Gerald nodded. “I thought so.”
“Then maybe Ratafia’s still not speaking to her. Or maybe Erminium is.”
“Maybe,” he said, but he wasn’t really paying attention. They were standing on the Canal green edge closest to the cordoned-off royal enclosures. The promenade was lamplit now, dusk velvety and star-studded. Moths flirted with the glowing gaslights. Everywhere he looked he saw Grande Splotze’s townsfolk and visitors, laughing and cheering and clapping and innocent.
“Oh, at last,” said Bibbie. “They’re letting the minions into their pen. Come on, Algernon, quickly. Before we’re left stuck up the back. Although perhaps it won’t matter, since everything’s so quiet.”
Yes. The ether was quiet, more or less. Still twisted. Uniquely Splotzeish. But not tainted or tortured, ready to erupt in killing and maiming grimoire magic.
So why do I feel so jittery?
“Algernon?” Bibbie tugged at his sleeve. “Let’s go.”
There was a band playing on the Canal green. Too big for the gazebo, it had swallowed up half the grass and was serenading the crowd with cheerful music, lots of horns and trumpets, merry tunes to tap the toes. He wanted to clap his hands and melt those trumpets. He wanted to snap every violin string with a thought.
“Algernon.”
He took a step back. Looked at Bibbie. “No, Gladys. I can’t.”
“Why not?”
How could he explain his sudden sense of dread? There weren’t any words that made sense. But then he didn’t make sense, did he? That was what being rogue meant.
Bibbie’s expression changed. “I don’t feel anything. What do you feel?”
“Afraid,” he said. “I can’t go down there, Bibbie. And I can’t stay out here, with the crowd. Too many people. I can’t see. I can’t think. I need space, I need-”
The Grande Splotze observation tower.
“Up there?” said Bibbie, following his gaze. “Gerald, are you sure?”
He took her hand and pulled her with him, reckless with his potentia as he bullied tourist after tourist out of their way.
The observation tower was closed to the public, its gate secured with chain and lock. A wave of his hand blurred him and Bibbie from detection. A single word swung the gate wide.
“Ah… Gerald…” said Bibbie, stepping over the discarded security chain. “Perhaps you’d better-”
He snapped his fingers twice, and the gate clanged closed and warded behind them.
“Right,” said Bibbie, half-laughing. “Very efficient.”
“I’m sorry, there are quite a lot of stairs,” he said, looking up. “Four hundred and twenty-three, if you’re counting. I know-” he added, as she groaned. “It’s a bugger, but there you are.”
The cheerful band music helped them keep time as they climbed. The jostling crowd below made a sound like the ocean, no words up here, only a susurration of voices. They reached the top of the tower, panting, and gasped for air beneath the darkening sky and the distant stars.
Bibbie moved to the viewing platform’s warded edge and looked down at the Canal, crowded with fireworks pontoons. Then she looked back over her shoulder, her eyes bright with courage.
“Right, then, Mister Dunwoody. What now?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The fireworks were about to start any moment. Seated with Hartwig on the crowded wedding party viewing platform, since poor gouty Brunelda was still confined to her couch, Melissande craned her neck to see in between the guests from Ottosland and Fandawandi and Graff and Blonkken, across to the next platform where various and sundry minions and lackeys were laughing and chatting and drinking cider.
Algernon Rowbotham and Gladys Slack, who’d not returned to the palace, weren’t among them.
Oh, lord. Oh, Saint Snodgrass. I hope they’re all right.
She also hoped the fireworks weren’t tampered with, because thanks to their special viewing platform she was sitting awfully bloody close.
Erminium, ruler-straight in the chair on Hartwig’s other side, was making clear her opinion of spoiled rotten servants who didn’t know how to enjoy themselves quietly.
Norbert of Harenstein, standing nearby with his young, beautiful wife, sighed and wagged a finger at the Dowager Queen. “Come, come, Erminium. It’s not so bad.”
Swallowing, Melissande stared at him as he coaxed Ratafia’s perpetually dissatisfied mother into taking another glass of cherry liqueur. How could Norbert be involved in the plot? He was here, with his empty-headed marquise. If the fireworks had been tampered with he’d be somewhere else, surely.
Like Volker and Dermit. They’re not here either. But then, they really are villains.
Of course, if Gerald was wrong again, and the fireworks were safe, then perhaps Norbert was a villain, too.
I hate this. I’ve had enough. I want to go home.
“Melissande?” said Ratafia, who’d decided to forgive her. She stood resplendent in topaz-gold silk, with Ludwig’s arm about her slender waist, blooming like a bride. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, of course,” she said, smiling, feeling sick enough to weep. “I’m just excited.”
“So am I!” said Ratafia, her beautiful face aglow. “I love fireworks, and I love Luddie. This will be a perfect night!”
Melissande nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
A perfect night, or perfectly dreadful. If only I knew which.
“Blimey, I hate waiting,” said Bibbie. “How lucky are you, Gerald, that I’m not scared of heights?”
Pacing the observation tower’s viewing platform, skin crawling, palms sweating, Gerald stared down at the fireworks pontoons.
“Very. Can you feel anything yet?”
She sighed. “No. Still not yet.”
No. He dragged his hand down his face, felt the tremble in his fingers. Dread was alive in him now, howling through his bones.
Damn and blast. What I wouldn’t give to be wrong.
With a whistling rush the first fireworks ignited, tracing lines of green and gold against the deepening night sky. The crowd roared, drowning the screaming whizz of the thaumaturgically enhanced gunpowder. All the smiling upturned faces, splashed with colour, reflected wonder and joy. Next came a blossoming of flowers, gold and crimson and purple and white, promise of a distant spring.
Bibbie turned, laughing. “Look at them, Gerald. They’re fabulous!”
He wanted to smile back at her, to share in her wonder. But the howling dread wouldn’t let him, wouldn’t stop shaking his bones. Roiling beneath the beauty was a filthy promise of death.
Between heartbeats, Bibbie’s pleasure died. Her face twisted with pain.
“Gerald-”
“I know, Bibbie! I know!”
He fought to stay on his feet, but these thaumaturgics were worse than the blood hex, worse than what they’d faced at the Hanging Bridge. They beat him to his knees.
“Gerald!”
“Stay back, Bibbie!” he groaned, shuddering. “Please. Stay back.”
With an effort he got rid of Algernon, needing to be himself. Wanting her to see him, not that counterfeit face. Just in case… in case…
“Bloody hell, Bibs.” He was nearly sobbing. “It’s close, so damned close-”
And then she was kneeling with him, her fingers warm and strong around his wrists. A twisting ripple and she was herself again, Gladys Slack cast aside. The brilliant blue eyes he’d missed so much were wide with fear.
“Gerald, I don’t know how to-it’s grimoire magic, I’m not strong enough, I can’t-”
“I can,” he said, gasping. “But not alone.”
“Do you want me to hide you? I can do that much, at least, I can-”
“No!” He didn’t want her anywhere near what was coming. “It might make things tricky, this time. Two potentias.”
“Then what do you need, Gerald?” Her breath caught. “Anything. It’s yours.”
“Tell me again, Bibs. I need to hear it.”