“Clever,” said Bibbie, noticing. “And tricky. Learn that one in the Department, did you?”
No. He’d made it up just then. I want something, I get it. As simple as that. Except it wasn’t meant to be so simple. That was how the other Gerald had thought. That was grimoire magic’s slippery slope. And was he even now starting that insidious slide?
Bibbie was waiting for him to answer. “Must’ve done,” he said, and pointed. “Look. Doesn’t that monkey there remind you of Errol Haythwaite?”
Giggling, she poked him. “Now, now, Mister Rowbotham. Poor little monkey. It’s not nice to make fun.”
“It isn’t? Then please accept my apologies, Miss Slack.”
She grinned. He grinned. They drank their cherry juice and ate their sausages and pretended they were two regular people without a care in the world.
Meal finished, licking grease from her fingers, Bibbie looked at him sidelong. “Algernon, you’re not really furious with Melissande, are you?”
Bloody Melissande. “I was. Maybe I still am. A bit. She crossed the line, Gladys. She agreed I was in charge here, and then-” He ate some more sausage. “She agreed I was in charge.”
“Yes, I know, but she’s Melissande,” said Bibbie. “You can’t really be surprised.”
No. Not really. “Sir Alec’s going to go spare.”
Bibbie shrugged. “Maybe. I think it depends on how everything turns out.”
Trust Bibbie to make him confront the unpalatable truth. This impromptu picnic was nothing but a mirage. He wasn’t Algernon Rowbotham on an outing with his young lady. He was a janitor with a job to do.
And Bibbie shouldn’t be here.
“But I am here, Gerald,” she said sharply. “And I’m not going away.”
How did she do that? How did she always know?
A fleeting, dimpled smile. “Monk’s not the only one who can read you like hieroglyphics.”
“Bibbie-”
She covered his hand with hers. Her touch was warm. Exciting. Comforting. Perilous. If he closed his eyes he’d see her true face, not the made-up brown eyes and dark hair of demure Gladys Slack.
“There’s something I need to tell you, Gerald,” she said quietly. No smiles now, no teasing. “I know what’s happened. To you. The grimoire magic and your potentia. I’m not entirely sure when, but I’m guessing it was in Abel Bestwick’s lodging.”
His mouth was dry, his heart sickly pounding. “You can’t know that.”
“Of course I can,” she said. “I’m Emmerabiblia Markham. And just so you know? I’m not afraid of you.”
He had to look away. “Perhaps you should be.”
“Gerald…” She sighed, her fingers tightening around his. “Listen to me. You aren’t him. He was a monster… and you’re the man I love.”
It couldn’t be right, to feel this happy. Not when the fate of two countries and countless lives hung in the balance, depending on him. Not when he could hear that other Gerald’s grimoire magic whispering in his blood.
Bibbie leaned in and kissed him, the merest butterfly brushing of her lips against his. “We need to get down to the Canal front. It’s time to inspect those fireworks pontoons.”
Yes. It was. But, as it turned out, that was going to be a great deal more easily said than done.
“Blimey,” said Bibbie, as they stood before the crowded Canal wall and stared across the water at the twenty pontoons tethered ready for the night’s event. “I wish you’d been right the first time, Algernon. I don’t think we’re going to get this done with a pilfered rowboat.”
“Even if there was a rowboat to pilfer,” he agreed. “And there’s not.”
The Canal had been entirely emptied of water craft. There wasn’t even a royal barge, because these were the wedding fireworks and after the last gloriously burning ember winked out, the wedding party would be returning to the palace for the reception, crab puffs to be conspicuously absent, then the marriage ceremony, then the treaty signing, and last of all the fifteen-course State Dinner.
Bibbie was frowning. “Gosh. I can feel the wardings from here. Can’t you?”
He certainly could. It seemed Hartwig was taking no chances with these fireworks, relying on someone sterner than Radley Blayling to keep them safe from Splotze’s erratic and exasperating etheretic field. But were they also stern enough to keep them safe from something worse?
“I can’t feel anything else, though,” Bibbie murmured. “Nothing rotten. No tampering.”
And neither could he. It was almost as though that sickening sense of danger he’d felt in the palace had been no more substantial than a dream.
“Mind you,” she added, “I didn’t feel the hexes at the Hanging Bridge until it was too late.” She shivered. “Whoever’s behind this is awfully good, Algernon.”
He nodded. “I know. But we’re better.”
We have to be. Because if we’re not…
Two sections of the Canal front had been cordoned off from the general public, with floating platforms put in place for a uniquely intimate view of the fireworks. One section was for the wedding party and its important guests, and the other was set aside for the lucky minions and lackeys who’d been deemed worthy of a front row seat.
Gerald patted his coat pocket. “Here’s an idea. We’ve got our passes, and without a rowboat I think that floating platform is the nearest we’re going to get to those bloody pontoons. If I’m right and something happens, sitting right down the front gives us our best chance of foiling the plot.”
But the palace guard they showed their passes to wouldn’t let them through the cordon. Far too early. Come back at sunset. Crown Prince’s orders. Go away.
Gerald was tempted to compel him, but Bibbie hustled him off before he could succumb.
“It was a good idea in theory,” she said. “But I think we’d cause a stir, sitting there all by ourselves for the next two-and-a-bit hours. It’s best if we blend in. Isn’t it?”
He was getting impatient. Letting fear over-ride good judgement. If Frank Dalby was here, there’d be some withering scorn.
“You’re right,” he said. “But we’ll keep wandering around the promenade. If there’s a change in the ether, if any grimoire thaumaturgics start stirring, here is the most likely place we’ll feel them.”
This was a mistake, Melissande thought, fetching up against a Canal promenade lamp post to catch her breath. What was I thinking? I’m never going to find Gerald and Bibbie in this wretched crowd.
Tourists and dancing dogs and jugglers and food stalls and ridiculous people on stilts. What sane adult staggered about the place on stilts? She must’ve been out of her mind. She should’ve stayed in the palace and waited for Gerald and Bibbie to come back. Or dragged Abel Bestwick out of Mitzie’s room and taken him to see Hartwig and bugger the politics. What was a little spying between not-currently-enemies when lives were at stake?
Harenstein? This is all Harenstein’s fault? How did I not see it? How did Gerald not see it? He’s the janitor here. It’s supposed to be his job!
It was getting late. According to Mister Ibblie’s polite list of instructions, anyone fortunate enough to be included with the wedding party should be dressed and ready to depart the palace at dusk. That meant she should go back now, because of the crowds and having to bathe and dress up for the night. And if Bibbie wasn’t waiting for her in their guest suite she’d have to dress herself, which would be interesting. She might need to kidnap a passing maid.
Saint Snodgrass preserve me. I never asked for this. When I get home, Sir Alec and I are going to have words.
“Look,” said Bibbie, pointing, as the gathered crowd on the promenade began chanting and cheering. “There’s the wedding party. Doesn’t Ratafia look sweet? Oh, and there’s Melissande. In purple. Hmm.” She frowned. “Which means she dressed herself. What a pity. Maybe that’s why she looks like she’s swallowed a hedgehog. But she did know not to expect us back, didn’t she?”