“Mister Dunwoody, you astound me,” Sir Alec said, turning. “Will you sit there and tell me you don’t have any questions about what was done to you?”
“No, sir. But since I don’t expect you’ll give me honest, straightforward answers, what’s the point in asking them?”
“You won’t know if I’ll answer you honestly and straightforwardly if you don’t ask, Mister Dunwoody.”
“Fine,” he said, no longer caring about his tone, or sharp knives. “All right. The procedure failed. Mister Jennings didn’t manage to extract all the grimoire hexes. But is that because he couldn’t? Or because you wouldn’t let him?”
CHAPTER SIX
“Bloody hell, Gerald!” Monk breathed, awestruck. “You actually said that? And what did Sir Alec say?”
Up to his elbows in sudsy dishwater, Gerald took a moment to scrub the bottom of a pot. For all her besetting sins as a cook, at least Bibbie was keen. And for once her sausages, mashed potatoes and onion gravy had been edible. Only it did mean spending rather a long time in the kitchen afterwards, cleaning up.
“Gerald!” Monk prompted, snapping his tea towel in a vaguely threatening manner. “What did the cagey bugger say?”
He put the scrubbed pot on the sink’s drainer, then glanced at the ceiling. “I wonder how much longer the girls are going to be? I mean, I know your sister’s a raving beauty but it shouldn’t be taking her this long to brew up the right obfuscation hex. I never should’ve let Melissande shut the door in my face. Or throw smelly socks at you until you ran away. I tell you, those two are up to something.”
“And in other startling news,” Monk growled, “water is wet. Gerald, what is going on? Why won’t you answer a simple question?”
Why? Because the question wasn’t simple, and neither is the answer.
I was mad to start this conversation.
“Sir Alec didn’t say anything,” he said, scrabbling around the bottom of the sink to make sure he’d not missed a teaspoon. “Mister Dalby burst in, all hot and bothered about some hiccup in Fandawandi, which meant I became superfluous to requirements. So I toddled home to read up on the history of Splotze and Borovnik, and practice bowing like a minion.”
Monk lifted the drained pot and started towelling it dry. “Oh.”
He’d left no teaspoons behind. Playing for time, trying to avoid possible unpleasantness, he emptied the sink of sudsy water, then started wiping down the table.
With nothing else to dry, Monk put the pot in its cupboard then hung the damp tea towel on its hook. Glancing at him, Gerald saw that his friend’s usually open-as-a-book face was firmly closed. Damn.
“Look… Monk. I really am sorry I didn’t tell you I was going through with the extraction procedure. Only-”
“I know,” said Monk. “You said. Let’s not beat the dead horse, Gerald.”
“No, let me finish,” he insisted. “You were right. Jennings’s procedure is bloody risky. I was afraid that if you had another go at talking me out of it, well… I might listen.”
“Oh.” Monk hooked his ankle around the nearest kitchen chair, pulled it away from the table and sat down, back to front. Then he rested his chin on his folded arms. “D’you wish I had, now? Talked you out of it?”
Remembering the startled fear in Errol’s face, the treacherous pleasure of it, the whispering seduction of power in his blood, Gerald began wiping down the nearest bench. “No.”
Silence, while he pretended to care about spotless benches and his friend brooded. At last, Monk sat up.
“So what d’you think? Did Sir Alec hobble Jennings?”
Gerald shrugged. “I don’t know. And I don’t suppose it matters, does it? What matters is that Mister Jennings didn’t manage to extract all the hexes, which means I have to find a way to live with what’s left until you find a way to get rid of it.”
“And I will, mate,” Monk said darkly. “My word as a Markham. Only first I have to clear my desk of a few things I can’t afford to shove onto a back burner.” He dragged the fingers of one hand through his unruly hair. “Is that all right?”
It’d have to be, wouldn’t it? “Sure.”
“Good,” said Monk, not quite hiding his guilty relief. “Ah- don’t suppose you can tell which hexes got left behind, can you?”
Finished wiping benches, Gerald fussed over rinsing the cloth. It was hard to meet Monk’s eyes, talking about this. He wasn’t to blame for trying to kill his friend, he knew that, but even so…
“It’s tricky,” he said at last, “I can tell which hexes Jennings managed to extract. Like-the power to control a First Grade wizard? That one’s definitely been knocked on the head.”
Monk hooted, not very amused. “Yeah, I’ll bet. Catch the Department letting you hang onto that one. What else?”
“There were a lot of shadbolt hexes. They haven’t gone, exactly, but they’re kind of… smudged. I can’t read them any more.”
“Shadbolts.” Monk shuddered. “You’re well rid of that muck, mate. Trust me.”
Yes, he certainly was. “I’ve lost the compulsion hexes, too. Before my encounter with Mister Jennings, if the fancy had struck me I could’ve made you cut out your own tongue with a pair of rusty garden shears.” His turn to shudder. “Or Melissande’s. Bibbie’s. Anyone’s.”
Monk was staring, wide-eyed. “Bloody hell!”
Finished rinsing, Gerald turned to the kitchen hob. Should he mention bumping into Errol? Confide in his friend how the urge to smash the arrogant bastard had risen in him like a scarlet tide and threatened to sweep away both conscience and humanity?
No. No, I don’t think so. Things are complicated enough as it is.
Monk grimaced. “So you’ve no idea what got left behind?”
“Not no idea,” he said, still wiping. “Those hexes the other me used to punish witches and wizards who crossed him?” He tapped his temple. “They’re still stuck in here, like burrs. Mister Jennings couldn’t budge them for love or money. And I think-” He swallowed. “I think it might be easier to kill, now.”
“Oh,” said Monk.
They stared at each other, both remembering the other Ottosland and the killing hex that neither of them could escape, even though it had failed. Monk was the first to look away.
Damn. “And there’s other stuff,” Gerald said quietly. “Only I can’t put my finger on it. It’s a feeling, more than anything. I know more than I did. I just don’t know what I know. Y’know?”
“But you’re still you, mate,” said Monk. He almost sounded uncertain. “Right? You’re still our world’s Gerald Dunwoody.”
And this was why he’d not wanted to talk about it. How could he possibly explain to Monk what it felt like to have his potentia so horribly tampered with? To no longer be sure that he was himself, that he could trust himself, from one breath to the next, when sleeping deep inside, too lightly sleeping, was the urge to obliterate whatever irritated him?
Monk’s such a decent bloke, he’d never understand.
“I mean, Sir Alec’s not a fool,” said Monk, sounding close to anxious. “If you weren’t all right he’d never let you out of his sight. He wouldn’t be sending you to Splotze if you weren’t all right. And you wouldn’t risk the girls, mate, would you? You’d stay home if you weren’t all right. Right?”
And that was a far trickier question. The bald fact was, he had a great deal to prove. To Sir Alec. Sir Ralph. The Department. Most of all to himself. And he needed to prove it, soon, before doubt crippled faith.
“Look, Monk,” he said, tossing the kitchen cloth into the sink. “I’m not going to lie to you. I do feel different. It’s as though there’s more of me inside my skin. And I feel darker, too. Like there’s a shadow in between me and the world. It’s not as thick as it was, but… it’s still there.”
“I see,” said Monk, after a moment. He looked sick.
“But I promise you, I swear, I’ll never endanger the girls,” he added swiftly. “If I thought for a moment I
