at Bibbie’s inventive and illegal gift then closed her fingers around it. Saint Snodgrass give me strength. “Fine. I’m shooing. But are you sure you’ll be all right here on your own again? Maybe Reg should stay in the office today.”

“No, maybe Reg shouldn’t,” said Bibbie, sharply. “Do you mind? It’s bad enough when Gerald and Monk get all patriarchal on me. Don’t you start or I’ll have an apoplexy. Besides, that chap in Births, Deaths and Marriages I sweet-talked is letting me have a peek at some personal information about Permelia Wycliffe’s gels today, remember?”

Oh. “Well, yes, but-”

“So probably, Mel, you should just wobble on your way, yes?” said Bibbie, with a dangerous smile.

“Yes,” said Reg. “She should. And so should I. There’s a tree in that employee garden with my name on it, unfortunately. But I’m telling both of you, duckies, I’m giving you fair warning: if that constipated male pigeon living in the roof of the R amp;D building tries one more time to look up my feathers those gels really will have a dead bird to scream about.”

Uncomfortably aware that time wasn’t on their side, Melissande took a cab almost the whole way to the old Wycliffe estate on the outskirts of West Ott, where the family company did its business. After paying the driver, hiding her wince behind a polite smile, she half-walked, half-jogged along the quiet road, through the open gates with their enormous “W”s and decorative ironwork airships, under the not-quite-life-sized tethered model airship and up the long tree-lined driveway towards the administration office.

According to her watch it was a few minutes after half-past six. The early autumn air had a nip to it, and the birds were yet to finish their rousing dawn chorus. Somewhere over to the left, behind a carefully cultivated swathe of greenery, Permelia was hopefully still abed in the family mansion. Ambrose, too. Unlike Monk, he’d been able to persuade his unwed sister to run his household for him.

Holding her breath, praying this wasn’t the one morning that Permelia or Ambrose decided to greet the dawn in person, or that one of Ambrose’s wizards hadn’t succumbed to a fit of dedication-or worse, that officious Miss Petterly wasn’t doing some investigating of her own-she crept to the administration office’s front door, fished Bibbie’s highly suspect confounder out of the carpetbag and squirted some hex over the front door’s lock. There was a subdued hum, a discreet flash of green light, and the handle turned without resistance.

“Oh, Bibbie,” she whispered. “Promise you’ll only ever use your powers for good!”

Biting her lip with nerves, she let herself in to the ground-floor reception area. It was hushed and empty, thank Saint Snodgrass. Miss Fisher, the receptionist, never arrived before eight. Climbing the stairs up to the office as quickly and quietly as she could, uncomfortably aware of her heart thudding against her ribs, she clutched the carpetbag in one hand, the confounder in the other and begged the muse of good luck not to desert her.

The door into the administration office was also locked. Melissande pressed her ear against it but couldn’t hear a sound. Bibbie’s confounder took care of that minor impediment and she found herself alone in the grey, cubicle-crammed dimness.

Oh, lord. Where to start, where to start…

Permelia’s office seemed the logical place. Closing the door behind her, she put down the carpetbag then made her way through the gloom to the curtained window behind Permelia’s desk. After letting in the morning light, she unlocked Permelia’s private supply cupboard, put on the gloves she’d stuffed into the carpetbag and quickly hexed everything she could think of that the office thief might decide to pinch.

That done, she took a moment to inspect the crowded wall of framed photographs. Permelia starred in each one, the collection seeming to span at least three decades. There was Permelia at around Bibbie’s age, standing beside a younger and slightly less flinty Orville Wycliffe than the one in the portrait. Behind them hovered an enormous tethered airship-the Ambrose. There didn’t seem to be a corresponding photo of an airship called the Permelia. Sad, but perhaps not entirely unexpected. After all, Permelia was only a gel.

Other Permelias, gradually aging, proudly posed with various cakes and pies, each one adorned with either a ribbon or a cup or, in sixteen repetitive cases, a Golden Whisk. The award’s design hadn’t changed a whit over the years. Many of the photographs showed Permelia with an assortment of apparently important and exotically-attired women from around the world: given the cake-themed badges pinned to their breasts it seemed reasonable to assume they were international sister-Guild members.

And lastly there was a very recent photo indeed: Permelia clutching her most controversial and hard-won seventeenth Golden Whisk.

“Blimey,” she muttered. “That didn’t take you long, Permelia.”

Although really, could she blame the woman for surrounding herself with the trappings of her success? At least in the Baking and Pastry Guild Permelia was someone of influence and importance. In the Guild she wasn’t treated like a housekeeper. In the Guild she wasn’t a gel. Or if she was, at least she was the head gel.

I suppose it makes up for not having an airship named after you. Or being banned from setting foot in your own research laboratory.

Again, she was aware of that inconvenient tug of sympathy-but she thrust it aside, quickly, because time was marching on and she still had an entire office to hex.

First she took care of the contents of Miss Petterly’s jealously guarded office supply cupboard. Then she hexed everything locked in the staff tea room’s cupboard: packets of plain biscuits and sugar and all the teacups, just in case. After that she hexed the portable items on each cubicle’s grim, impersonal desk: typewriter, abacus, pens and pencils, rulers.

Bibbie was right about going to Monk for help, drat her. Without his friend in the Births, Deaths and Marriages Bureau we’d never learn a thing about these girls. Honestly, would one little picture bring productivity screaming to a halt?

Last of all she hexed the windows and the door. Then, task finally accomplished, she bolted back downstairs and out to the employee garden.

“Well?” said Reg from her camouflaged position in the bushiest fig tree. “Any trouble?”

“Of course not,” she said, shoving the carpetbag and her plain, work purse under a handy low-growing shrub. “Why would there be?”

Reg snorted. “Why does flypaper attract flies, ducky?”

Charming. “Everything’s fine,” she said. “Now all we have to do is wait.”

“You can wait if you like,” said Reg. “Me, I’m going back to sleep.”

Yes, well, it was all right for Reg. “Fine,” she said, feeling grumpy. “And I’m going for a walk.”

As she left the garden she saw a posh silver car glide down the driveway towards the hallowed Research and Development complex, which was strategically distant from the administration building in case of unfortunate thaumaturgical accidents. As it passed she caught a glimpse of the driver: none other than that handsome plonker Errol Haythwaite.

She looked at her watch, pinned tidily to her ghastly black blouse. Just gone half-past seven. Goodness, Errol started work early, didn’t he? All the better to hide his treachery, perhaps? Curiosity piqued, she started down the long, hedge-trimmed driveway towards the sprawling R amp;D building.

Errol’s flash car was the only vehicle in the staff car park adjacent to the main R amp;D laboratory. Squished against the hedge, peering through a straggly patch, Melissande watched him unfold himself from its sleek interior, retrieve an expensive-looking briefcase and even more expensive-looking staff from the passenger seat, secure the car and make his way to the laboratory. A touch of the staff to a brass plate beside the doors unlocked them, and he went in.

“Rats,” she said, under her breath. “If only I could follow him inside. Saint Snodgrass knows what he’s getting up to in there.”

On impulse she scuttled across the almost empty car park and over to the imposing laboratory complex. There were no windows along the front, but perhaps along the back? Hardly daring to breathe, she crept around the corner of the building and peered along its rear length. She was in luck. There was indeed a scattering of windows. None of them was open but not all were screened by curtains. And one of them, it turned out, belonged to Errol Haythwaite’s office.

Nose pressed against the narrow width of uncurtained glass, quaking in fear that he’d look up and see her, Melissande held her breath again and spied on Gerald’s nemesis and number one suspect.

Tall, lean and indisputably dazzling, Errol stood in front of a large drawing-desk, a series of blueprints spread out before him. Even though he was facing the window, he didn’t notice he was being stared at, so intently was he focused upon his work. He’d taken off his expensive suit-coat and hung it on the back of his closed office door. His white shirt shone with a definite silkish shimmer, and his tiepin looked like solid gold. Definitely he wasn’t short of dosh.

Melissande glared. Come on, you rich plonker, do something incriminating. You’re owed such a smacking for the way you spoke to Gerald.

Errol, unobliging, picked up a wax pen and began to scribble all over his blueprints. Every so often he paused and stood back to consider his handiwork. Sometimes he smiled, which made him even more handsome.

On the desk behind him, his crystal ball pulsed red. Irritated, Errol turned and glared at it. Almost ignored it… and then changed his mind. Tossing down the wax pen he answered his incoming call.

“Rats,” said Melissande. She could see his lips move, but she couldn’t hear a thing. “I wonder if Bibbie’s invented an eavesdropping-hex too…”

Whatever was being said to Errol by his mystery caller, one thing was clear: he didn’t like it. Not at all. Now he was pacing his small, tidy office, hands fisted on his hips, and as he strode in and out of view Melissande saw his face was contracted in a scowl. But even angry and upset he was still shockingly handsome.

Just like Lional. Don’t let his looks fool you…

With Errol moving around so much it was far more likely he’d catch sight of her at his window. Time to go… especially since according to her watch it was nearly a quarter to eight and she still had to make her way back to the office.

She met up with Gerald on the way.

“Melissande!” he said, looking suitably Third Grade in a worn brown suit, a limp white shirt and slightly threadbare blue tie. His gaze narrowed suspiciously. “What have you been doing?”

Trust him to notice. “Doing, Gerald? I don’t know what you mean.”

With a quick look around to make sure no-one was coming, he took her elbow and tugged her against the hedge. “You know perfectly well what I mean. The only thing at the end of this driveway is the R amp;D lab. Melissande, please, stay out of my case. I know you’re only trying to help, but you can’t.”

“No?” she said, tugging her elbow free.

“No.”

“Does that mean you’re not interested in what I just saw?”

A riot of emotions chased over his face. “ Melissande…”

She patted his cheek. “I’ll tell you if you’d like to know. I’ll even waive my regular fee as a professional courtesy.”

He closed his eyes. “Yes. I’d like to know.”

“Say please.”

“ Please.”

Two more wizards were walking down the driveway. As much as she enjoyed teasing Gerald, she’d have to make this fast. “Someone contacted Errol,” she said quickly. “Through his crystal ball. Whoever it was made him very angry.”

Gerald took her arm again, his eyes intent, his grip veering towards painful. “Who was it? What did they talk about?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I couldn’t hear, I could only see. Gerald-”

Abruptly aware of himself, he let go of her arm. “Sorry. I’m sorry. Of course you couldn’t hear him, Errol’s got his office thaumaturgically sound-proofed. But did you see anything else?”

“No,” she said, resisting the urge to rub where his fingers had gripped her. “Well… except I don’t think he was just angry. I think he was afraid, too.”

Gerald laughed, unamused. “Errol? Afraid? That doesn’t seem likely.”

She shrugged. “Maybe not, but he was.”

The other wizards were much closer now, their shoes scrunching the driveway’s loose gravel. Gerald glanced over his shoulder. “We shouldn’t be seen together. Melissande-” He shook his head. “Thank you. That might be important. But please, I’m begging you-stay out of my way. If anything happened to you, or Reg, or Bibbie…”

This was only the third time she’d seen him since New Ottosland, and Lional. Even so-she could tell that he’d changed. That tentative, sweet man she’d met his first day in the palace was gone. Vanished, as though he’d never lived. And in his place stood this quietly haunted man, with one good eye that showed her dreadful things.

I wonder what he can see that’s different in me.

“ You mustn’t worry,” she said gently. “Nothing’s going to happen. Have a good day, Gerald. I expect we’ll talk again quite soon.”

With a nod and a smile she walked away, heading back to the employee garden so she could retrieve her reticule. She could feel Gerald stare after her, his gaze heavy between her shoulder-blades.

When she was clear of the two approaching wizards she broke into an unladylike jog. If she wasn’t careful she was going to be late… and getting fired was the last thing she needed.

“Here you go, Gerald,” said Japhet Morgan, fellow Third Grade menial, wheeling yet another trolley-load of thaumaturgically-stained beakers and test tubes and etheretic containers into R amp;D’s industrialsized scullery. “Compliments of Mister Haythwaite.”

Gerald looked round, and managed-just-to keep his face blank. That made five trolley-loads washed and six waiting for his attention. He’d been at this for nearly four hours now with no sign of a reprieve. So much for spying on Errol. And with what Melissande had told him this morning, he really, really needed to spy.

“Fine, Japh,” he sighed. “Just leave them with the others.”

Japhet parked the trolley, then lingered. “So. It was really you who blew up Stuttley’s?”

Was there any point in yet again protesting his innocence? No. People believed what they wanted to believe. Especially when someone like Errol was telling the tale.

“Yes, Japh,” he said wearily. “It was really me.”

Japhet, young and pimpled and easily awed, whistled soundlessly. “Gosh. No wonder Mister Haythwaite hates your guts. He says that staff of his you ruined cost thousands.”

“Does he?” He reached for another manky beaker. “Then I guess it did.”

“He says everywhere you go, disaster follows. He says you probably got a king killed. You didn’t, did you?”

What? He put down the scrubbing brush and turned to face Japhet. “No. I didn’t. And you should know better than to listen to gossip, Mister Morgan.”

Japhet flushed. “It’s not gossip. It’s what Mister Haythwaite says.”

Gerald turned back to the sink. “Yes, well, Mister Haythwaite’s going to say a lot more than that if he catches you in here idling. So you’d best leave me to my scrubbing and get back to work.”

“Right. Yes,” said Japhet, suitably cowed. “Sorry, Gerald. It’s only what Mister Haythwaite says.”

Alone again, Gerald rinsed the beaker and stacked it with the other twelve on the draining board. Outrage at Errol tangled with his ongoing remorse for blabbing to Monk and the girls about his true purpose here at Wycliffe’s. Reaching for yet another beaker, plunging it into the sink’s scalding, soapy water, he throttled the urgent desire to run out to the lab and beat Errol about the head with his brand new First Grade staff.

Stupid, stupid, mingy pillock. He’s trying to turn everyone here against me. He’s trying to get me fired. Does he know I’ve got my eye on him? Has he guessed? Did I give myself away somehow? He said he could sense there was something different about me. What if he really can? What if that wasn’t just bluster? Oh lord. If he gets me fired Sir Alec will be furious.

He scrubbed and scrubbed at the dirty beaker, feeling his shoulders ache. Feeling the heat of the scalding water. Even wearing rubber gloves he was developing dishpan hands. He could feel his fingers shrivelling; a few more hours of this and he’d have no fingers left.

But I’d better get used to it. If I let Errol get me fired this’ll be my first and last field assignment. Of course it’ll be my first and last field assignment anyway if Sir Alec finds out I spilled the beans on the investigation…

He wouldn’t feel so bad about it if he’d managed to convince the girls to give up working for Permelia Wycliffe. But he’d been mad to think he could talk them out of it by telling them the truth.

If anything, he’d actually made things worse. Melissande spying on Errol? The stupid girl had lost her mind. Maybe if he put a call through to Rupert…

I can’t. Melissande would never forgive me. Besides, Rupert would tell Sir Alec and that’d be that.

He’d just have to trust that, between them, Melissande and Reg would be able to find their biscuit thief. Maybe he could help them. Solving their stupid case would get them out of the way and he could breathe easily again. Focus on finding the link between Errol and Haf Rottlezinder.

Assuming there is one. I really want there to be one. I suppose that makes me a bad person. But he’s telling people I killed a king! All right, I did. But that’s not the point! And anyway, he was a bad king. The point is His disjointed train of thought was derailed by a commotion beyond the scullery’s open door. As he turned, half-cleaned beaker in hand, Japhet Morgan rushed back in.

“You’ll never guess!” he panted. “There’s been another portal accident! It’s all over the wireless. Quick, come and listen!”

Japhet rushed out again. Gerald, staring, didn’t even feel the beaker slip from his grasp. Hardly flinched as it smashed to splinters on the scullery’s brick floor.

Oh, damn. This is my fault. I should’ve found a way to stop it.

He stepped over the shards of glass, dreamlike, and drifted out to the complex of laboratories.

The wizards of R amp;D were huddled around the lab wireless. Even Errol was listening. But was that to learn first-hand of his success or because-like everyone else-he was horrified and wanted to know what had happened?

Was this what that crystal ball communication was about? Did Rottlezinder call Errol for permission to proceed?

He didn’t know. He had to find out.

“- and details are scarce at this time,” the news announcer was saying. “ There is no word yet of casualties. We shall update as new information comes to hand. I repeat, there has been an accident at the Central Ott General Post Office Portal. No official statement has been released by the Department of Transport, as yet, and details are scarce at this time. There is no word-”

Turning blindly away from the huddle of wizards, from the ruthlessly unemotional voice emanating from the wireless, Gerald nearly smacked face-first into Ambrose Wycliffe. The company’s hapless owner stood in the wide aisle that separated the two long rows of laboratories, his jowly, whiskered face unhealthily flushed.

“What’s that? What’s going on? Why aren’t you men going about your work? You know the rule about the wireless, gentlemen, it’s only for-”

“There’s been another portal accident,” said Gerald. Sweat was tormenting its way down his spine. “In Central Ott. Mister Wycliffe-I’m sorry-I have to go down there. My-my mother-was coming in to town today. She always uses the Central Post Office Portal. Please, sir, I really, really need to-”

“What?” said Ambrose Wycliffe, and shook himself. Paid attention. “Your mother, Dunwoody? I’m sorry to hear it. Naturally you must go. But don’t forget to punch out. You’ll need to make up the lost time.”

Of course he would.

As he made his surreptitious way out of the R amp;D block Gerald looked back at Errol, still standing closest to the wireless, still listening to the repetitive droning of the plummy-voiced announcer. If his dismay was an act, he belonged on the stage. But then traitors had to be good actors, didn’t they?

Feeling himself watched, Errol glanced up. Seeing who stared at him, his face hardened and his eyes chilled as his expression shifted from shock to sneering contempt. Then it shifted again, to a dawning suspicion…

Bugger. Before Errol could challenge him Gerald ducked out of the side door. Ranged down the length of the R amp;D block was a collection of prototype scooters and velocipedes. Rubbish, Melissande had called them. And she was right: the first three scooters he tried to start just spluttered at him, protesting. The fourth one kicked over, but chugged so pathetically he feared it would expire altogether before he could cover the distance between Wycliffe’s and the Central General Post Office.

Put-put-puttering down the driveway that led to Wycliffe’s front gates, he heard a wild flapping of wings and looked up.

“ Reg? What are you doing?” he whispered, as she landed on the back of the scooter. He was chugging past the main office building, past window after window that could at any moment contain an inconvenient witness. “Go away. Someone might see you!”

“Not likely,” said Reg, flapping herself into a more comfortable and secure position, pillion on the scooter. “Any gel caught looking out of the window is summarily dismissed, sunshine. And it’s only gels working in there.”

“Yes, all right, fine, if you say so, but-”

“I was stretching my wings and I saw you making a desperate getaway,” she said. “What’s going on, Gerald? Don’t tell me that pillock Errol Haythwaite’s put the wind up you?”

He risked a glance over his shoulder at her. Felt the most enormous wave of relief wash over him. I’m not alone. I’m not alone. “ If only,” he said, and heard his voice shake. “There’s been another portal incident, Reg.”

“Bugger,” she said. “Anybody dead this time?”

“I don’t know. I’m going down there. I have to see-maybe I can help, maybe I can-” His throat closed. “Melissande was right.”

“No, she wasn’t,” said Reg, as they bumped over the gratings set between the front gates of the Wycliffe Airship Company. Above their heads the tethered, antiquated airship bobbed in the light breeze. “You know she wasn’t. She knows she wasn’t. And even if she was this wouldn’t be your fault. You’re not a miracle worker. Incidentally, why are you wearing bright pink rubber gloves?”

He looked at his hands as though he’d never seen them before. “Oh. Yes.” With a bit of precarious manoeuvring, he managed to get the gloves off and shove them in his pocket. “I was-” The scooter’s engine gurgled, threatening imminent expiration. “Oh, this useless, hopeless, rubbish piece of-”

“Then fix it,” said Reg. “Soup it up. What’s the matter with you, Gerald? You’re not a Third Grade wizard any more, sunshine. You’re just playing one!”

Oh. Yes. So he was. He’d forgotten…

The road outside Wycliffe’s wasn’t the busiest of thoroughfares, but there were a few cars, and some carriages, and even a handful of scooters. Not Wycliffe models, that he could tell. Even so, he should be all right. The slowest carriage was still moving too quickly to tell what he was doing on his pathetic little piece of Wycliffe machinery.

He switched off his shield-incant. Took a deep breath, feeling his rogue powers stir. Thought for a moment, sorting through his repertoire of incants, chose the good old reliable Speed-em-up hex, gave it a twist, then zapped the gasping engine to within a thaumicle of its life.

The scooter roared like a ravenous tiger.

“Blimey!” said Reg, startled. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

“Hold on,” he said grimly. “We’re about to go really, really fast.”

“Gerald-now Gerald-” said Reg, warbling with unease. “You’re not that Markham boy, remember, just you think about this-just you-GeraldGeraaaaaald! ”