Wizard Undercover

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“Nothing suspicious about the Blonkken wedding guests? Or any of the embassy staff? Nothing at all?” Disappointed, Monk slumped in his favourite parlour armchair. “Reg, are you sure?”

Perched on the back of the sofa, the bird looked down her beak at him. “And when have you ever known me not to be sure, sunshine?”

He let the horribly loaded question slide right past them, into oblivion. “Never.”

“Then just you put a sock in it and pour me a brandy.”

Dawn was fast approaching. Though he’d not yet been to bed, it was still far too early for brandy. But the bird’s beak was looking especially pointy and anyway, he had a headache, and nothing was better for headaches than a healthy splosh of fermented peaches. It might not kill the pain, but it swiftly made sure you no longer cared that the top of your head was threatening to explode.

He poured them each a drink and they sipped in sour, contemplative silence.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” he said at last, grumpily considering the bottom of his glass. “It means I have to tell Sir Alec I haven’t saved the day for him.”

“You haven’t saved it yet,” said Reg, with a genteel, alcoholic belch. “There’s still time.”

“Not much. And every hour that passes pushes Bibbie and Melissande and Gerald an hour closer to disaster.”

Reg rattled her tail. “That’s a very glass-half-empty way of looking at the world.”

“Actually, my glass is entirely empty,” he said. “Did you want some more brandy?”

“No,” said the bird. “And neither do you. What you want is a bath and some breakfast. The Sir Alecs of this world are best confronted with a clean face and a full belly.”

She was right. Again. Drat her. So he dragged himself upstairs, bathed, shaved, found some fresh clothes, then staggered back downstairs to fortify himself with coffee and porridge. After that, with the sun risen a decent distance above the horizon, he hauled out his crystal ball and gave Sir Alec the bad news.

Sir Alec was unimpressed and said so, at length.

“Well, honestly, sunshine, what did you expect?” said Reg, strutting to and fro across the kitchen table with an irritatingly derisive look in her eye. “You’ve known him a lot longer than I have and I’m not surprised.”

Monk dumped three teaspoons of sugar into his fresh cup of coffee and stirred so hard he nearly slopped half of it over the side.

“I didn’t say I was surprised.”

“Yes, you did,” Reg retorted. “Not five seconds ago. You said, and I quote, That miserable bastard! I don’t believe it!”

Aggrieved all over again, he thumped his fist to the bench beside the sink. “Yes! Precisely! I’m disbelieving, not surprised! Honestly, to hear him talk you’d think I didn’t give a toss about Gerald and Bibbie and Melissande!”

“Well…” Reg stopped strutting and scratched the side of her head. “To be honest, ducky, I think you’re wrong there. Don’t misunderstand me, I wouldn’t trust that sarky bugger as far as I could spit a hedgehog, but in case you weren’t paying attention, your Sir Alec’s not looking too flash. Seems to me you caught him in a bad moment, is all. Prob’ly he’s got a lot of prickly problems on his plate.”

Remembering the pallid cast to Sir Alec’s drawn face, and the shadows of strain beneath the tired, chilly grey eyes, Monk tossed his teaspoon into the sink. “So I’m s’posed to feel sorry for him now?” Picking up his coffee, he retreated to the nearest chair. “D’you think he’s keeping secrets?”

Reg hooted so hard she nearly fell over. “I don’t know, ducky. Do pigeons poop on statues?”

“I mean secrets about Splotze,” he said, glowering. “I mean do you think something’s gone wrong with Gerald’s mission and he’s not telling me because-because-” But a swiftly rising fear wouldn’t let him finish. “Dammit, Reg. I never should’ve let Bibbie set foot out of this house.”

“I don’t see how you could’ve stopped her, short of trussing the girl like a turkey and shoving her head first into a closet,” said Reg. “Now just you stop carrying on, sunshine. If something has gone arse over teakettle in Splotze, you’d know it. What you need to think about is how to fix that clever clogs door-opening hex of yours so that the bloody door stays open, right? Because tail feathers like mine don’t grow on trees!”

Monk looked at her tail. Thanks to a near-miss on the Blonkken embassy’s second floor, it was now minus three of its extravagantly long brown-and-black feathers.

“Yeah. Right. Sorry about that.”

“As well you should be,” Reg said tartly. “Because I’ll tell you this for nothing, my boy. I won’t be setting so much as a toe inside another embassy if there’s a chance of me flying out of it half-naked!”

He raised his hands in surrender. “I told you, I promise, it won’t happen again. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to brush my teeth then gird my loins to face another day of thaumaturgical adventures in R amp;D. Can you stay out of trouble until I get home?”

Her offended squawking followed him out of the kitchen, up the stairs and into the bathroom, where he scowled at his reflection while scrubbing his teeth. A tremor of worry shuddered through him as he rinsed his toothbrush.

I hope the wretched bird’s right. I hope nothing’s gone wrong in Splotze.

“I don’t know, Gerald,” said Melissande, fiddling with the end of her ribbon-tied, plaited hair. “You paying official sympathy calls? Really that’s something I should take care of myself.”

Gerald turned away from the window in her guest suite’s bedchamber. “Under normal circumstances, perhaps. But none of this business is normal. Besides, there’s not a lot of point in you visiting the recently afflicted wedding guests, is there? Not when you’ve no hope of telling if any of them have been up to thaumaturgical shenanigans. And please, it’s Algernon, remember?”

“Fine. Then it’s just not done, Algernon,” Melissande persisted. “Any princess worth her tiara doesn’t send a secretary to convey a king’s concern. It might easily be taken as an insult, and what good will that do us?”

“How can anyone be insulted if I explain you’re still abed, recovering?” he said. “This way you’re making a good impression, unwell and still thinking of others, and I’m doing my job. We can’t lose.”

As Melissande shifted in her chair, unconvinced, Bibbie bounced a bit on the edge of the bed. “He’s right, Mel. With everyone recovering from that ghastly State Dinner, and resting up ready for the fireworks this evening, this is an ideal opportunity to run potential suspects to ground. Only…” She frowned. “Even though we’ve sorted through some of them, there are still rather a lot left. Why don’t I-”

Gerald turned on her. “Absolutely not! You are not helping me with anything remotely thaumaturgical. How many times do I have to tell you what Sir Alec said? Do you want to see me clapped in irons when we get back home?”

“Faddle,” said Bibbie, wrinkling her nose. “Clapped in irons. When it comes to exaggeration you’re as bad as Melissande.”

He loved Monk’s sister to distraction, but that didn’t mean there weren’t times he could easily shake her until her bones rattled.

“Call it what you like, Miss Slack, but my decision is final. You’re staying here. I swear, if you so much as poke your nose out of these apartments before I’ve finished investigating I’ll clap you in irons and ship you back to Ottosland on the slowest hot air balloon I can find! It’ll take you so long to get there that by the time you set foot on Ottish soil they’ll be celebrating the turn of the next century!”

Melissande looked at him over her new spectacles. “D’you know, Bibbie, I rather think he means it.”

“Yes, well, I rather think I mean it too!” he said, harassed. “Please, Bibbie, I am begging you. Don’t make my job any harder than it is already.”

She stared at him, her hexed eyes overbright. “Gracious. And there was me thinking I’d been of use at the Servants’ Ball. How silly. What a gel I am.”

Oh, damn. Crossing to the bed, Gerald dropped to one knee and took her hands in his. “I’m sorry. But no matter how brilliant you are, you’re not a trained agent and this is no time to be learning on the fly. It’s too dangerous. Sir Alec won’t risk you, and neither will I.”

“Besides,” said Melissande, breaking the taut silence. “While I might, at a pinch, send my secretary on this kind of errand, I’d never send my lady’s maid. That really would cause a stir.”

Bibbie slid her hands free. “Fine. Far be it from me to contradict Your Royal Highness. While our very special Mister Rowbotham’s off doing his important, manly duty, perhaps there’s a dirty fireplace somewhere I could clean.”

“Leave her,” said Melissande, as Bibbie retreated to the suite’s bathroom. “She’ll come round, eventually.”

Pushing to his feet, Gerald sighed. “I hope so.”

“It’s hard for her,” Melissande added. “She’s easily as talented as Monk, y’know. If life weren’t so unfair, if the world wasn’t so ridiculously prejudiced and shortsighted, she’d be making her own splashes in Research and Development. She might even be a proper government agent.”

The accusing undertone in Melissande’s voice had him folding his arms. “It’s not my fault Sir Alec and the rest can’t see past the fact she’s a gel! I’m following orders, Melissande. What else can I do?”

She smiled at him, gently. “You can at least try to see her as an equal, Mister Rowbotham. And stop protecting her. If Ottosland is in danger, then she has as much right as any man to defend it.”

Melissande was right. Of course she was right. Except…

“If you truly do love her,” said Melissande, eyebrows lifted, her gaze challenging, “there’s no better way for you to show it.”

Bloody woman. She saw too much. He sought distraction in checking his pocket watch.

“It’s nearly past luncheon,” he said, tucking the timepiece back into his vest. “I should go downstairs. It’ll be easier to check on the remaining guests if they’re gathered in one place. After that, I’ll visit whoever wasn’t feeling up to stirring out of his or her chamber.” He glanced at the closed bathroom door. “Make sure she stays here, Melissande. Please. There really will be hell to pay if anything happens.”

Melissande sighed. “I know. Don’t worry, I’ll keep her distracted. Now go on-and good luck.”

Dear Melissande. She was worth twice her weight in tiaras. Relieved, Gerald withdrew.

Whatever else he might be, Crown Prince Hartwig was a generous host. The grand dining hall, scrubbed and perfumed and redecorated after the state dinner debacle, now boasted sideboard after sideboard of aromatic dishes designed to tempt the most cautious of palates. Freshly cut flowers abounded, and a quintet of fine tenors and baritones serenaded every guest who ventured across the silk-draped threshold.

Sidling his unobtrusive way in, Gerald retreated to an empty corner of the chamber and took a moment to consider the Splotze-Borovnik wedding’s potential enemies. There was Ottosland’s bumptious Foreign Minister, Lord Babcock. His pallor a trifle waxen, he was exchanging pleasantries with the Zumana of Fandawandi while helping himself to some crumbed lamb cutlets. Over there, already seated, Jandria’s Minister of Foreign Affairs and his wife were eating roast squab with gusto. Clearly the tainted crab puffs had made no lasting impression on them. The guests from Graff and Blonkken entered the dining room, amiably chatting. Behind them came Aframbigi’s Foreign Minister and his Second Wife. A sideways swipe, that was, leaving the First Wife at home. A petty revenge for a small, unforgotten slight, most likely. Politics. So bloody tedious.

As a handful of impeccably liveried servants carried in more silver platters of food, Gerald half-closed his eyes and focused on his etheretic shield. Its outright lowering was still unwise but perhaps, with his grimoire-enhanced abilities, he could thin it a little. Shade it from opaque to translucent, leaving him just enough obfuscation to remain hidden… but not blind.

As his potentia stirred and he felt its power warm him, like shafts of sunlight through damp cloud. Felt it ripple through his shielding, those shafts of sunlight dispersing mist.

On the other side of the dining room the Jandrian minister’s head lifted, sharply, laden fork arrested halfway to his mouth. Damn. Holding his breath, Gerald yanked his potentia back inside. The Jandrian minister shook his head, then relaxed.

So. It was going to be a case of trial and error until he had the knack of controlling his new powers. Well, at least he was in no immediate danger of being bored.

Heart thudding, he tried again.

A softer stirring. No more than a hint, a whisper, of power. The Jandrian minister noticed nothing. The rest of the room was undisturbed. Imagining himself a searchlight, Gerald swept the dining room with his shrouded potentia, seeking something, anything, that didn’t feel right. The quintet sang on, joyfully, their music decorating the air.

How odd. I think — yes, I can taste the ether. It’s sour and thin here, like beer that’s aged well past its prime. Gone threadbare. No wonder this region’s thaumaturgics are so unreliable.

Nasty. A pain throbbed meanly behind his eyes. He tried to blink it away, marvelling anew at the glory of unblinded sight. When the sharp pulse didn’t ease, he did his best to ignore it. Risked eking out a sliver more of his potentia. Still the Jandrian minister remained oblivious. Excellent. Even better, he couldn’t sense anything immediately untoward in the dining room.

Time to start spreading Princess Melissande’s heartfelt good wishes.

After camouflaging himself behind a plate of pickled herring, he descended gormishly upon Lord Babcock, conveniently seated by himself. Despite his pallor, the minister was eagerly tucking into his cutlets and chutney.

“I say, sir,” Gerald said, awkwardly bowing. “What a relief to see you up and about after all that recent unpleasantness. Her Royal Highness, Princess Melissande of New Ottosland, particularly asked me to convey her best wishes to you for a speedy recovery. But it seems you’re already well on the mend. Her Highness will be thrilled to hear it.”

Lord Babcock lowered his cutlery and squinted up at him. “Really? That’s most thoughtful. My compliments to Her Highness.”

Leaning closer, Gerald captured his lordship’s gaze. Impressed his will upon the man, feeling again that thrilling surge of power. “I’ll pass them along. Tell me, my lord, have you any reason to wish ill upon the wedding?”

“What?” Babcock’s squint relaxed into a wide-eyed docility “No. Of course not.”

It was the truth. “What about Ferdie Goosen? Does that name ring a bell?”

“Goosen?” Dreamily, Babcock shook his head. “Never heard of him.”

And that was true too. Relieved, because the thought of corruption and treachery so close to home was a nightmare, Gerald released his grimoire hold on Babcock and stepped back.

“Thank you so much for your time, Your Lordship. I’ll be sure to tell Her Highness that you-”

A wave of etheretic unrest swamped him, strangling the rest of his platitude. Half-discarding, half-dropping his plate of herring on Babcock’s table, he slewed around to face the dining room’s grand entrance.

And there were the Lanruvians, spreading silence like warm blood dropped into water. Side by side with their Spirit Speaker walked a jovial Marquis of Harenstein, he of the vast paunch and lead-lined stomach. His child-bride wasn’t with him. Instead he’d been accompanied by two of his retainers. Both were unfamiliar. They’d not attended the Servants’ Ball. Older than the Harenstein minions who’d danced there, they were smiling, coldly polite. The taller one wore a ragged scar on his face.

Instinct had Gerald pouring power back into his shield before that unsettling Spirit Speaker could feel anything amiss. But in the split second before he was hidden completely, a random and terrible premonition stopped the air in his throat.

The fireworks. The fireworks. Something’s dreadfully wrong.

As Hartwig’s quintet rediscovered its harmonious voice, and conversations stuttered back to life, Gerald fumbled his way to the nearest food-laden sideboard where he could stand with his back to the newcomers and catch his rasping breath. His bones were still shaking with the force of his proofless conviction.

But I’m right. I know I’m right. Only… how do I know it?

More grimoire magic? Perhaps. Probably. But did it matter? No. All that mattered was the smothering sense of impending danger. After a moment, he risked a sneaking glance over his shoulder.

The Lanruvians, praise the pigs, hadn’t noticed him. Neither had the marquis or his minions. The old fool! Surely he knew Lanruvia’s reputation? After so much goodwill garnered by Harenstein’s brokering of the wedding, why would he sully his own by cultivating such men?

I’ve no idea. That’s a question for Sir Alec and Monk’s uncle. My job now is to see those fireworks safe.

Abandoning, for the moment, his plan to question Hartwig’s other luncheon guests, he ghosted his way out of the dining room and headed back upstairs to Melissande’s suite.

Bibbie only let him in after he’d spent several minutes grovelling through the front door in a whispered undertone.

“Where’s Melissande?” he demanded, following the wretched girl into the bedchamber, where she was packing ahead of their departure that evening on Hartwig’s sumptuous royal barge. “I hope she’s not off doing something inadvisable.”

“She’s visiting Crown Princess Brunelda,” said Bibbie, keeping her back firmly turned. “Who’s feeling very poorly with her gout. If that’s any of your business, Mister Rowbotham.”

“Actually, it is,” he said, frustrated. “There’s something I need her to do.”

Bibbie sniffed. “I won’t bother asking if I can be of assistance.”

“As it happens, no, you can’t help,” he said, retreating to the window, a safe distance. “But only because you’re not Melissande.”

“Oh.” Bibbie dropped a folded silk girlish underthing into the suitcase and turned. Then she frowned. “What’s wrong? You look spooked.”

“I am spooked,” he admitted, and rubbed a hand across his face. “Someone’s sabotaged the fireworks.”

“Tonight’s fireworks?” she said, her eyes widening behind Gladys Slack’s ridiculous horn-rimmed spectacles. “That’s dreadful! What are we going to do?”

Saint Snodgrass save him, did she never listen? “We’re not going to do anything. I need Melissande to pump Hartwig for pertinent information and then I’m going to un sabotage them. And please don’t argue with me about it, Gladys. We’ve argued enough for one day.”

Bibbie stared at him, her expressive face and eyes full of many shouted objections. Then she nodded. “Agreed. I’ll just save up the rest of my arguments for when we get home.”

Wonderful. He could hardly wait.

Whoever said the course of true love doesn’t run smooth never knew the half of it.

“And instead of simply standing there, laying down your high-and-mighty janitorial law,” Bibbie added, “you can give me a hand with the rest of Melissande’s boxes. Honestly, the way she packs you’d think the wedding tour was meant to last six months instead of a week or so.”

“Fine,” he said. “But first I need to contact Sir Alec.”

He gave it seven good tries, but with Splotze’s etheretics in an uncooperative mood he had to give up. He was in the middle of hauling Melissande’s ridiculously large and heavy shoe-case out of the wardrobe when she returned to the suite.

“Honestly!” she said crossly, tossing her fox-fur stole onto the bed. “How many times must I tell you, Algernon? You can’t be in here! You’re going to ruin my reputation!”

“Bugger your reputation,” he said, letting the shoe-case drop. “Someone’s fiddled with the fireworks.”

Elegant in her best green silk day dress and dainty heels, Melissande frowned. “What d’you mean, fiddled?”

“What d’you think I mean?”

“Oh.” Rallying, Melissande lifted her chin. “Are you sure? How d’you know? I thought you were going downstairs to luncheon.”

“I did. And when I saw the Lanruvians I came over with a very bad feeling. Melissande, I need to see Hartwig. Now.”

“Hartwig?” She was frowning again. “Are you sure? When you’ve no more proof than a bad feeling?”

“Yes.”

“But d’you really want to kick up a stink, throw the wedding plans into disarray, when this might only be indigestion?”

“Don’t be silly, Mel,” said Bibbie. “If Gerald says trouble’s brewing, then there’s probably trouble.”

Startled, Gerald looked at her. Even angry and hurt, she was defending him. So maybe there was a chance that…

But he mustn’t, mustn’t, let himself be sidetracked by hope.

“Trust me, Melissande, the last thing I want to do is cause a public kerfuffle,” he said. “The idea is to catch who’s behind this, not tip our hand and frighten them off. Please, just take me to see the Crown Prince. If we tell him we want to know about the fireworks for the Times, he likely won’t fuss about keeping the details under wraps. I need to know how many pontoons there are, where in the Canal they’re set up, that kind of thing. The more I know, the better chance I have of figuring out how the fireworks have been tampered with and how I’m going to prevent a disaster.”

“If they’ve been tampered with,” said Melissande, still dubious. Then she sighed. “Only you’re right, of course. You can’t afford not to fear the worst.”

And speaking of fearing the worst…

But before he could open his mouth, Bibbie’s hackles were up. “Oh, no,” she said, fists clenched by her slender hips. “We are not being left behind in this palace like children.”

“Left behind?” Melissande echoed. “Not attend the fireworks, you mean? Sorry Gerald, that’s out of the question. Hartwig’s barge departs on the tour as soon as the display is over. We have to be on board with the rest of the guests.”

“No, you don’t,” he protested weakly. “You could say you’re feeling poorly, then catch up in a carriage first thing tomorrow.”

“No,” said Melissande. “If I try to stay behind, Hartwig will make a fuss and that’ll draw everyone’s attention. Hardly what I’d call being a secret agent.”

Feeling unfairly put upon, Gerald glared at the girls. If only between them they’d bloody well stop being right.

“Fine,” he snapped. “And for pity’s sake, it’s Algernon. Now, can we please go and interview Hartwig?”

“Actually…” Melissande pulled a face. “It might be best if you let me tackle Hartwig on my own. According to poor Brunelda he’s in rather a prickly mood after the tainted crab puff calamity. I might have to-” Blushing, she cleared her throat. “-sweet talk him into chatting with me. And if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not have an audience.”

As if he had a choice. Without Melissande’s help he was hobbled, and she knew it. “All right. But go now. And if Hartwig gets sticky, promise him his picture will appear next to the article. That way you probably won’t be able to shut him up.”

Melissande bit her lip. “D’you really think the Lanruvians are behind this plot to ruin the wedding?”

“I think they’re sneaky, devious bastards with something nefarious shoved up their silk sleeves,” he said. “Possibly hexes to turn Hartwig’s fireworks into a conflagration. Now, please, Melissande, would you go? The clock is ticking.”

“Yes, yes,” she said, reaching for her fox-fur stole. “But until I get back just you stay in the bathroom. There’ll be a maid along any minute and you’ve no idea how their tongues wag.”

Nearly five hours later, almost halfway across the Canal in a stolen boat scarcely bigger than a bathtub, Gerald paused his rowing through the late autumn’s swiftly falling dusk to catch his breath and mop the sweat of exertion from his brow.

Saint Snodgrass save me. If it turns out I am imagining things I’ll never hear the end of it.

But he wasn’t. He knew he wasn’t. And once he’d saved the day, surely no-one would care how he’d done it, or why he’d been so certain the night’s fireworks were in danger. Besides, even if he’d not been so bone-shakingly sure, still he’d have acted. Because if he failed to trust his instincts, let the chance of humiliation stay his hand, and his instincts were proven right? If people were hurt, or worse, if they were killed? Sir Alec really would clap him in irons then throw away the key.

And I’d never forgive myself.

So now here he was, dangerously shrouded in a no-see-’em hex, cultivating blisters as he rowed a purloined, barely Canal-worthy wooden box out to the nearest tethered firework-laden pontoon, while eager crowds of sightseers thronged both sides of the Canal and the wedding party with its glittering comet’s tail of guests was boarding Crown Prince Hartwig’s royal barge in eager anticipation of the imminent fireworks display.

Watching over his shoulder, Gerald felt a nasty sizzle of nerves. Damn. If only the barge wasn’t anchored quite so close to those burdened, possibly lethal pontoons.

Because the evening’s entertainment was intended as a warm up to the big celebration slated to take place on the night of the wedding, there were only three fireworks pontoons for him to investigate. Thanks to Melissande’s clever questioning of the Crown Prince, he knew that each configuration of fireworks was thaumaturgically sequenced and controlled by Radley Blayling, the Ottish wizard who’d designed the display. And since Melissande had managed to wangle herself a last-minute introduction to the man, with himself as her faithful scribe, taking copious notes, he was confident-well, as confident as he could be, anyway-that Blayling was an innocent pawn in the plot.

Which meant the Lanruvians-if it was the Lanruvians- had somehow, whether by bribery, corruption, serendipity, illegal thaumaturgics or a wicked combination thereof, managed to tamper with the fireworks themselves. And if he failed to uncover the mischief in time…

Sweating anew, but not from exertion, Gerald started rowing again. Such a bugger he couldn’t use a speed-’em-up hex as well. But with the chance of compromised fireworks’ thaumaturgics close by, he didn’t dare risk it. The speed-’em-up was too volatile to risk.

Off to the right, Hartwig’s imposing royal barge glittered and twinkled, bedecked like a queen. Lamps like vividly coloured jewels were strung stem to stern, and across the placid waters of the Canal floated strains of bright music and laughter as the wedding revellers kicked up their heels, sublimely unaware that in the light-flickered shadows danger and death crouched with bared teeth, waiting.

He tried not to imagine the barge exploding in flames. Tried not to hear the screams of the injured and dying. To see Bibbie and Melissande, dying.

It can’t happen. It won’t happen. I’m not going to let it.

The dreadful sense of danger that had swamped him in the palace dining room, that haunted him now, drove him to forget the sweat stinging his eyes, the blisters stinging his palms and fingers, the fire burning in his shoulders and back. He rowed and rowed, knowing countless lives depended on him. That Bibbie depended on him. That he was the only thing standing between her and cruel murder.

Don’t worry, Bibs. I’ll protect you.

He nearly fell headfirst out of the stupid little boat, trying to climb onto the first tethered fireworks pontoon. Panting, heart scudding, he knelt precariously on the unsteady platform, unfurled his magnified potentia and touched it to the wards set to safeguard the complicated thaumaturgics bound up in the bundles of gunpowder and assorted chemicals. They surrendered to him without protest. Ha. Blayling might be a genius with fireworks, but he was rubbish at protective hexes. And wasn’t that a worry? Tampering made simple.

But the fireworks hadn’t been altered. Not these ones, at least.

Daunted only by the knowledge that time was fast running out, he clambered back in the little boat and rowed hard for the second pontoon. Took the risk of staying put, this time, and looking for imminent danger from slightly afar. Still nothing. Pouring sweat now, come on, Dunnywood, row faster, he headed for the third and final pontoon. Stretched out his senses with a desperate gasp, knowing this had to be it, knowing the danger was here, had to be here With a deafening whoosh and an eye-searing flash of light, the floating pontoon of fireworks ignited in a brilliant ball of kaleidoscope colour. He heard the crowd’s full-throated roar of delight and wonder. Heard his own shout of angry despair.

And then, for Gerald Dunwoody, the fireworks ended.