Wizard squared

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I t was the teasing and flirtatious scent of perfume that woke him. Perfume? In Grande Splotze? In his bachelor guesthouse room in Grande Splotze? Surprised-and just the slightest bit alarmed, because during his training there’d been any number of pointed lectures about inappropriate personal dalliances while on janitorial assignment — Gerald kept his eyes closed and waited for recent memory to return.

I was in the car with Sir Alec. There was a farmhouse, somewhere in the middle of nowhere. And a portal. I got into the portal. Sir Alec was operating it. I got into the portal. I had an overnight bag. Sir Alec gave it to me. Something to do with a yellow cravat. I got into the portal.

Hmm. There was a theme developing here. He got into the portal and then And then what happened? Did I reach Grande Splotze? Did I meet up with my contact? Perhaps my contact was a woman. Perhaps it’s her perfume I can smell. Perhaps things got a bit cozy. Were they supposed to get cozy? I don’t recall Sir Alec mentioning it. There was something about elk stew. But elk stew doesn’t sound terribly cozy. Actually it sounds bloody awful.

Slowly and carefully, still not opening his eyes, he groped around under the blankets. No. Perfume or no perfume, he was definitely alone in the bed. That was a relief. He couldn’t begin to imagine how he’d explain an inappropriate personal dalliance to Sir Alec. Not after all the other things he’d had to explain.

I got into the portal…

But did he get out again at the other end? Try as he might he could not summon the memory. Recollection ended with the secret Department portal in that remote, abandoned farmhouse and the dry, self-contained look on Sir Alec’s never-well, almost never-communicative face.

I got into the portal…

Well, obviously he must’ve got out of it again because he was lying in a bed now, wasn’t he? So the real question was, whose bed and where was it? And the only way he was going to find the answer to those questions was to stop delaying the inevitable and open his eyes.

“Hello, Gerald,” said Bibbie Markham, lounging nearby in a silk-covered chair. She was wearing something startling and not altogether proper in red. No. Scarlet. “I was wondering how much longer you were going to keep up the charade.”

“Bibbie?” he said blankly. “What are you doing here?” Dressed like that. In Grande Splotze. In my bachelor guesthouse room in Grande And then he looked past Monk’s unexpectedly alarming sister to the wallpaper behind her-muddy beige with mustard stripes-and realized Wait a minute. That’s my wallpaper. In my room in Monk’s house. In Ott. So-I’m at home? How did that happen? And why is Bibbie waving that cigarette holder? She doesn’t smoke. Does she? Something’s not right here. I think I’m in the middle of a very strange dream.

“No, you’re not,” said Bibbie, cheerfully. With a tap of one elegantly manicured fingernail she ignited the cigarette in the gold-inlaid ivory holder. “You’re wide awake, Gerald.” And then she laughed. “How odd, having to call you Gerald. I might have to think up another name for you. Pity your parents didn’t give you any spares.”

What? What the devil was she talking about? Nonplussed, he stared a little closer at Monk’s sister. She looked… subtly different. Like Bibbie, and yet not. A thin stream of cigarette smoke curled ceilingwards in front of her face. Her-her painted face.

Good lord. I must be dreaming. Bibbie’s wearing makeup.

But how could that be possible? In Ottosland only socially inferior theatrical ladies and those fallen girls who regrettably sold their-their-charms-to unscrupulous gentlemen put paint and powder on their faces. A respectable girl who-who-what did they call it? Oh, yes. Tarting up. A respectable girl like Bibbie who tarted herself up would be subjected to the most astringent criticisms. From what he could understand, even tweed trousers were preferable. With her face painted like that, Markham or not Bibbie would be an instant social outcast. Her family would come down on her like the proverbial ton of bricks.

Reg disapproved of the restrictions, of course. Called them fuddy-duddy and anti-female. She’d worn her war paint every day when she was queen. Nothing wrong with it. Looking her best was the birthright of every woman and bugger the old sourpusses out to rain on the parade.

But Bibbie refused to listen to Reg’s demand that she take the fight for female suffrage that next important step. At least, he thought she’d refused to listen. But here she was in his bedroom with powder on her cheeks and paint on her lips and something on her eyelids and lashes that made her blue eyes almost too beautiful to bear. Wearing scarlet.

Bloody hell. How long has it been since I got into that portal?

Bibbie was grinning now, and at least that hadn’t changed. Her smile could probably power entire small countries. “Poor thing. You do look confused.”

“Um-probably because I am,” he said. With a glance down at his chest-good, he was wearing a nightshirt, except- Oh, lord, who put it on me? — he cautiously eased himself to sitting and rested his back against the knotty old bedhead. The chamber’s curtains were closed, and his clock was missing from the bedside nightstand. “What time is it?”

Bibbie waved the cigarette holder. Smoke wafted through the air, the smell of burning tobacco unpleasantly mingling with her muskily floral perfume. “Oh, yes, well, time,” she said, disparaging, and inhaled deeply on her unlikely cigarette. Tipping her head back, she proceeded to produce seven perfectly round smoke rings and then pierced all seven with a startling smoke arrow. “D’you know-Gerry-I think we’ve more important things to talk about than time.”

She’d done something different to her hair, too. On first glance he’d thought she’d just twisted it up in a new style but now, as she turned her head to watch her smoke rings on the arrow dart about the room, he could see that she’d cut it. Cut off her long golden hair and-and-slicked it down with some kind of feminine pomade. And there was something else, too. Something… unwholesome… that had nothing to do with face paint and cigarettes. A sour tang in the ether.

But that can’t be right. Bibbie would never get her thaumaturgical hands dirty. Not like that. Not Bibbie.

Dismayed, he stared at her. “ Bibbie — enough nonsense, all right? I want to know what time it is-what day it is- and I want to know what’s going on!”

She flicked him a cold glance. “You’d be wise not to take that tone with me, Gerry. I warn you, taking that tone will get you into trouble.”

His jaw dropped open. “ What? Emmerabiblia Markham, are you squiffed? Or running a desperately high fever? Or is that not exactly tobacco you’re smoking? And anyway, since when do you smoke? And-and-wear makeup. And scarlet. And when did you cut off all your hair?” Fed up with the disadvantage of being in bed, like a child, he flung back his blankets and faced her on his bare feet. “Look, either I am dreaming or the world’s been turned completely upside-”

With a blast of raw thaumic energy the bedroom door blew open and banged against the wall.

“Ha! So he’s awake at last!” said the man framed in the doorway. “ Excellent. Now we’ll really have some fun!”

“D’you think so, Gerald?” said Bibbie, pouting. “Because so far he’s not been any fun at all.”

Dumbstruck, Gerald watched as Bibbie undulated out of her chair, sashayed across the bedroom floor and-and entwined herself around-around Me! That’s me! But-but-how can that be me? I’m me. Aren’t I?

And then, with a second shock that punched right through his middle, he realized: No. That’s not me. At least-not any more.

The man lounging in the doorway wore his face. They were the same height, the same weight. All right, the man in the doorway had a-agloss, a polish, that he absolutely lacked. Nevertheless, on the outside-except for the two good eyes-they were the same man.

But on the inside? Thaumaturgically? Oh, Saint Snodgrass…

The man-the other Gerald-had a potentia that choked the room. It reeked of death. Of murder. It stirred his blood with a visceral dread.

Heart thudding, he looked at the Bibbie before him, with her short hair and lipstick and the powder on her face. At the gold-and-ivory cigarette holder and the sheer scarlet silk dress clinging to those curves that day after day he made himself not notice. He looked at the man she’d called Gerald, whose familiar face hid a heart he couldn’t recognize. Who wore the most extraordinary, outlandish scarlet and black full-length silk dressing-gown embroidered with gold dragons, and on his fingers exquisitely wrought and fabulously expensive onyx and ruby rings.

And whose brown eyes burned with a flame he’d not seen since the last time he faced mad King Lional of New Ottosland.

Lional… Lional… bloated with stolen potentias, his greedy mind teeming with the worst kind of incants ever devised and contained in the grimoires he’d kept by his bed, for handy reading.

Terrible memones woke, searing him. The man in the doorway stank of Pygram’s Pestilences, unforgettable after nine days in that cave. He reeked of Grummen’s Lexicon and other foul grimoire incants whose names he’d never learned because the texts Lional stole from Pomodoro Uffitzi had been confiscated without him ever laying eyes on them.

I had the chance to use those grimoires and I didn’t. But he did. So if this isn’t a dream-if he’s real, and he’s not me, and that’s not my Bibbie, and this isn’t my bedroom…

Sickened understanding crashed over him, so he had to sit on the bed.

Oh, bugger. So much for the theoretical part of theoretical thaumaturgical metaphysics and the postulated existence of parallel worlds.

When Sir Alec found out about this he was going to go spare. It was hard enough keeping one world safe from thaumaturgical villains. And as for Monk, well, he’d likely explode with excitement. Monk…

Oh, God. Don’t tell me he’s gone rotten too.

The thought was enough to make the room spin and his belly heave.

No. No. I don’t-I won’t-believe that. Not Monk. I have to have one friend left in this place.

The other Gerald was grinning. “I knew you’d work it out. No flies on us, Professor Dunwoody.”

He felt like an idiot in his striped flannel nightshirt, but it couldn’t be helped. All that mattered now was getting answers… and getting home.

“So I’m right? This is a parallel world? An alternative reality? You’re some kind of copy of me?”

“No, Professor, it’s the real reality,” said the other Gerald, a snap in his voice. “ Your world’s the impostor. And so are you.”

His double’s anger lit up the room like sheet lightning. Right. Yes. So not to be making him cross, Dunwoody. “Sorry. Sorry,” he said hastily. “Poor choice of words. So… how did you do it? How did you bring me here?”

His-his- counterpart — examined fingernails as beautifully manicured as Bibbie’s. “Oh, I can do a lot of things, Professor,” he boasted with airy self-congratulation. “Things you can only dream of.”

He decided to take a chance. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. “Monk didn’t help you?”

“Monk?” The other Gerald raised an eyebrow. And then he smiled. “Oh, Monk. Good old Monk. Yes. Our Mr. Markham’s been wonderfully helpful.”

Bibbie giggled. “Wonderfully.”

He had to wait for the nausea to subside before he could speak again. That horrible smile… and he’d never, never heard Bibbie giggle like that. Sly, like a nasty child. Even her voice had gone breathlessly girlish. The other Gerald’s hand trailed suggestively, possessively, up and down her bare arm. He almost squeezed his eyes shut, because that was so wrong. But even as he felt repulsed a little part of him thought: Lucky bastard.

Time for a distraction. There really is only one explanation… “It was the portal, wasn’t it? You pulled me through to your world using the Department’s unregistered portal. While I was traveling to Grande Splotze.”

And if that’s the case he must have tripped an alarm. Sir Alec will know I’ve gone missing. Everything’s going to be fine.

The other Gerald smoothed his hand over Bibbie’s hair. “Look at that, Bibs. We’re so clever, aren’t we?” He turned. “Yes. It was the portal.”

“But-how is that possible? I thought-”

“Oh, Professor!” The other Gerald’s eyes opened wide. “Portal thaumaturgics are amazing. Convenient travel is just the tip of the iceberg.”

“But you’re- we’re — not portal thaumaturgists,” he said warily. “That’s a highly specialized strand of metaphysical study.”

“True,” said the other Gerald. “But it so happens I have at my disposal most of the finest thaumaturgical minds in the world.”

“Really?” He swallowed. Oh, lord. This isn’t going anywhere good, is it? “In my experience, getting thaumaturgical experts to work cooperatively makes herding cats look like child’s play.”

Bibbie giggled again. “Oh, no, it was easy. Gerald’s very… persuasive.”

He took a deep breath and pushed back to his feet. “Yes. I’m sure he is.”

“And in case you’re thinking-and I know you are,” added the other Gerald, “that snatching you from the portal triggered an inconvenient alarm? Sorry, Professor. I’m far too good for that.”

Oh. Bugger. Still, it couldn’t be helped, so no point dwelling. “I’m sure you are. In fact-”

“You’re curious, aren’t you?” said the other Gerald, almost taunting. “You’re dying to know about my… thaumaturgical improvements. Jealous too, no doubt.”

Really neither. Not even a little bit. “When did you do it?” he demanded, trying to keep the anger and despair from his voice. “ Why did you do it? You had to know that you’d be- changed. ”

And not for the better, but he didn’t dare say that.

Instead of answering, the other Gerald put a finger under Bibbie’s chin, tipped her face up to meet his and devoured her lips in a long, savage kiss. When at last he released her, blood glinted in the corner of her painted mouth.

“Wander down to the kitchen, Bibs, there’s a good girl. See how Melissande’s coming with breakfast, and tell her we’ve got an extra mouth to feed.”

Gerald felt the name jolt through him. Melissande? She was here? In the kitchen? But Does that mean Reg is here, too? God, I almost forgot them. Watching him and Bibbie, it’s scrambled my brain.

Bibbie was pouting. “Oh, Gerald. Can’t you just-”

“Bibbie.”

She went very still. Beneath the thin scarlet silk her breathing was shallow, and fast. A frightened pulse fluttered in the hollow of her throat.

The other Gerald flicked the end of her nose. “There’s a good girl.”

She left the bedroom without another word.

“When did I enhance my natural abilities?” said the other Gerald, as though there’d been no tense interlude. No primal, punishing kiss. Pushing away from the door jamb he strolled into the room. Wandered to the window and opened the curtains with a careless wave of his hand. Dull light spilled onto the carpet, sunshine filtering through gathering cloud. The other Gerald frowned. “It’s going to rain. Bloody weather. Y’know, once I’ve got a few other little things sorted out I think I’ll look into some meteorological thaumaturgy.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Want to help? It could be fun.”

“Ah-yes. Why not?” he said carefully. “You’re right, that-ah-does sound like fun. But just getting back to what-”

“Forget it,” snapped the other Gerald. “The diffident act doesn’t fool me. Nothing you do will fool me, Professor. Not only because you are me-well, the old me, anyway-but because since we took our different paths I’ve worked very hard to develop my skills. My potentia. So don’t waste your time. We’ve got better things to do than shadow box each other.”

Gerald let out a shaky breath. “All right then. Straight talking. I can do that. I’m thinking it was New Ottosland. You ignored Reg’s advice and got your hands on Lional’s collection of grimoires, didn’t you?”

The other Gerald’s lips curved in a small, scornful smile. “And you didn’t.”

“No. It wasn’t necessary. I still defeated Lional.”

“So I gather,” said the other Gerald, so disparaging. “And all your victory cost you was your sight.”

Unbidden, his fingers came up and touched the skin beneath his blind eye. “Only half of it. I manage. And I’d rather lose my eye than my humanity.”

“Oh, please,” said the other Gerald. “I give you fair warning, Professor-being lectured puts me in a very bad mood. And whoever’s doing the lecturing tends to end up pretty damned sorry.”

It felt like the air in the bedroom had chilled by a swift ten degrees. “D’you know,” he said softly, “you sound uncannily like Lional when you say things like that.”

The other Gerald shrugged. “Then don’t lecture me, old chap, and you’ll be spared the trip down memory lane.”

He wiped a hand across his mouth, trying to banish the foul taste of bile. “So what happened? Did you lose your nerve? Doubt yourself? You shouldn’t have. You shouldn’t have let fear make-”

“Be careful, Professor!” the other Gerald snapped, and raised a clenched fist. Bright blue thaumic power danced over his skin, crackling the air. “I don’t permit anyone to speak to me like that.” His lips bared in a snarling smile. “Not even me.”

Gerald straightened his spine. The important thing was not to show weakness. Rabid dogs always attack when they scent fear. “Something tells me you wouldn’t have brought me here only to kill me ten minutes after we met.”

“Kill you, Professor?” His counterpart’s eyebrows shot up. “Don’t be ridiculous. But it’s only fair to point out I’ve no problem with hurting you.”

He braced himself, waiting for something terrible to knock him to his knees. But nothing happened. Instead, the other Gerald sighed again and lowered his fist. “This is silly. We’re meant to be friends. How can we not be friends when you and I have so much in common?”

And that was the question, wasn’t it? Just how much did he and this-this other Gerald have in common? Take away the dark magic and how alike were they, really? If the theories and suppositions were correct, he and this man who looked like him had at least started out the same person.

So are we still alike enough for me to reach him? Alike enough for me to stop whatever insane plan he’s cooked up, that he wants me to be part of?

He had no idea yet. He needed more time-and more information. “You took them all in, didn’t you? Every last incant in those grimoires Lional stole from that criminal idiot Uffitzi.”

A small, crimson flame flickered deep in the other Gerald’s shining eyes. “Yes, I did, Professor. And let me tell you-it was the best decision I’ve ever made. I mean, I had power before. I had lots of power. But until those grimoires I had no idea what to do with it.”

“And now you do?”

“Yes, Professor,” said the other Gerald, and laughed. “Now I do.”

He cleared his throat. “Congratulations. Don’t suppose you’d like to let me in on the secret?”

The question was bold. Almost aggressive. He half-expected another threat-or worse. Instead, his counterpart thrust his hands in the pockets of his expensive silk dressing-gown and considered him in silence, through half-lidded eyes. Then, after a nerve-shatteringly long pause, he smiled.

“All in good time, Professor. All in good time.”

Bugger. It was never encouraging when villains said things like that.

And is that what he is? Is that what I became here? A villain? Is this Gerald the kind of wizard I’d be hunting, back home?

Stupid question. Of course he was.

I don’t understand. My didn’t Reg stop me? How could she stand by and let something like this happen?

Reg. Oh lord, he had to ask. And whatever the answer, he’d have to bear it. “And where’s our little feathered friend?”

“Who? Reg?” the other Gerald said carelessly. “She’s around somewhere. I’m sure you’ll see her sooner or later. Why, did you think-” He blinked, as though genuinely surprised. “Oh, Professor, come on. Anyone would think I’m a monster. But really, how can I possibly be a monster when I’m you?”

Dizzy with relief, he closed his eyes. It was crazy to care so much, of course. The Reg in this world wasn’t his Reg. Just as the woman in the thin scarlet silk dress wasn’t his Emmerabiblia. And yet… and yet…

It doesn’t matter. I still have to save them from what’s happening here. I have to save him, from himself if nothing else.

But to do that he had to survive. And to survive he had to play along, at least until he had a better idea of what he was dealing with. Until he’d found this world’s Monk, and seen Reg, and Melissande. If they were still themselves then he might have a chance. But if they weren’t… if they’d turned, like Bibbie…

No. No. I’m not going to think about that.

He opened his eyes. “All right. Bottom line, Gerald. Why the hell did you bring me here?”

The other Gerald heaved a theatrical sigh. “Well, it’s about time. I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever get to the point. Was I always this slow on the uptake, I wonder? Or is this simply a by-product of interdimensional travel?” He pulled a face. “Gosh. I hope not. When Monk emerges from his inventorly trance we’ll have him test you, or something. Because if traveling between worlds has fried your synapses, Professor, I’m going to be forced back to the drawing board. Again.”

“Monk’s inventing something? What?”

“I’m not telling you,” said the other Gerald, horrifyingly playful. “It’s a surprise. Now come on. Get dressed. It’s way past time for breakfast and I’m starving.”

The old, ornate mahogany wardrobe opposite the window was identical to his own. But the clothes inside it…

“I can’t wear these! ” he protested, looking at the boldly colored velvets and silk brocades. “They’re not me. I’ll look like a bloody-”

“Yes?” said the other Gerald, fingers caressing his black-and-gold silk lapel. “Like a bloody what, Professor?”

“Idiot,” he said, feeling suddenly reckless. “You can wear what you like, Gerald. That’s your business. But I wear tweeds or twill or wool. And if you don’t like it, feel free to send me home.”

The other Gerald tapped a finger against his chin. “Hmm. I wonder, does that petty little outburst mean you’re going to be difficult, Professor? I hope not, because I’ve enough on my plate without you getting temperamental on me.”

“What d’you think?” he retorted. “Since you know me so well.”

“I think you’re thinking there must be some way to-I don’t knowredeem me,” said the other Gerald, shrugging. “Because I remember that look. That stupid, soft, I need to save the world look. But you don’t have to, because that’s my job. And my way is much, much more effective. I’ve gone far beyond the notion of saving it one tedious compliance violation at a time.”

He managed a smile of his own. “Funny you should say that, Gerald. So have I.”

“Yes, well, whatever it is you’re doing these days, I can promise you it’ll pale into insignificance compared to my feats,” the other Gerald retorted. “So I suppose it’s only fitting that you wear tweeds or twill or wool.” With a great flourish he clapped his hands above his head. Power ripped through the ether, rattling the windowpanes and flapping the curtains. “There you go, Professor. Happy now?”

He looked at the drab brown worsteds, the dull green tweeds, the gray twills and the definitely unsilky white shirts. Good, plain cotton.

“Lovely. Thank you.”

“Then get dressed,” snapped his counterpart. “We’ve got a very busy day ahead of us.”

Since feeling awkward about dressing in front of himself was clearly ridiculous, he pretended he didn’t feel any such thing. Once he’d swapped the striped flannel nightshirt for underdrawers, a singlet, and a dull-as-dishwater worsted suit ensemble complete with braces, white cotton shirt, brown tie, brown socks and brown leather shoes, he looked at his incredibly unlikely captor.

“All done.”

“Hideous,” said the other Gerald. “I can’t believe I used to dress like that. I like this so much better.”

Another flourishing hand clap-another blast of thaumaturgic power-and the dressing-gown was gone, replaced by a supremely elegant royal blue silk suit and a white silk shirt so dazzling it looked like a snowfield at noon on a cloudless day. The ruby rings were gone too, replaced by diamonds and sapphires.

“You see, Professor? One can be elegant and stylish without being pretentious,” said the other Gerald, severely. “You of all people, a tailor’s son, should know that. I mean, if Father could see you now he’d roll in his grave.”

He felt the blood drain from his face. “That’s-you’re not-roll in his grave, that’s just a figure of-”

“’Fraid not,” said the other Gerald, pulling a face. “In my world we’re orphans, Professor. Mother and Father’s round-the-world trip? In hindsight, the little detour to Ling-Ling wasn’t such a good idea.” He sighed. “Tragic, isn’t it? Now for pity’s sake, come on. Breakfast’s going to be cold! And we both know how I feel about cold bacon and eggs.”

There was an even nastier shock waiting for him in the kitchen. Their kitchen, his and Bibbie’s and Monk’s and Reg’s. Well, Monk’s mostly, but his careless, anarchic friend did love to share. This one was exactly the same, old and cozy and comfortable, right down to the scarred wooden table that only moments ago, it seemed, he and she and Monk and Reg had sat around, laughing and eating pancakes, while Melissande stood at the old-fashioned cooking range whipping up yet another bowlful of batter and pretending their compliments meant nothing at all.

Oh, she was there, this world’s Melissande. Short and stocky and red-haired and aproned. But she wasn’t laughing and trading quips with Monk and Reg. Instead she was braced against the bench under the window, eyes closed behind her spectacles, head slightly turned away… from Bibbie. Bibbie in her scarlet dress, laughing as she plucked whole eggs from the empty air and tossed them at Melissande with a careless cruelty that stopped his heart. Egg yolk and albumen dripped down Mel’s face, dragging bits of eggshell with them. The conjured eggs were rotten, their stench thickening the kitchen’s air, painting over the proper breakfast smells of bacon and coffee and hot bread and fresh eggs nicely fried.

Worst of all, Melissande was wearing a shadbolt.

“Bibbie!” snapped the other Gerald as he led the way into the kitchen. “If you’ve started playing before she’s finished cooking-”

The other Bibbie’s laughter stopped. “No, Gerald. Of course not.”

Unappeased, the other Gerald scorched her with a look. “Honestly, did the eggs have to be rotten?”

“Well, yes,” said Bibbie. “It’s not nearly as much fun otherwise, is it?” Pouting, she crossed to him and stroked a teasing finger down his nose. “Come on, don’t be a spoilsport. You get to punish naughty people. Why can’t I?”

The other Gerald caught her finger in his mouth and sucked on it, his gaze burning into her eyes. She laughed again, in her throat, and pressed up against him. Plucked her finger from his mouth and brushed it over his lips.

“Was she naughty, Bibs?” the other Gerald murmured. “Why? What did she do?”

Gerald didn’t want to know. Shaken, he walked past them straight to Melissande, who hadn’t moved or made any attempt to clean herself. Behind the egg-fouled spectacles her eyes were still tight shut. This close to her the stink was overwhelming. If there’d been food in his stomach he’d be heaving it all out. But the stink wasn’t important.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Melissande-”

At the sound of his voice she flinched and whimpered. Melissande, whimpering? Oh, Saint Snodgrass. This is so wrong. “Melissande,” he said again, and risked a light touch to her arm. “Please. It’s all right. Open your eyes.”

She obeyed him, instantly. As though disobedience was too dreadful to contemplate. And seeing him, she sucked in a small and shocked gasp of air.

“What? What? I don’t-Who are you? Where did you come from? How can-”

“I know,” he said. “It’s a bugger, isn’t it? But you’re not dreaming. It’s real. I’m real.” Hesitating, he glanced behind him but the other Gerald and his Bibbie were still lost in each other, stroking and murmuring and laughing under their breaths. He looked back and lowered his voice. “And Mel? Here’s the thing you need to believe. I’m not him. All right? I’m a Gerald who never read Uffitzi’s grimoires. Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” she said, choking, her fingers twisting in her ruined apron. “Well, no. Not entirely. But if you say so. Only… what does that mean?”

Even in her worst moments, in the cave, when she finally realized what her mad brother had become, she’d not sounded like this: beaten down and hopeless and shackled to fear. But then, in the cave, she’d not been wearing a shadbolt. He didn’t dare tamper with it, or even look too closely. A cursory examination showed him it was brutal, though. No wonder she’d not tried to defend herself from the eggs.

“Mel, where’s Monk gone? Do you know? And Reg? Is Reg all right? He said she was around, but-”

“Please don’t,” she whispered. “You mustn’t ask me any questions. I’m not allowed to talk to anyone but them.”

Tears had started leaking from her green, haunted eyes. Her nose was running too. They’d broken her to pieces.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said quickly. “All right. I won’t.”

Any moment now he’d start weeping himself.

He did this? How could he do this? Is this all because of the grimoires, or was it in him all along? Oh, God. Is it in me? Am I capable of this?

In rejection, in revulsion, he summoned his power out of sleep. Stepped back from weeping, egg-soaked Melissande and undid what cruel, scarlet Bibbie had done. Even as the incant wiped away the rotten muck, cleaned her hair and face and spectacles and apron, sweetened her to roses and blanched the stink from the air, he felt a shiver in her shadbolt. A warped and darkened version of his own potentia had made the disgusting thing and now power called to power. A reflection in a mirror.

“Well, Professor, aren’t you gallant,” said the other Gerald behind him. “Never mind. I’ll soon cure you of that. Still, I suppose it had to be done. That stench — I was about to lose my appetite.”

With a last, reassuring glance at Melissande, he turned. “Glad to be of service, Gerald.”

The other Gerald smiled, his arm tucked close around Bibbie. “That’s good to hear, Professor. Just the attitude I’m looking for. Now, shall we be seated so the uppity wench can serve us? I like to breakfast in the kitchen. It’s so cozy and unpretentious.”

Could he eat, after this? He suspected not, but he’d have to try. For one thing he was going to need all his strength… and for another he just knew that to refuse this Gerald’s hospitality would be a very big mistake. So he took his place at the table, opposite this world’s dreadful Gerald and Bibs, and looked at his plate so he’d not have to look at them.

Oh, God. What do I do now? How do I get out of this?