“Yes, that’ll be it,” said Bibbie. “Something totally ridiculous like that. Bags I hit him first.”
Another exchange of nervous looks, then Melissande cleared her throat. “Well, there’s only one way to find out what he wants. Let’s go!”
The world-famous Ottosland Botanical Gardens stood in the exact centre of the city, and at a quarter to eleven in the morning of a working weekday the squirrels outnumbered the people five to one. Melissande, Reg and Bibbie hurried along the neatly tended paths, between immaculate flower beds and meticulously nurtured trees, to the Tropical Glasshouse on the Gardens’ west lawn, directly across the street from the looming Department of Thaumaturgy building.
“Urrggh,” said Melissande as they went inside. Four steps through the entrance and sweat was already trickling down her face. She didn’t need a mirror to know her cheeks were swiftly turning beetroot. “Why does he want us to meet him in here? This place is worse than a steam bath, honestly!”
The overheated air contained within the Glasshouse was heavy and wet, soaked in a melange of ripely exotic perfumes. An international cornucopia of tropical trees and flowers and vines and creepers flourished in profusion, brilliant greens, vivid scarlets, oranges and yellows, bright blues and shameless pinks, nature at its exhibitionist best.
Monk was waiting for them at the end of the tamed jungle’s main path, anxiously pacing back and forth in front of a towering Lanruvian Palm. Dressed in a sober blue suit, his hair ruthlessly combed into submission and his permanently potion-stained fingers hidden in his pockets, he looked like a banker. All he needed was the bowler hat.
Melissande mopped her face with an inadequate hanky. A pity he’s not a banker, really. He could’ve given us a loan. As usual her heart skipped a half-beat, seeing him, but she schooled her expression. This wasn’t the time or place for being girlishly coy.
“Ha!” said Reg, her claws clutching tighter. “There he is.” She took to her wings and hurtled ahead of them down the path. Melissande looked at Bibbie, sighed, and broke into a reluctant, unladylike jog to catch up.
Luckily it seemed they were alone in the Glasshouse, because Reg-having reached Monk first-was making no effort to be discreet. “Well? Well?” she demanded loudly. “Is he all right? Has there been another international incident? Does he need rescuing again?”
Monk looked confused. “What? Who?”
“ Who?” Outraged, wings flapping, Reg hovered in his face. “Who do you think, you thaumaturgical tosser? Gerald! Your best friend! Skinny fellow, brown hair, one silver eye, good with incants, works as a spy. Am I ringing any bells yet?”
“Reg, what are you going on about?” said Monk. “Gerald’s fine. I told you that last night.”
“ Then what are we doing here, you raving nitwit?”
“ Good question,” said Melissande, joining them, and offering Reg an arm to perch on before she flapped herself into asphyxiation. Acutely aware that she must appear absolutely hideous-even Bibbie looked less than exquisite for once-she scowled at her young man. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a good answer, have you?”
“He’d better,” said Bibbie, folding her arms. “Because romping around this steam bath was not on my list of Things To Do This Morning and there must be at least a dozen places to hide a body in here. I’ll just bet the tropics are full of flesh-eating beetles.”
Monk took a hasty step back. “Okay. Look. I’m sorry to drag you out here like this but I had to speak to you.”
“You were speaking to us, Monk,” said Bibbie. “That funny contraption you were talking into is called the telephone.”
Flinching, Monk darted a quick look around them. They were still alone. “This isn’t a telephone kind of conversation, Bibbie! Telephone calls can be monitored!”
“Then why not use the crystal ball?” Bibbie demanded. “Why make us huff and puff all the way-”
“Because I couldn’t trust that, either!”
Melissande transferred Reg from her arm to her shoulder. The urge to display girlish coyness was rapidly fading. “This is ridiculous. I thought Gerald was the one playing cloak-and-dagger games. Whatever you want to tell us, Monk, just spit it out so we can get back to the office. For all we know clients are lining up three deep in the corridor!”
“Heh,” said Reg under her breath. “Chance’d be a fine thing. But she’s got a point, sunshine,” she added to Monk, at full disapproving volume. “Flap your lips or get on your bike, boy. We’re busy women and we don’t have all day.”
Monk cast another anxiously furtive look around the Glasshouse’s moist interior, then stepped closer again. “I just need to know if you’ve noticed anything… peculiar… since last night.”
“That rather depends on how you define ‘peculiar,’ doesn’t it?” said Bibbie. “I mean-”
“Put a sock in it, ducky,” said Reg, and fixed Monk with a beady glare. “All right, Mister Clever Clogs. I know that look, so out with it and no more messing about. What have you gone and done this time?”
A rising tide of embarrassment flushed Monk’s face pink. “Er… well…”
“Oh, Saint Snodgrass preserve us,” said Melissande, her stomach sinking. “You’ve invented something else, haven’t you? And we accidentally ate it at dinner last night, didn’t we? So any minute now we’re going to-to-sneeze ourselves into an alternate reality, aren’t we!”
“Close,” said Monk apologetically, “but alas, no cigar.”
Bibbie grabbed his right earlobe between thumb and forefinger and twisted. Monk yelped. “Just tell us what’s happened, brother dear,” she growled, “or you’ll be sorry.”
With some difficulty Monk wrested his earlobe free. “All right,” he said, dropping his voice to a near-whisper and beckoning them even closer. “What’s happened is I’ve managed to invent an interdimensional portal opener.”
“Of course you have,” Melissande breathed. “Isn’t everybody these days?”
Monk winced. “I hope not. If they are the Department’ll go spare.”
Taking a deep breath, she reached for the iron forbearance that had stood her in such good stead back home. “And did you invent it on purpose or was it an accident?”
“An accident,” said Monk, as though he were admitting to some terrible wizardly crime. Then he brightened. “But you know what they say.” Lurking beneath his anxiety was a reprehensible flicker of glee. “Genius will out.”
“So will blood,” said Reg. “After I’ve punched you in the nose.”
“Reg, you’re a bird,” he sighed. “You can’t punch anyone.”
“I’m talking theoretically,” said Reg, leering. “It’s called punching by proxy. Why do you think I keep these two bruisers around?”
“Can we please not get sidetracked?” said Bibbie, stamping one foot. “Monk-”
“Yes, yes, I know,” he said. “Mel, do you remember the portable portal I invented?”
“Of course,” she said impatiently. “But what’s that got to do with anything?”
Monk shoved his hands back in his pockets. “Well, a couple of nights ago I was at home, in the library, having a good hard think about a Department project I’m not allowed to discuss, and I was kind of… fiddling with it. The portal, I mean. Running the baseline etheretic harmonics through my back brain while my front brain was focused on this other project, you know, kind of like doodling, and I sort of tweaked the portal’s matrix. Not a lot. But just enough.”
Melissande looked at him. He can’t be serious. “ I thought the Department made you surrender the portable portal,” she said, amazed that she sounded so eminently reasonable. Politely disinterested, even. She wanted to hit him. Really make him yelp.
“They did,” said Monk. “And I did. At least… I surrendered the final version, the one I used to get us to and from New Ottosland. And the prototype Mark A.”
“Don’t tell me, let me guess,” said Reg, sweet as a song bird. “You kept the prototype Mark B all for your little self, didn’t you, you gold-plated twaddle-brained gormless unsanctified git!”