No. No, I don’t think so. Things are complicated enough as it is.
Monk grimaced. “So you’ve no idea what got left behind?”
“Not no idea,” he said, still wiping. “Those hexes the other me used to punish witches and wizards who crossed him?” He tapped his temple. “They’re still stuck in here, like burrs. Mister Jennings couldn’t budge them for love or money. And I think-” He swallowed. “I think it might be easier to kill, now.”
“Oh,” said Monk.
They stared at each other, both remembering the other Ottosland and the killing hex that neither of them could escape, even though it had failed. Monk was the first to look away.
Damn. “And there’s other stuff,” Gerald said quietly. “Only I can’t put my finger on it. It’s a feeling, more than anything. I know more than I did. I just don’t know what I know. Y’know?”
“But you’re still you, mate,” said Monk. He almost sounded uncertain. “Right? You’re still our world’s Gerald Dunwoody.”
And this was why he’d not wanted to talk about it. How could he possibly explain to Monk what it felt like to have his potentia so horribly tampered with? To no longer be sure that he was himself, that he could trust himself, from one breath to the next, when sleeping deep inside, too lightly sleeping, was the urge to obliterate whatever irritated him?
Monk’s such a decent bloke, he’d never understand.
“I mean, Sir Alec’s not a fool,” said Monk, sounding close to anxious. “If you weren’t all right he’d never let you out of his sight. He wouldn’t be sending you to Splotze if you weren’t all right. And you wouldn’t risk the girls, mate, would you? You’d stay home if you weren’t all right. Right?”
And that was a far trickier question. The bald fact was, he had a great deal to prove. To Sir Alec. Sir Ralph. The Department. Most of all to himself. And he needed to prove it, soon, before doubt crippled faith.
“Look, Monk,” he said, tossing the kitchen cloth into the sink. “I’m not going to lie to you. I do feel different. It’s as though there’s more of me inside my skin. And I feel darker, too. Like there’s a shadow in between me and the world. It’s not as thick as it was, but… it’s still there.”
“I see,” said Monk, after a moment. He looked sick.
“But I promise you, I swear, I’ll never endanger the girls,” he added swiftly. “If I thought for a moment I couldn’t be trusted to keep them safe I wouldn’t let Sir Alec mix them up in this wedding business.”
“So…” Monk dragged a hand down his face. “There is something going on over there. This isn’t just Sir Alec with the wind up.”
Gerald hid a wince. Careful, now. Careful. He mustn’t mention Abel Bestwick’s graphic message. If Monk got a bee in his bonnet he was perfectly capable of futzing the entire mission. As expected, he’d already gone spare over the notion of Bibbie playing janitor. It wouldn’t take much of a nudge to send him over the edge again.
“All I can tell you is that our man in Splotze has landed himself in hot water. But we don’t know how hot, and we don’t know who’s boiling the kettle. It could all turn out to be a big misunderstanding. That’s why I’m going, to figure the lay of the land. But trust me, Monk, I won’t let the girls get within sniffing distance of trouble.”
“Oh, yeah?” Monk snorted. “Think you can hobble those two if they get the bit between their teeth, do you?”
He was saved from answering by Melissande’s return. “Are you two still in here?” she said, hands on hips in the kitchen doorway. “Honestly, how long does it take to wash a few dishes?”
“Where’s Bibs?” said Monk, neatly side-stepping the domestic bear-trap. “Don’t tell me you’ve made her hex herself so hideous she can’t bear to show her face!”
“On the contrary,” said Melissande loftily. “I’ve managed to kill two birds with one stone. Gentlemen, I give you Gladys Slack, lady’s maid to Her Royal Highness Princess Melissande of New Ottosland.”
She moved out of the way, and into the kitchen walked a modestly downward-looking young lady with glossy dark brown hair pulled into a bun and melting brown eyes framed by thick horn-rimmed spectacles, whose plain black skirt and prim cream blouse and sensibly low-heeled button shoes and knitted stockings did nothing to disguise the tempting figure beneath.
“Well, that’s no good,” said Gerald, feeling his heart crash and bang against his ribs. “Where’s the hooked nose? The beady eyes? Where are the warts with hairs in them? Blimey, Melissande. She might not look like Bibbie but she’s still beautiful!”
“Exactly,” said Melissande, as Bibbie stood like a mouse with her hands demurely clasped before her and her gaze still downcast. “She doesn’t look like Emmerabiblia Markham, which means if there’s anyone in the wedding party who’s ever dined at the Markham mansion they won’t think twice when they see her. But she’s still guaranteed to attract Crown Prince Hartwig’s wandering hands, which means they won’t be wandering over me this time, so I can avoid creating an international incident, which I’m sure Sir Alec will appreciate.”
Gerald swallowed. What about him creating an international incident? He didn’t want Crown Prince Hartwig’s philandering hands all over Bibbie! Except he couldn’t say that, could he? He didn’t have the right.
“And Bibbie? You seem very comfortable speaking for her about this, Mel,” he snapped. “What’s her opinion?”
“She doesn’t have one,” said Melissande, lofty again. “She’s a maid. But if she did, it would be identical to mine. Yours would be, too.”
His jaw dropped. “I beg your pardon?”
“Begging’s good. Very miniony. Keep it up,” Melissande said, encouraging. Then she sighed. “Honestly, Gerald. Don’t be so thick. Minions ministering to royalty possess no thoughts that haven’t been inspected and approved first. You do remember Lional, don’t you?”
Of course he did. But he’d hoped Melissande had forgotten him. Instead here she was doing the most appalling impersonation of her imperious dead brother. Ignoring her, he turned to Bibbie.
“Look, Bibs-”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Bibbie, in a mousey little voice. “I’m afraid I don’t know who you mean. My name is Gladys, and I’m sure I shouldn’t be speaking to any young man without Her Highness’s permission.”
There wasn’t even the hint of a mischievous twinkle in Bibbie’s changed eyes. Giving up, Gerald rounded on Monk.
“So you’re just going to sit there, are you, like a drunk flea on a dog? You’ve nothing to say about Melissande tossing your sister into the clutches of this grabby Crown Prince Hartwig?”
Monk grinned. “No. If Hartwig’s stupid enough to put his hands where they don’t belong, Bibs’ll take care of him. She’s had a lot of practice.”
“Wonderful,” he groaned, reluctantly accepting defeat. “Where’s Reg? I know she’ll be on my side.”
Melissande and Bibbie-Gladys-whoever the devil she was being-exchanged cautious looks.
“Reg?” said Melissande. “She’s-ah-taking a post-prandial flap about the neighbourhood.”
Oh, no. “You had a fight?”
“Of course not,” Melissande said quickly. “Just… a difference of opinion. Don’t worry. She’ll be back soon.”
Uncomfortable, they stared at each other.
“It is going to work out, isn’t it?” said Bibbie, alarmingly uncertain. “With Reg, I mean. The day will come when we don’t look at her and think You’re the wrong one. Won’t it?”
Nobody answered her.
Soon afterwards, Bibbie unhexed herself then went back upstairs to change out of her Gladys Slack attire. Melissande and Monk withdrew to the parlour for a bit of privacy, and possibly to argue some more about Bibbie, and Gerald shut himself in the library with paper, pen and ink and his mission briefing notes so he could order his thoughts. He read them twice, once quickly, once slowly, and then, ideas and random observations simmering, started scribbling.
Two scrawled pages later, a gentle rustling of feathers turned his attention to the open window.
“And that’s you, is it?” Reg enquired politely, from the sill. “Thinking You’re the wrong one every time you look at me? Sorry now you didn’t leave me behind to die too, are you?”