“
Me
?” said Reg, with a valiant attempt at outrage. “That’s rich, that is, coming from you.”
Reaching up, he dropped a brief kiss on the top of her head. “I’ll be fine. Home by tomorrow night, I’ll bet you five field mice.”
She sniffed. “You know perfectly well I hate field mice, Gerald. They taste like cow poop. I was just twisting his tail.”
“And a champion tail-twister you are, ducky,” he said. “Melissande—”
She wasn’t going to cry. She
wasn’t
. Gerald Dunwoody was a trained secret agent with more wizarding power in his crooked little finger than any other First Grader in the world. There was
nothing
to worry about. He was going to be
fine
.
“Good luck with Mr. Frobisher,” he said, and brushed his fingers down her arm. “ƒdowfonDon’t take any nonsense from the silly old fart, even if he is an old family friend of Sir Alec’s.”
She tilted her chin at him. “As if I would. After a lifetime of Lord Billingsley? Arnold Frobisher doesn’t scare me.”
He kissed her cheek. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Good luck, Gerald,” said Bibbie, admirably composed. “Bring us back a souvenir.”
Gerald’s smile wasn’t quite steady. “I’ll do my best, Bibbie. Tell Monk to keep his nose clean or I’ll kick his ass when I get back.”
The door closed behind him and immediately the sunlit, crowded office felt cold and empty.
Bibbie fished a hanky out of her pretty new reticule and savagely blew her nose. “I have an influenza,” she said, stabbing Reg with a baleful glare.
“Did I say you didn’t?” Reg protested. “Blimey. Don’t take my head off, ducky, it’s not
my
fault he’s gone.”
Melissande finished blinking back her own tears and pushed away from the filing cabinet. “It’s not anyone’s fault,” she said, going to her desk. “He works for Sir Alec. He only pretends to work here. And since that was never a secret we can’t moan about it now.”
Reg heaved a sigh. “His first assignment without us. You realize he’s going to go ass right over elbows.”
“He’ll do no such thing, you revolting old hag!” Bibbie snapped. “He’s Gerald Dunwoody.”
“Yes, ducky, I know,” said Reg, giving her a look. “Which means on the way home one of us better light a candle to Saint Snodgrass.”
“
Anyway
,” said Melissande, before the feathers started flying. “We’ve got horrible Arnold Frobisher arriving any tick of the clock. And then what do we do with ourselves for the rest of the day?”
“Mount a prayer vigil at the church,” said Reg. “That boy’s going to need all the help he can get.”
“
Once
, Mel,” said Bibbie, her perfect teeth bared in a snarl. “Let me hit her just
once
. She’ll only be unconscious for a minute. I promise.”
“No!” she said, and banged her fist on the desk. “The only person doing any hitting around here will be
me
, and that’s only if Arnold Frobisher pinches my behind again.”
“Now, now,” said Reg, scolding. “Hitting’s hardly royal behavior.”
Melissande rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. You want to poke him in the unmentionables. And I suppose poking men in the unmentionables is royal, is it?”
“Ha,” said Reg, her dark eyes wickedly gleaming. “Royal? Bugger that. It’s the most fun you can have with your clothes on, ducky!”
Sir Alec handled his government-issue car with a quiet efficiency that wasn’t the least bit surprising. The shock would have been if he’d driven any other way.
“So, Mr. Dunwoody,” he said, as they reached the lightly populated outskirts of Central Ott and turned onto Greater Flushcombe Road. “Any questions?”
Gerald looked out of the window at the passing semi-rural countryside. Wherever they were headed, he’d not been there before. In fact, this was his first trip out of the city in months.
“No, Sir Alec. I think I’m clear. Once I reach my destination I’m to take a room in the Grande Splotze Inn, using the name Barlowe. As soon as the dining room opens I’m to take the small table under the stuffed moose head with the chipped left antler, making sure to wear the yellow cravat that’s been provided for me, and wait until my contact stops to tell me I should really try the elk stew. Overcome by his kindness I’m to invite him to join me for supper, over which he will—if we’re very lucky—tell me some interesting things about a certain black market wizard we’re anxious to meet.”
Sir Alec nodded. “Exactly.” Then, glancing sideways, he added, “And if you’re going to snigger I suggest you do it now. Sniggering in Grande Splotze might easily get you killed.”
Damn
. “I’m sorry, sir. But honestly—it is rather like something out of a bad cloak-and-dagger novel.”
“I don’t read bad cloak-and-dagger novels, Mr. Dunwoody,” Sir Alec said coolly, “so I’ll have to take your word on that. As for your arrangements, they were made by the man you’ll be meeting over the elk stew. Given the risks he’s taking I’m not inclined to criticize. Are you?”
“No, sir,” he muttered, and hunched a little in the uncomfortable passenger seat. Nobody could make him feel small the way Sir Alec could. “Sir—”
“When you come back,” said Sir Alec, slowing the car to take a sharp left-hand turn onto a road that looked to be taking them into deep rural territory, “and you’ve been fully debriefed, I suggest you take a day for yourself and catch a train to the seaside. Alone. It’s my experience that fresh salt air and solitude do wonders for one’s perspective.”
This was about Monk again. He knew it. “Sir—”
“I’m doing my best, Mr. Dunwoody,” said Sir Alec. “And so is Sir Ralph. But unless your clever young friend starts helping himself not even his uncle and I will be able to save him.”
Stupid bloody politics. Stupid old men
. “Sir—Monk’s a genius.”
“I know, Mr. Dunwoody. That would be the problem.”
They drove some twenty-five more miles in
silence. Around them the countryside grew markedly more full of sheep. At last Sir Alec slowed almost to stopping, then guided the car down a long narrow private road. It took them all the way around to the back of a seemingly deserted farmhouse, where a straggle of outbuildings sagged under the sunny sky. The surrounding silence was profound.
“Right,” said Sir Alec, and stopped the car. “Here we are.”
And
here
was in the middle of nowhere. Clambering out of the car, overnight bag clutched in one hand, Gerald looked around, perplexed. “Ah—Sir Aleƒed.>Anc? What—”
“With me,” said Sir Alec, infuriatingly calm, and led the way into the nearest slatternly barn.
Instead of cows, or even sheep, the barn contained a portal.
“It’s unregistered,” said Sir Alec, answering his unspoken question. “One of a handful we use for little jobs like this. Perfectly safe, of course. Just—off the national grid. All right, in you hop.”
Secret portals? The Department operated
secret portals
? What else didn’t he know? Feeling stupid, Gerald stared at his superior. “You’re a licensed portal operator?”
For once, Sir Alec’s brief smile was almost warm. “Mr. Dunwoody, over time you’ll find I’m licensed for a great many things.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small copper disc and tossed it. “Use that for your return journey. It’ll shoot you through to a different unregistered portal. We don’t like to use the same one twice in any mission.
There’ll be a phone so you can call the Department for a lift back to Nettleworth. And don’t worry. The travel token has a falsified destination signature. The Grande Splotze portal operator will be none the wiser. Now—have a safe trip and I’ll see you again soon.”
Gerald slipped the return travel token into his pocket. “Yes, sir.”
And with nothing else to say, he stepped into the portal and vanished.
“Y’know,” said Reg, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, sunshine.”
Holding a finger steady on a precariously balanced thaumic constrictor, Monk blew his hair out of his eyes. “Well, you’re not me, are you, Reg?”
Reg cackled. “And if you think I don’t give daily thanks for that, Mr. Markham, you’ve got cockroaches in your undershorts.”
He looked at Melissande. “Have I told you today how grateful I am that you took her with you so she’s not living with me?”
“I wouldn’t live with you if you paid me in rubies,” said Reg, offended. “Cheeky bugger.”
They were up in the attic, fiddling with experimental thaumaturgics. Well. Drinking brandy and fiddling. And more the former than the latter. Sort of. What he
really
wanted to do was have at his multi-dimensional etheretic wavelength expander, except… well, it was still pretty unstable and Gerald wasn’t here. So instead, he and Bibbie were working on her ridiculous ethergenics project with Melissande taking copious notes and Reg making
a nuisance of herself on one of the stationary pushbikes. It was all terribly
domestic
.
“I
think
,” said Bibbie slowly, emerging from one of her trances, “that what we need to do next is cross-wire the thaumic constrictor with the etheretic enhancer, and feed the feedback pulse back through a compromising subharmonic Bodley prism.”
“Say that again, ducky,” said Reg. “Backwards. I dare you.”
Bibbie flapped a hand at her. “Shut up, you silly woman. Monk, what do you think?”
I think Melissande looks adorable with ink smudges on her nose.
“Um—really? A Bodley prism? You don’t want to use a Crumpshott?”
“No,” said Bibbie, decisively. “Any fool can split the harmonics with a Crumpshott.”
“And by any fool,” said Reg, amused, “she means Demelza Sopwith.”
“Hey!” said Bibbie. “I thought we agreed that name was never to be spoken.”
Reg rattled her tail feathers. “Sorry. Perhaps if I had some brandy I could remember things like that.”
“
Forget it!
” Melissande and Bibbie shouted together.
“Remember what happened the last time you got your beak into brandy?” Melissande added. “I refuse to go through that again.”
Reg subsided, sulky. “Well, at least I didn’t climb into a fountain and crush innocent goldfish to death down my décolletage.”
“You don’t have a décolletage, Reg,” said Melissande,
teeth gritted. “Not any more. But I do. So shut up or I’ll pretend
you’re
a goldfish.”
“I need more brandy,” Monk announced, and scrambled to his feet. “Lots of it.” The girls ignored him, they were too busy squabbling. Leaving them to it, he took the stairs two at a time down to the parlor where the drinks trolley lived. Suitably fortified he headed back upstairs, only to be halted midway by a banging on the front door.
“What the hell?”
It was late. They weren’t expecting anyone. And if it was Gerald returned from his mission he’d let himself in. Bugger. He didn’t want visitors. Mildly grumpy, he turned around, thudded back down the stairs and padded along the hallway to the hexed front door. Tucked the bottle of Broadbent under his arm, canceled the hex and swung the door wide.
“Yes? What is it? What do you—”
The man on the doorstep wore the same face he looked at in the mirror every morning.
“Markham!” the man gasped. “Monk Markham! Let me in, for God’s sake! We have to talk!”
Monk banged the door shut in the man’s face—his face—reset the hex and climbed back up to the attic.
“Um—girls?” he said, halting in the doorway, and was amazed he sounded so unperturbed. “If I could just have your attention?”
They looked at him inquiringly: Melissande, Bibbie and Reg.
“Um—girls—am I drunk?”
“Well, drunk’s a relative term when it comes to
you,” said Bibbie, considering him. “But on balance no. I wouldn’t say so. Why?”
He cleared his throat. “Because I just answered the front door and I’m standing on the doorstep. I don’t suppose you’d like to come downstairs and see?”
B
loody hell,” said Reg, peering down from Melissande’s shoulder at the figure collapsed on their doorstep. “I thought you were joking.”
Monk spared her a look. “About something like
this
?”
“Oh, for the love of Saint Snodgrass, don’t you two start,” said Bibbie, and shoved everyone aside. “Whoever he is, however he got here, he’s in trouble, can’t you see? Help me get him inside. Monk—
Monk
—don’t just
stand
there, you idiot.
Help
.”
“The parlor’s probably the best place for now,” said Melissande. She sounded terribly self-contained, and looking at her face he couldn’t tell what she was thinking or feeling. “I’ll jolly up the fire.”
“Good idea,” he said. “Ah—Melissande—”
She waved aside his concern. “I’m fine. Bibbie’s right. We should get him inside before somebody sees him.”
As she and Reg retreated, he helped his sister haul—haul—
Me? Can I say me? Or is it not-me? I must be drunk. Or dreaming. Is this real? It can’t be real. Can it?
—
him
over the threshold and into the house. The man was a dead weight, stuporous and groaning. No luggage. No handy name tag. No anything to suggest who he was, where he’d come from or what the devil he was doing here in Ott. In Chatterly Crescent.