“Well, you two, don’t just stand there,” Rupert called, expansively genial. “Come and drink this tea while it’s hot. And you must try the scones. Zazoor sent me three crates of best Kallarapi dates and the palace cook’s been going mad trying to use them up.”
So they sat at the table for nearly an hour, drinking tea and eating date scones and cream cakes and discussing the world at large. There was much rueful merriment from Rupert about the ongoing difficulties of modernising his tiny kingdom without entirely abandoning Tradition with a capital T. Bibbie overflowed with sympathy. She could completely understand, she said. Didn’t she battle the forces of hidebound tradition every day at home? She was so deeply impressed that Rupert never dreamed of treating his sister like a gel.
Melissande pushed her empty plate away, decisively hinting. “No, indeed, as brothers go Rupert’s very nearly a paragon. And now, while this little interlude has been delightful, I’m afraid we really must be pushing along. By my reckoning it’s past ten o’clock tomorrow morning in Grande Splotze, and we’ll be expected.”
“Oh,” Bibbie groaned. “Really? Does that mean it’s time to put on Gladys Slack?”
Rupert looked bewildered. “I’m sorry? Who is Gladys Slack?”
“Gladys Slack is my lady’s maid,” said Melissande. “And yes, Bibbie, it’s time she made an appearance. Same goes for Algernon Rowbotham, Gerald.”
“Ah,” said Rupert. There was a smidgin of disapproval in his voice. “And Algernon Rowbotham’s to be your secretary, I suppose?”
“He is,” said Gerald, who’d hardly said a word since they sat down. “Thanks to some hex disguises we’ve worked out, we’ll be unrecognisable.”
Bibbie giggled. “We just have to cross our fingers that we don’t break out in a rash. That can happen, you know, Rupert, with these kinds of thaumaturgics.” Another giggle. “Once, my other brother Aylesbury lost a bet with Monk and he had to wear a hex for a whole month. Brought him out in green spots. The young lady he was seeing at the time laughed at him so hard he had to rusticate in the country for ages. I don’t believe he’s forgiven Monk to this day.”
“Yes, well,” said Gerald. “With all the tweaking I’ve done to our hexes, Bibbie, I doubt we have to worry about spots of any colour.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” said Bibbie, waving a careless hand. “Gerald’s always fiddling with incants and things, Rupert. He’s almost as bad as Monk when it comes to having no time for anything else.”
Rupert shook his head. “Extraordinary, the things you witches and wizards can achieve these days. You know, Gerald, when this little matter of the wedding’s taken care of, I really must have a chat with your Sir Alec. I’m sure there’s a great deal to be done in New Ottosland, thaumaturgically speaking, and I can’t imagine anyone better to give me the benefit of his experience.”
Melissande tried to picture Sir Alec as a thaumaturgical consultant, and failed.
“Or,” Rupert added, “perhaps, Bibbie, you might care to share some insights with me. I’m sure you’d offer a most unique perspective.”
Oh, lord. “That’s a very interesting suggestion, Rupert,” Melissande said, standing. “Only we really don’t have time to talk about it now. Gerald and Bibbie might be dressed for their parts, but I’m afraid their faces are all wrong.”
“Of course,” said Rupert, disappointed. “Duty before pleasure, always. Melissande, perhaps we could have a word while Bibbie and Gerald are assuming their disguises, yes?”
“What is it?” she said, as Rupert drew her aside. “Is everything all right?”
The rackety nonsensicality she remembered in him from his butterfly days faded. “That’s a silly question, Mel, don’t you think?”
“Oh, Rupes.” She stroked her hand down his arm. “Honestly, there’s no need to worry. I’m not the one who’ll be in danger. That’s Gerald. He’s the janitor. I’m just the other half of his disguise.”
Her brother frowned. “You thought there’d be no danger when you agreed to help Permelia Wycliffe, and look how that turned out.”
“Careful, Rupes,” she said, giving him a little poke. “You’re starting to sound like the very opposite of a paragon.”
“And you, Princess Melissande,” he retorted, “are becoming uncomfortably reckless. I wish you’d remember your position. And mine. D’you know what’ll be said about me if anything happens to you?”
Closing her fingers on his shirt front, she shook him. “As if you ever gave a fig for what other people say!”
“They’ll say I held you too lightly,” he continued, ignoring her. “And they’ll be right. Melissande, it’s not too late to change your mind. You don’t work for Sir Alec or his dubious Department. There’s no reason for you to risk yourself like this.”
She smoothed the wrinkles she’d left in his shirt. “Would you still say that if I wore trousers all the time, instead of the occasional dress when I have to? I don’t think so. Please don’t tell me you’re going to break my heart now by treating me like a gel.”
“Melissande…” Sighing, Rupert touched his knuckles to her cheek. “I’ve already lost my brother. I couldn’t bear it if I lost my sister too. I’m not cut out to be an only child.”
She stepped back. “And I’m not cut out to be a dress-up doll princess. Of course I have to do this. Quite apart from any considerations of international tranquillity, there’s Gerald. He needs my help, Rupert, and I owe him. We owe him. This kingdom. The chance to make a better future for our people. Oh, everything. And I know you’re a man who’s scrupulous about repaying his debts.”
Rupert’s face clouded until he looked so sad and serious she almost wished for the gormless butterfly prince to return. Then, without speaking, he crushed her in a desperate embrace that threatened to turn her ribs into matchsticks. She hugged him too, just as hard, heedless of her corsets, until she was in danger of flooding with tears. Then she released him, and stepped back.
“Right, then,” she said briskly. “I think that’s quite enough unseemly emotion for one visit. Gerald? Bibbie? Are you-”
“Gosh,” said Rupert, staring. “How utterly bizarre.”
Before them stood meek Gladys Slack, with her dark bun and her brown eyes and plain spectacles, her black skirt and white blouse, and Algernon Rowbotham, wearing inconspicuous brown tweeds. His straw-coloured hair was slicked close to his skull and his green eyes peered short-sighted through his own wire-framed spectacles. Ink splotched his fingers.
Used to the startling transformations by now, Melissande grinned. “Clever, isn’t it? Not so much as a hint of Bibbie or Gerald. I tell you, Rupes, between them those two possess more thaumaturgics than Sir Alec’s entire Department.”
“So I see,” said Rupert. “Extraordinary.” He didn’t sound altogether approving.
“And now we really do have to go,” said Gerald, in a voice hexed half an octave higher than normal, with a slight nasal whine added to it for good measure. “Thanks for your assistance, Rupert. I know the Department is deeply grateful.”
“So long as the Department takes good care of my sister,” said Rupert, “it will have my assistance whenever there’s need.”
Gerald nodded. “I’m sure Sir Alec understands that, Your Majesty.” Walking forward, he held out his hand. “I promise you I do. I’ll keep her safe, sir.”
Rupert took Gerald’s offered hand and shook it, firmly. Then he turned to Bibbie and bowed. “Bibbie. Or should I say Miss Slack? It was delightful to meet you. I look forward to seeing you again soon.”
Bibbie, who was taking her role as Gladys more seriously than any actress, sank into an impeccable curtsey. “You’re too kind, Your Majesty.”
“Right, then, Rupes,” said Melissande, and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “We’ll be off. Now, mind you don’t portal us to Babishkia by mistake and please, don’t let that dreadful old goat Billingsley bully you while I’m gone.”
With a nod at Bibbie and Gerald she led the way back into the portal, then smiled at Rupert until the doors closed in her face and the whirling thaumaturgics whisked them away.
“Princess Melissande! You’ve come! How utterly delightful!”
From his subservient position in the rear, with Bibbie demurely reticent beside him, Gerald watched Melissande stand formidably straight.
