Lord Attaby’s smile was remarkably unpleasant. “In my experience, Prime Minister, facts are malleable things. They can be massaged to fit any number of scenarios depending upon a variety of preferred outcomes.”
“Really?” she said, seething.
He nodded. “Really.”
“How very interesting. Because in my experience that’s known as falsifying evidence. Manipulating the truth. To be blunt, Lord Attaby, it’s known as lying. Also covering your ass.”
The nondescript man on Lord Attaby’s right looked down, lips twitching. Monk’s illustrious relative frowned disapprovingly. Lord Attaby scowled, his pouchy face burnished dull crimson. “Young woman-”
“No, not ‘young woman,’” she snapped. “You were right the first time. Do at least try to keep the protocol intact.” Leaning her fists on the oak conference table she thrust her face into his. “Now let’s get something straight, my lord. As far as I’m concerned there’s plenty of blame to go around for this fiasco. And when it’s over by all means, let’s sit down with tea and biscuits and parcel it out like lumps of sugar. But before that, if it’s not too much to ask, could you and your hoity-toity Departmental chums here stop pointing fingers for five seconds and do something constructive?” She raked them with a furious gaze. “Because in case you’ve forgotten, gentlemen, people are dying! And in light of that, how I got here and so on and so forth is just a steaming pile of bollocks!”
“I’m so sorry, gentlemen,” said a brisk voice from the doorway. “You mustn’t be offended. My sister has a temper but her heart is in the right place. And as it happens this time I agree with her. We don’t have time for recriminations.”
Melissand spun around. “ Rupert? Rupert, where the hell have you been?”
As the discreet secretary closed the doors again Rupert walked towards her, one hand outstretched. “Darling Melly.” He still looked ridiculous in his ruined blue velvet knickerbockers and orange silk shirt but even so… something was different. He’d changed. The way he carried himself, the look in his eyes. Even the sound of his voice was different. No longer shrinkingly apologetic, but sure and strong. Reaching her, he took her hand and kissed her cheek. “I’ve been sorting out a few things. Lord Attaby?”
Horrible Lord Attaby was on his feet. So were his bookends. “Your Majesty,” he murmured. “I take it you and the Prime Minister have reached an agreement?”
“We have,” said Rupert. “Everything’s arranged.”
Dumbfounded, Melissande stared at Monk then Reg then back at Rupert. “I’m sorry,” she said, and pulled her hand free. “ What’s arranged? Rupert, what are you-”
He kissed her cheek again. “I’ll explain everything later. You have my word. But right now you need to come with me, all of you. We don’t have much time if we’re going to save Gerald.”
Folding her arms, she shook her head. “Sorry, Rupert, but I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on. This has been a very long, very bad day, and I’m just about ready to-”
Without even so much as a courteous knock the drab chamber’s doors banged open again and an alarmingly flustered minion scuttled in, a piece of paper clutched in one hand. Lord Attaby, freshly crimson, thumped a fist on the table. This time all three teaspoons, and the teacups, leaped and rattled in their saucers.
“Juby! What is the meaning of this? We are in private session! Have you taken leave of your few paltry senses, man, barging in here when-”
“I’m sorry, my lord. I’m terribly sorry,” the minion wailed. He had an odd, squarish-shaped face and every inch of it was sweating. “But this couldn’t wait.” He thrust the piece of paper at outraged Lord Attaby. “From Priority Monitoring, my lord.”
Lord Attaby flicked a glance left and right at his silently concerned bookends then took the piece of paper from Juby. Melissande heard an odd little sound beside her and turned, to see Monk easing a finger between throat and shirt collar. His eyes were wide and glassy with concern.
“What?” she murmured. “Monk, what’s going on?”
“Dunno,” he murmured back. “But it won’t be good.”
“Priority Monitoring means trouble?”
He nodded. “Big trouble.”
“What kind?”
“Sorry. No idea.”
“Reg?”
Still firmly ensconced on Monk’s shoulder, the dratted bird ruffled her feathers and shrugged. “Don’t ask me, ducky. Bang their snooty heads together if you want some answers.”
Actually, that wasn’t a bad idea. “Lord Attaby, what-”
“Hush, Mel,” said her strangely altered brother, with an authority she’d never before heard in his voice. “Wait.”
Lord Attaby was rereading the urgent note with a look on his face that said he hadn’t believed it the first time and didn’t want to believe it now. Was it a trick of the chamber’s lighting or could she see sweat on his brow? Silently the minister pushed the note towards Monk’s important uncle, who pulled a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles from his inside coat pocket, placed them precisely on his nose and read the minion’s urgent missive.
Monk’s important uncle stopped breathing, just for a moment.
“If I may?” the nondescript third man at the table said quietly, and held out his hand. Without bothering to ask Lord Attaby’s permission Monk’s uncle passed the note to him. The nondescript man read it, just the once. When he was finished he closed his eyes. Melissande, watching him, thought it the most alarming thing she’d ever seen. Because in his eyes, before he’d hidden them…
Oh lord. Oh Saint Snodgrass. This is bad, isn’t it?
“All right,” she said, heedless of good manners and international protocol. “What exactly is going on? What’s this Priority Monitoring station, and what’s it monitored that’s put all three of you terribly self-contained gentlemen into a tizzy?”
As the minion Juby’s eyes bugged nearly out of his head at her tone, and Rupert touched warning fingers to her arm, and Lord Attaby sucked in a swift, offended breath, the nondescript man flicked the piece of paper across the table towards her.
“See for yourself, Your Highness.”
“ Sir Alec! I have not-”
“We can’t hide it from them, my lord,” said the mysterious Sir Alec, who looked like a greengrocer but clearly wasn’t. “We might not like it but they are involved.”
Before Rupert could take the note she snatched it off the table and scanned the scribbled message. “ An unprecedented thaumaturgical event. What’s that when it’s at home?” She glanced at the note again. “Or in this case New Ottosland.”
“Show me,” said Monk, and plucked the note from her suddenly cold fingers. He read it quickly then looked up, every last skerrick of color drained from his cheeks. “Are you sure about this, Jubes? Somebody’s not playing a practical joke?”
“Of course I’m sure!” said the minion Juby, his voice shaking. “I was bloody there, wasn’t I, when the alarms went off. The gauges melted, Monk. They’re nothing but etheretic goo. I’m telling you-” And then he choked to a halt as Lord Attaby thumped the table again. “I’m sorry, my lord. It’s just-I never-”
“You’re dismissed, Juby,” said Lord Attaby coldly. “Get back to your post. And not a word about this to anyone who wasn’t present at the time, is that clear?”
Juby nodded so hard and fast his neck almost snapped. “My lord,” he squeaked, and fled.
“I think, Lord Attaby,” Rupert said in the same mild voice Lional used just before somebody was made very sorry for something, “that you need to explain what’s going on.”
His expression horribly grim, Lord Attaby folded his hands neatly on the table. “I can’t do that, Your Majesty.”
“Oh, I think you can,” said Rupert. Never in his whole life had he sounded so dangerous. “And I think you will. This business touches upon my kingdom and its welfare. Therefore you will tell me-”
“He can’t,” said Sir Alec, the deceptive greengrocer. “Because he doesn’t know. None of us knows precisely what has happened in your kingdom, Your Majesty. Only that it’s catastrophic.”
“Yes, but what does that mean exactly?” Melissande demanded. “Are you saying that between them Gerald
