“Really, Emmerabiblia? How very prestigious,” said their mother, brightening. “Perhaps you could wangle your way into her retinue.”
Rousing from his reverie, their father smoothed back his unruly salt-and-pepper hair. “What are you on about, Sofilia? You don’t approve of royalty.”
“Really, Wolfgang, do try not to be dense,” said their mother, with an impatient tsk. “For all their faults, royalty can occasionally prove useful. There’ll be scads of unspoken-for young men gadding about this wedding. Who knows what kind of eligible personage our unwed and rapidly aging daughter might meet?”
“ I know, Mother,” said Bibbie, with a glittering smile. “Not a one, because Melissande’s declined the invitation. Something about the Crown Prince of Splotze and his wandering hands.”
“Oh,” said their mother, disappointed. “Well. That’s terribly unobliging of her, I must say. As your friend she should be prepared for some trifling inconvenience if it means you could meet the right man. Monk, you’re dallying with the young woman, aren’t you? What are you doing to see that she changes her mind about attending this wedding?”
Monk trod on Bibbie’s foot again, more emphatically, and favoured their mother with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Mama, but when it comes to persuadability Melissande is quite a lot like you. Once she’s made up her mind, there’s no changing it.”
“Well, I call that sadly lily-livered!” their mother retorted. “For your poor sister’s sake, Monk, I demand that you try!”
There was no point arguing. “Yes, all right. But I’m not making any promises.” And now it was time to change the subject. He looked at Uncle Ralph. “I must admit I haven’t been paying a lot of attention to the Splotze-Borovnik fuss, sir. I’m still working on that big project for-” Just in time he remembered Aylesbury, who was employed by Ottosland’s largest international trading company and didn’t possess the right kind of government clearances. “That’s to say, I’ve been busy. D’you honestly think something as simple as a wedding can patch up more than two hundred years of disputes and skirmishes and the occasional all-out war?”
“I can’t say,” said Uncle Ralph, after a considering moment. “But at least it’ll give them something different to skirmish over. Weddings? From my experience they’re little more than an excuse to settle old feuds and start new ones.”
“Uncle Ralph, are you saying there’s going to be trouble?” Bibbie said, pushing her emptied dinner plate away. “Because with Melissande not going to Splotze, and New Ottosland not wanting to risk various trading concessions, now it’ll be King Rupert flying the flag at the wedding and it would be awful if something happened. He’s the only brother Mel’s got left and she’s terribly fond of him.”
“There!” said their mother, signalling Cheevers to start clearing the table for the dessert course. “That is precisely what I’m talking about. Your friend’s brother. King Rupert. What is he if not a perfectly good unmarried monarch cluttering up the landscape? If this Princess Melissande was really your friend, Emmerabiblia, she’d introduce you to him. Monk, why haven’t you arranged it?”
“Mama…” He sighed deeply, ruefully resigned. “Probably she would, if I asked, but even if I did, as a rule kings don’t marry commoners.”
“Commoners? With the blood of Thackerays and Markhams coursing through her veins, Monk, your sister is anything but common!”
“I know,” he said patiently, because at times like this their mother required careful handling. “Only, Mama, you can’t be serious. I mean, if Bibs married Rupert she’d have to go and live in New Ottosland.”
“And get all excited about butterflies,” Bibbie added, wrinkling her nose. “Because according to Mel, that habit’s stuck. So I think I’ll pass on Rupert, thanks all the same.”
“And you know, Sofilia,” Uncle Ralph added, “she’s not likely to find the right sort of chap at this bloody Splotze-Borovnik affair. It’ll be crawling with foreigners of dubious lineage. Last thing this family needs is Emmerabiblia making sheep’s eyes at someone unsuitable from Graff or Harenstein or Blonkken.”
Being careful to keep his expression safely amused at indignant Bibbie’s expense, Monk looked at their important, powerful uncle and wondered. For all his joviality, there was a shadow in his eyes. So either something was bothering him about the Splotze-Borovnik wedding
… or else some other cloud was looming on the thaumaturgical horizon.
But what could it be? I’ve heard no rumblings. And if something was up, Gerald would’ve told me.
At least, he’d like to think so. Only things between him and Gerald hadn’t been entirely comfortable since their return from the other Ottosland. They were keeping mismatched work hours, and when their paths did cross, in the kitchen or on the stairs of his inherited town house, it never seemed to be the right time for a fraught conversation. And anyway, he had no idea what to say.
I know you tried to kill me, mate, but no hard feelings. You weren’t yourself. And incidentally, how’s that grimoire magic working out for you? Had any more overwhelming homicidal urges lately?
No. No, he couldn’t say that. Trouble was, it seemed he couldn’t say anything that didn’t run the risk of revealing a harsh truth: that every time he looked at his best friend, just for a split second he remembered that hideous killing hex, the cruelty in Gerald’s face, the pain and the disbelief and the horror of impending death… and was afraid.
So, perhaps he shouldn’t have spoken against Jennings’s extraction procedure after all.
Pushing aside the sharply painful memories, Monk returned his attention to the family dinner. Cheevers and his underling were leaving the dining room, having served up the final course of raspberry fool, and Aylesbury was banging on about the importance of the wedding with regards to the stability of international trade.
“-exactly my point, Uncle Ralph. It might not be an ideal solution, but something has to be done. The Splotze-Borovnik Canal is a vital shipping thoroughfare. I hate to think how much money’s been lost thanks to all those wasted years of bickering.”
Stirred again from dreams of fantastic thaumaturgics, their father slapped the table. “It’s the greatest mistake in history, that bloody Canal,” he declared, his deep-set eyes glittering. “All it’s done is give Splotze and Borovnik even more excuses to fight. And how stupid were they, eh, to sign treaties that prevent the use of thaumaturgical measures to keep the peace? Superstition and ignorance instead of enlightenment, and for no better reason than their etheretics are unreliable. I tell you, it’s been one misstep after another, ever since the day they opened their muddy ditch for business.”
Aylesbury stared, aghast. “But, sir-you can’t mean that!”
“I bloody well can,” their father retorted. “And if you’d stop wearing those stupid neck ruffs that make you look like a lachrymose poet, you’d get a decent flow of blood to your brain and realise I’m right.”
“But Father, you’re not right,” Aylesbury insisted, his colour dangerously high. Very fond of his neck ruffs, was Aylesbury. A stalwart aficionado of the romantical fashions. “Perhaps if you spent less time footling about with useless theoretical thaumaturgics, and more time out in the real world dealing with actual issues of economics and trade and politics, you’d-”
“Oh, blimey,” Bibbie murmured. “Here we go. Do something, Monk.”
“Why me?” he said, raspberry-and-cream laden spoon halfway to his mouth. But it was only a token protest. They’d never listen to Bibbie and there was no-one else. His mother and Uncle Ralph had long since given up when it came to keeping the peace between Wolfgang Markham and his eldest son.
But I’m the idiot who can’t help throwing himself into the fray.
As Aylesbury and their father paused to take a heated breath, Monk cleared his throat. “I say. I’ve been thinking. It’s pretty sad about Lady Barstow, isn’t it?”