Wizard squared

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Arms folded, kid-booted toes tapping, Melissande stood on the front steps of the Witches Incorporated office building and waited for Gerald and Bibbie to arrive. The previous night’s miserable drizzle had cleared just after dawn, leaving the sky washed clean and the sun with its work cut out to dry up the generously scattered puddles. Boris, fastidious as ever, was seated on the front steps beside her, washing his face and whiskers and refusing to set so much as a toe onto the pavement until all the nasty water was gone.

“It’s a quarter past nine, Boris,” she announced, after glancing at the watch pinned to her sensible blouse. “And they’re still not here. I’m at my wits’ end, I tell you. In fact I’m starting to think that dreadful Miss Petterly had the right idea. As of today tardiness is going to be rewarded by salary deductions, no ifs, ands or buts. Unless that scatterbrained girl and the lovestruck idiot we got foisted on us without so much as a by-your-leave are here in the next five minutes I am keeping back a full ten percent of this week’s wage. I’m putting my foot down, Boris. Hard. Move your tail.”

It wasn’t fair. It was rude and inconsiderate and-and unkind. And as if her colleagues’ lack of punctuality wasn’t enough to bring her out in hives, there was that singularly unnerving Sir Alec to deal with.

“Why me, Boris?” she said, peering along depressingly empty Daffydown Lane. Clients, clients, where were all the clients? “What did I ever do to deserve this?”

Boris, his tail now wrapped neatly around his haunches, dabbed a damp paw behind his ears and declined to answer.

She nodded. “Exactly. Nothing. I’ve done nothing to deserve this disrespectful treatment. Maybe I should stop being plain Miss Cadwallader and go back to being a Royal Highness. Maybe then I won’t get treated like-a-a coat-stand. A rickety one, moreover, that’s been shoved in a corner and left for the woodlice!”

Boris stopped washing his face and sat up a little straighter, ears pointing towards the end of Daffydown Lane. A moment later Monk’s mud-splashed jalopy chugged into view.

“At last,” she said, and marched down the pathway to greet them.

“Sorry, sorry,” said Gerald, climbing out from behind the jalopy’s wheel. He’d parked right behind Sir Alec, but didn’t seem to realize. “It’s my fault. I overslept.”

“Really?” she said as he ducked around to open the front passenger door for Bibbie. “I find that hard to believe, Professor Dunwoody. In fact, as Reg would say, do pull the other one so I can-”

Bibbie clambered out of the jalopy. For once she didn’t look cool and calm and elegant. Well, at least, she did on the surface. But underneath the usual polish “Please, Mel, don’t go on at Gerald,” she said wanly. “It’s my fault. I’m the one who overslept. I wasn’t feeling well.”

Gerald was hovering in a far more obvious fashion than usual. And Bibbie had faint purple shadows beneath her eyes. Her eyes met his once, briefly, then she quickly turned away.

Melissande glared at them, her temper rising anew. “Oh, wonderful. Reg could be playing marbles with both of my eyes and I’d still be able to read that look. Come on. Spill the beans. What’s gone wrong now?”

“Wrong?” said Gerald. His voice was very nearly a squeak. “Sorry, Melissande. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, yes you do,” she retorted. “You both have I’ve got a big fat guilty secret written all over you-in capital letters!”

“No, we haven’t,” almost-squeaked Gerald.

Bibbie sighed. “Yes, we have. Come on, Gerald, we knew we’d probably never fool her. Mel-I’m sorry. But it’s best if you don’t know.”

Hurt battled with outrage. Excuse me? What am I? A bloody big mushroom? “Really? And why would that be, pray tell?”

“Because if we explain then your blood pressure will shoot so high every last one of your arteries will explode.”

“For once,” Gerald added, terribly apologetic, “she’s not exaggerating.”

Oh-oh- buttocks. “Fine,” she snapped. “Don’t tell me. See if I care.” I’ll just get it out of Monk. “I don’t have time for your silly games, anyway. As it happens we have a real crisis on our hands.”

“Already?” said Bibbie plaintively. “But it’s only twenty minutes past nine!”

“Don’t remind me,” she said, still snappish. “Or I really will dock your salary this week. Now pay attention, both of you. That wretched Sir Alec’s here.”

Gerald turned the color of week-old skimmed milk. “What?”

“You heard me. He’s here.” She pointed. “See? That’s his car. And he’s up in the office right now, drinking tea. Reg is keeping an eye on him.”

“But why?” said Bibbie, as unattractively pale as Gerald. Did she realize she was clutching at his wool-coated arm? “Why is he here? Did he say? What does he want?”

“A word with Gerald.”

“But-but-” Gerald waved his arms around, heedless of Bibbie’s femininely clutching fingers. Which meant that whatever the two of them had done it was seriously serious. Something they couldn’t afford for Sir Alec to find out about.

Wonderful. At this rate I’ll have to move in to Chatterly Crescent, the proprieties go hang, or one of these geniuses is going to do someone else a great big mischief.

“I don’t understand,” said Gerald, staring over their heads to Witches Incorporated’s blind-shrouded front window. “If he needs to talk to me he summons me to Nettleworth. Did he say he’d tried to reach me? My crystal ball’s not on the blink. At least I don’t think it is. Did he say if-”

“No, Gerald, the subject of your crystal ball did not arise,” she snapped. And then, mortifyingly aware of the unfortunate entendre, felt herself blush in blotchy embarrassment. “So I can only assume he avoided regular communications. Which probably means that whatever he’s got to say he’s not keen for your colleagues at Nettleworth to overhear it.”

Bibbie turned to Gerald. “Or else he knows,” she whispered. “And he’s decided to handle it under the table. I mean, he’s not you or Monk but he is a powerful wizard, Gerald. Maybe he-”

“No,” said Gerald, shaking his head. “They’d have sent your Uncle Ralph to the house if that were the case.”

“You think so? Really?” Bibbie’s tired eyes shone with hope. “Because otherwise-” She blinked back tears. And tears most definitely weren’t like Bibbie. “Oh, Gerald.”

Melissande felt her insides go cold. Saint Snodgrass preserve me, what did they get up to last night? “Gerald, are you quite sure you’ve no idea what he’s doing here?”

“None,” said Gerald. “He hasn’t explained himself at all?”

She looked at him. “Suffering from a mild concussion, are we?”

“Sorry,” he said, wincing. “What’s his mood like? Could you tell?”

“Well, when I came downstairs almost half an hour ago he was perfectly polite,” she replied, feeling newly waspish and not inclined to spare their feelings. “But now he’s had almost half an hour of Reg making pointed remarks, so-”

“Bloody hell,” Gerald groaned. “Did you have to leave him with Reg?”

“I had to leave him with someone, Gerald! I couldn’t just abandon him alone in the office, could I?” she retorted, perilously close to unladylike shouting. “Now please go upstairs, find out what he wants and then get rid of him so we can get to work! Arnold Frobisher is due here at ten, if you recall, and it’s going to take me nearly every minute I can lay my hands on to calm myself enough to make sure I don’t kill him in lieu of you! ”

Gerald took a prudent step back. “Right. Yes. I can do that. And while I’m doing that, ah, why don’t you and Bibbie and Boris enjoy the sunshine? I won’t take long. Two shakes of a lamb’s tail, I promise.”

“Are you out of your mind?” she said, glaring. “Whatever he’s got to say to you he can say to me and Bibbie at the same time. We are Witches Incorporated and we are a team.”

“Oh. Um.” Gerald rubbed his nose. “Look. I know you and Bibbie signed various Secret Acts and so forth, Melissande, but given the lengths Sir Alec’s gone to for a private conversation I’m pretty sure he won’t want an audience for this.”

She spread her hands wide. “And behold me, Gerald, once again not caring.” She turned on her heel. “Now come on. I want this over with. Some of us have proper work to do.”

“It’s all right,” said Reg from her ram skull, as they marched into the main office. “All the teaspoons are accounted for. I haven’t took my eyes off him once.”

“Sir Alec,” said Gerald, very cautious, closing the office door. “Good morning.”

Sir Alec, neatly seated in the best client chair, nondescript as ever in his ordinary brown suit, slipped the notes he’d been reading back into his shabby leather briefcase.

“Good morning, Mr. Dunwoody. I wasn’t aware you kept bankers’ hours at Witches Inc.”

“No, no, that was me,” said Bibbie, her cheeks pinking. “My fault. Don’t blame him. Gerald’s always on time when I’m not around.”

“I see,” said Sir Alec. His cool gray eyes lost a little of their chill. “You and your brother. So much alike.”

“Thank you,” Bibbie said faintly. “I think.”

“Ah, Sir Alec, don’t take this the wrong way,” said Gerald, stiff and formal beside Bibbie’s desk, “but what are you doing here?”

“Have a seat, Mr. Dunwoody,” Sir Alec replied, as though these were his premises and he was in charge. “And I’ll explain. You too, Miss Cadwallader, and you, Miss Markham.

Surprised, Melissande looked at him. “You’re inviting us to stay?”

“Yes,” said Sir Alec, resigned. “Since I’m sure Mr. Dunwoody will only share with you what I tell him the moment I depart.”

Reg chattered her beak. “Saint Snodgrass’s bunions, you’re a sarky bugger, sunshine.”

“Really?” said Sir Alec, one pale brown eyebrow lifting. “Well, far be it from me to contradict such a renowned exponent of the art.”

Melissande choked back a laugh at the look on Reg’s face.

But Gerald wasn’t amused. A deep line was creased between his brows. “Sir Alec-”

“Relax, Mr. Dunwoody,” his formidable superior said, sounding bored. “When you cross the line you may believe I’ll tell you.”

“I’d rather you told us what’s going on,” said Bibbie, and dropped herself into the chair behind her desk. “This is all terribly mysterious, Sir Alec.” Elegant chin propped winsomely on her interlaced fingers, all her earlier distress carefully hidden, she fluttered her outrageously long eyelashes at him. “Have you a very special assignment for the team at Witches Inc.?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Sir Alec, spuriously apologetic. “But I do have a task for Mr. Dunwoody.”

Gerald was still standing at ramrod attention, more like a lance-corporal than a secret government agent. “A task, sir?”

“What kind of task?” said Melissande, and shifted sideways until she could rest her elbow on the top of the filing cabinet, where Reg brooded on her skull like a shag on a rock. Absolutely she wasn’t sitting down, on principle alone. “And how long will it take? Gerald’s got jobs booked, I’ll have you know. Secret government department front or not, Sir Alec, we do still operate as a legitimate business and I don’t take kindly to abruptly disappearing staff.”

Sir Alec raised that lethal eyebrow again. “I happen to know, Miss Cadwallader, that Mr. Dunwoody is not currently engaged on any jobs for this agency-but even if he were, my needs take precedence. Also, I feel compelled to note-in the interests of veracity-that since joining your intrepid band of investigators that this is the first time I’ve approached him on a matter of janitorial business, and so the term ‘abruptly disappearing staff’ does not in this case apply. At least, not to Mr. Dunwoody. Given the Markham family propensity for unauthorized thaumaturgics, I’m not prepared to speak for Miss Markham.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” said Bibbie, her cheeks becomingly flushed with temper. “Because I’m perfectly capable of speaking for myself!”

“I’m sure you are, Miss Markham, but I’d appreciate it if you’d refrain,” said Sir Alec. “Just this once. So we can conclude our meeting in a timely fashion. I’m sure you don’t want to keep Mr. Frobisher waiting.”

As Reg muttered crossly under her breath, Melissande lifted her chin at Gerald’s aggravating superior. “And if someone does call expressly requesting Gerald’s services?”

Sir Alec shrugged “Then you’ll tell them, with regret, that he is otherwise engaged.”

“Doing what?” said Gerald. “Or can’t you say in mixed company?”

“I can’t say with complete abandon,” Sir Alec replied after a moment, “but I can assuage your colleagues’ curiosity this much, Mr. Dunwoody: you’ll be taking a short trip out of the country. Having a quiet word with someone who knows someone who knows something about something about which I would like to know.”

Melissande scowled. Honestly, all this ridiculous secret agent doublespeak. But Gerald was nodding as though Sir Alec’s gobbledegook made perfect sense. And perhaps it did, to him. He was the government agent, after all.

“Right, sir,” Gerald said, with a glint in his eye. “And you need me for this task because…?”

Up went Sir Alec’s eyebrow again. “I’m sorry. Am I required to justify myself to you, Mr. Dunwoody?”

“Oh, stop being so bloody starchy,” said Reg. “It’s a fair question and you know it. Want me to answer it? I’ll bet you five field mice I can.”

“Alas,” said Sir Alec, not even pretending to be sorry this time. “I’m bereft of field mice. But let that not stop us, Reg. By all means-answer the question. And if you get it wrong I’ll think of another forfeit.”

“Don’t, Reg,” said Bibbie, still rankled. “You don’t know what he’s got up his unfashionable sleeve.”

“Actually, I do,” said Reg. “A stringy white arm with not enough bicep on it.”

Sir Alec smiled, but his eyes didn’t lose any of their gray chill. “Stalling for time, Dulcetta?”

Reg stretched one wing above her head and yawned. “You’re sending Gerald because when he plays his cards right he’s no more of a head-turner than a genuine Ottish street sweeper and you don’t want him and your chatty friend getting themselves noticed while they’re chatting.”

“Exactly,” said Sir Alec, with a small nod, one fencer to another acknowledging a hit. “Even in our small world Mr. Dunwoody remains an unknown quantity. He’s the perfect candidate to slip in and out unobserved.”

Melissande drummed her short, blunt fingernails on the side of the filing cabinet. “In and out of where?”

“None of your business, Miss Cadwallader,” said Sir Alec.

Bloody secret government departments. With an effort she unclenched her jaw. “Fine. But I do need to know how long he’ll be gone. So that when prospective customers call wanting his help I can tell them how long they’ll have to wait for it.”

“I’m afraid I have no idea.”

“And how are we supposed to run a business when-”

Sir Alec stood, economically athletic. “That’s not my concern, Miss Cadwallader. My concern is with the security of this country. Our arrangement guarantees that Witches Inc. will remain solvent. I advise you to take comfort from that, and adjust your business ambitions accordingly.”

“Ha!” said Reg. “I’ll adjust your bloody ambitions, sunshine. In case you haven’t noticed I’ve got a long beak and I’m not afraid to use it!”

Gerald lifted his hand. “ Reg.”

“What?” Reg complained, her feathers ruffled. “He marches in here and starts bossing us around, says he’s dragging you off by the scruff of your neck without so much as a d’you mind, thanks ever so, and here’s us being left behind and-” With a timely gasp for air, she fixed Sir Alec with a gimlet gaze. “Mind you-”

“ No, Reg,” said Sir Alec. “Under no circumstances are you accompanying Mr. Dunwoody. And make no mistake-if you try I will have you restrained.”

“Fine,” Reg muttered sulkily. “Have it your way. But if anything happens to him because I wasn’t there…”

Gerald spared her an affectionate glance, then focused his attention on Sir Alec. Melissande, watching him, saw the chilling, subtle shift from sweet, thoughtful, slightly harassed Gerald to the terrifyingly powerful wizard who’d created two dragons and defeated mad, misguided Lional.

She felt her heart thud harder. In their daily Ottish life-at Chatterly Crescent, here at the agency, and on those days when they took a little time to have some fun-it was possible to forget that this darker Gerald even existed. She knew Gerald worked very hard to forget him. Though they’d never talked about it, she knew he’d still not come to grips with the man he was now. Just as she was sure he’d still not found his wizarding limit. And that frightened him. It frightened Monk, too. He’d never said it aloud, but she’d caught him looking at his best friend once or twice… and in his guarded eyes there’d been a deep unease.

But it’s the hidden, dangerous part of him that Sir Alec wants. He needs it. And he has no compunction about using it, either. Not when lives and secrets are at stake.

More than anything, she wished she could dislike the man for that. But she couldn’t. Because once upon a time she’d had a brother called Lional.

Cool and remote, almost a stranger, Gerald nodded at his boss. “You want me to come now?”

“There’s no time like the present.”

“Do I need to go home and pack?”

Sir Alec shook his head. “There’s a bag in the car for you.”

“Large or small?”

“Sufficient,” said Sir Alec, a sardonically appreciative glint in his eyes. “I’ll give you a moment to make your farewells. But only a moment. Time is a factor.”

“Thank you,” said Gerald. “I’ll see you downstairs.”

Sir Alec picked up his briefcase and offered the smallest of bows. “Ladies. Always a pleasure.”

“Ha,” said Reg, staring down her beak at him. “Speak for yourself, sunshine.”

At the door, Sir Alec hesitated and turned back. Looked at Bibbie, no warmth at all in his eyes. “Miss Markham, a word to the wise which you might like to pass along to your brother.”

Bibbie’s bright smile was the equivalent of a cocked pistol. “Which one?”

Sir Alec’s answering smile was razor-thin. “Guess. Then tell him this: bravado is an admirable trait on the sporting field. Elsewhere, however, it more often than not backfires. Tell him he might like to practice discretion for a change. Doubtless it will have all the charm of novelty.”

“You know, Gerald,” said Bibbie thoughtfully, as the door closed behind him, “I could probably dislike your boss without much effort at all.”

“Don’t be silly, Bibs,” Gerald said, surprisingly sharp. “He’s the best friend we’ve got.”

Bibbie lowered her gaze, looking hurt.

“Reg,” said Gerald, and crossed to the filing cabinet. “Stay out of trouble, will you? At least till I get back?”

“ Me?” said Reg, with a valiant attempt at outrage. “That’s rich, that is, coming from you.”

Reaching up, he dropped a brief kiss on the top of her head. “I’ll be fine. Home by tomorrow night, I’ll bet you five field mice.”

She sniffed. “You know perfectly well I hate field mice, Gerald. They taste like cow poop. I was just twisting his tail.”

“And a champion tail-twister you are, ducky,” he said. “Melissande-”

She wasn’t going to cry. She wasn’t. Gerald Dunwoody was a trained secret agent with more wizarding power in his crooked little finger than any other First Grader in the world. There was nothing to worry about. He was going to be fine.

“Good luck with Mr. Frobisher,” he said, and brushed his fingers down her arm. “Don’t take any nonsense from the silly old fart, even if he is an old family friend of Sir Alec’s.”

She tilted her chin at him. “As if I would. After a lifetime of Lord Billingsley? Arnold Frobisher doesn’t scare me.”

He kissed her cheek. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Good luck, Gerald,” said Bibbie, admirably composed. “Bring us back a souvenir.”

Gerald’s smile wasn’t quite steady. “I’ll do my best, Bibbie. Tell Monk to keep his nose clean or I’ll kick his ass when I get back.”

The door closed behind him and immediately the sunlit, crowded office felt cold and empty.

Bibbie fished a hanky out of her pretty new reticule and savagely blew her nose. “I have an influenza,” she said, stabbing Reg with a baleful glare.

“Did I say you didn’t?” Reg protested. “Blimey. Don’t take my head off, ducky, it’s not my fault he’s gone.”

Melissande finished blinking back her own tears and pushed away from the filing cabinet. “It’s not anyone’s fault,” she said, going to her desk. “He works for Sir Alec. He only pretends to work here. And since that was never a secret we can’t moan about it now.”

Reg heaved a sigh. “His first assignment without us. You realize he’s going to go ass right over elbows.”

“He’ll do no such thing, you revolting old hag!” Bibbie snapped. “He’s Gerald Dunwoody.”

“Yes, ducky, I know,” said Reg, giving her a look. “Which means on the way home one of us better light a candle to Saint Snodgrass.”

“ Anyway,” said Melissande, before the feathers started flying. “We’ve got horrible Arnold Frobisher arriving any tick of the clock. And then what do we do with ourselves for the rest of the day?”

“Mount a prayer vigil at the church,” said Reg. “That boy’s going to need all the help he can get.”

“ Once, Mel,” said Bibbie, her perfect teeth bared in a snarl. “Let me hit her just once. She’ll only be unconscious for a minute. I promise.”

“No!” she said, and banged her fist on the desk. “The only person doing any hitting around here will be me, and that’s only if Arnold Frobisher pinches my behind again.”

“Now, now,” said Reg, scolding. “Hitting’s hardly royal behavior.”

Melissande rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. You want to poke him in the unmentionables. And I suppose poking men in the unmentionables is royal, is it?”

“Ha,” said Reg, her dark eyes wickedly gleaming. “Royal? Bugger that. It’s the most fun you can have with your clothes on, ducky!”

Sir Alec handled his government-issue car with a quiet efficiency that wasn’t the least bit surprising. The shock would have been if he’d driven any other way.

“So, Mr. Dunwoody,” he said, as they reached the lightly populated outskirts of Central Ott and turned onto Greater Flushcombe Road. “Any questions?”

Gerald looked out of the window at the passing semi-rural countryside. Wherever they were headed, he’d not been there before. In fact, this was his first trip out of the city in months.

“No, Sir Alec. I think I’m clear. Once I reach my destination I’m to take a room in the Grande Splotze Inn, using the name Barlowe. As soon as the dining room opens I’m to take the small table under the stuffed moose head with the chipped left antler, making sure to wear the yellow cravat that’s been provided for me, and wait until my contact stops to tell me I should really try the elk stew. Overcome by his kindness I’m to invite him to join me for supper, over which he will-if we’re very lucky-tell me some interesting things about a certain black market wizard we’re anxious to meet.”

Sir Alec nodded. “Exactly.” Then, glancing sideways, he added, “And if you’re going to snigger I suggest you do it now. Sniggering in Grande Splotze might easily get you killed.”

Damn. “I’m sorry, sir. But honestly-it is rather like something out of a bad cloak-and-dagger novel.”

“I don’t read bad cloak-and-dagger novels, Mr. Dunwoody,” Sir Alec said coolly, “so I’ll have to take your word on that. As for your arrangements, they were made by the man you’ll be meeting over the elk stew. Given the risks he’s taking I’m not inclined to criticize. Are you?”

“No, sir,” he muttered, and hunched a little in the uncomfortable passenger seat. Nobody could make him feel small the way Sir Alec could. “Sir-”

“When you come back,” said Sir Alec, slowing the car to take a sharp left-hand turn onto a road that looked to be taking them into deep rural territory, “and you’ve been fully debriefed, I suggest you take a day for yourself and catch a train to the seaside. Alone. It’s my experience that fresh salt air and solitude do wonders for one’s perspective.”

This was about Monk again. He knew it. “Sir-”

“I’m doing my best, Mr. Dunwoody,” said Sir Alec. “And so is Sir Ralph. But unless your clever young friend starts helping himself not even his uncle and I will be able to save him.”

Stupid bloody politics. Stupid old men. “Sir-Monk’s a genius.”

“I know, Mr. Dunwoody. That would be the problem.”

They drove some twenty-five more miles in silence. Around them the countryside grew markedly more full of sheep. At last Sir Alec slowed almost to stopping, then guided the car down a long narrow private road. It took them all the way around to the back of a seemingly deserted farmhouse, where a straggle of outbuildings sagged under the sunny sky. The surrounding silence was profound.

“Right,” said Sir Alec, and stopped the car. “Here we are.”

And here was in the middle of nowhere. Clambering out of the car, overnight bag clutched in one hand, Gerald looked around, perplexed. “Ah-Sir Alec? What-”

“With me,” said Sir Alec, infuriatingly calm, and led the way into the nearest slatternly barn.

Instead of cows, or even sheep, the barn contained a portal.

“It’s unregistered,” said Sir Alec, answering his unspoken question. “One of a handful we use for little jobs like this. Perfectly safe, of course. Just-off the national grid. All right, in you hop.”

Secret portals? The Department operated secret portals? What else didn’t he know? Feeling stupid, Gerald stared at his superior. “You’re a licensed portal operator?”

For once, Sir Alec’s brief smile was almost warm. “Mr. Dunwoody, over time you’ll find I’m licensed for a great many things.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small copper disc and tossed it. “Use that for your return journey. It’ll shoot you through to a different unregistered portal. We don’t like to use the same one twice in any mission. There’ll be a phone so you can call the Department for a lift back to Nettleworth. And don’t worry. The travel token has a falsified destination signature. The Grande Splotze portal operator will be none the wiser. Now-have a safe trip and I’ll see you again soon.”

Gerald slipped the return travel token into his pocket. “Yes, sir.”

And with nothing else to say, he stepped into the portal and vanished.

“Y’know,” said Reg, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, sunshine.”

Holding a finger steady on a precariously balanced thaumic constrictor, Monk blew his hair out of his eyes. “Well, you’re not me, are you, Reg?”

Reg cackled. “And if you think I don’t give daily thanks for that, Mr. Markham, you’ve got cockroaches in your undershorts.”

He looked at Melissande. “Have I told you today how grateful I am that you took her with you so she’s not living with me?”

“I wouldn’t live with you if you paid me in rubies,” said Reg, offended. “Cheeky bugger.”

They were up in the attic, fiddling with experimental thaumaturgics. Well. Drinking brandy and fiddling. And more the former than the latter. Sort of. What he really wanted to do was have at his multi-dimensional etheretic wavelength expander, except… well, it was still pretty unstable and Gerald wasn’t here. So instead, he and Bibbie were working on her ridiculous ethergenics project with Melissande taking copious notes and Reg making a nuisance of herself on one of the stationary pushbikes. It was all terribly domestic.

“I think,” said Bibbie slowly, emerging from one of her trances, “that what we need to do next is cross-wire the thaumic constrictor with the etheretic enhancer, and feed the feedback pulse back through a compromising subharmonic Bodley prism.”

“Say that again, ducky,” said Reg. “Backwards. I dare you.”

Bibbie flapped a hand at her. “Shut up, you silly woman. Monk, what do you think?”

I think Melissande looks adorable with ink smudges on her nose. “Um-really? A Bodley prism? You don’t want to use a Crumpshott?”

“No,” said Bibbie, decisively. “Any fool can split the harmonics with a Crumpshott.”

“And by any fool,” said Reg, amused, “she means Demelza Sopwith.”

“Hey!” said Bibbie. “I thought we agreed that name was never to be spoken.”

Reg rattled her tail feathers. “Sorry. Perhaps if I had some brandy I could remember things like that.”

“ Forget it! ” Melissande and Bibbie shouted together.

“Remember what happened the last time you got your beak into brandy?” Melissande added. “I refuse to go through that again.”

Reg subsided, sulky. “Well, at least I didn’t climb into a fountain and crush innocent goldfish to death down my decolletage.”

“You don’t have a decolletage, Reg,” said Melissande, teeth gritted. “Not any more. But I do. So shut up or I’ll pretend you’re a goldfish.”

“I need more brandy,” Monk announced, and scrambled to his feet. “Lots of it.” The girls ignored him, they were too busy squabbling. Leaving them to it, he took the stairs two at a time down to the parlor where the drinks trolley lived. Suitably fortified he headed back upstairs, only to be halted midway by a banging on the front door.

“What the hell?”

It was late. They weren’t expecting anyone. And if it was Gerald returned from his mission he’d let himself in. Bugger. He didn’t want visitors. Mildly grumpy, he turned around, thudded back down the stairs and padded along the hallway to the hexed front door. Tucked the bottle of Broadbent under his arm, canceled the hex and swung the door wide.

“Yes? What is it? What do you-”

The man on the doorstep wore the same face he looked at in the mirror every morning.

“Markham!” the man gasped. “Monk Markham! Let me in, for God’s sake! We have to talk!”

Monk banged the door shut in the man’s face-his face-reset the hex and climbed back up to the attic.

“Um-girls?” he said, halting in the doorway, and was amazed he sounded so unperturbed. “If I could just have your attention?”

They looked at him inquiringly: Melissande, Bibbie and Reg.

“Um-girls-am I drunk?”

“Well, drunk’s a relative term when it comes to you,” said Bibbie, considering him. “But on balance no. I wouldn’t say so. Why?”

He cleared his throat. “Because I just answered the front door and I’m standing on the doorstep. I don’t suppose you’d like to come downstairs and see?”