“As I’ve already agreed, more than once, probably he should’ve, yes. But he didn’t, Reg, which is typical and let’s face it, not surprising. So let’s leave the poor dead horse alone, shall we?”
Reg’s feathers fluffed again “I bet he’d have let the other Reg go with them.”
Oh. Well. Really damn. He’d been hoping she wouldn’t reach that conclusion. Because while he couldn’t say for certain, what with Sir Alec being a right unchancy bastard and not inclined to share his inner thoughts, he also knew first-hand that the man was unpredictable. Sending Bibbie to Splotze? He hadn’t seen that one coming. So yes… it was entirely possible he’d have sent the other Reg along as part of Gerald’s unlikely team. But it wouldn’t help to tell this Reg as much.
All of a sudden it was very important that he concentrate on cutting his bacon strips into handy bite-sized pieces.
“Well?” Reg said, belligerent. “Don’t just sit there massacring those charred bits of dead pig. Answer me! He would’ve, wouldn’t he?”
Lord, if only Melissande was here. She knew exactly what to say when the bird started one of her rants.
And to think I was going to work late and changed my mind. Why didn’t I work late? I’d rather face Dalrymple than the bird’s inquisition, any day.
He sighed. “Reg…”
“Yes, he bloody well would’ve,” said Reg, determined not only to beat the dead horse but to bounce up and down on its corpse for good measure. “And what’s more, even if he’d tried to keep her out of it, I’ll bet that other Reg wouldn’t have let him, would she? She’d never have taken no for an answer. Come on, Mister Markham. It’s an easy question. In fact, I’ve already answered it. Doing all the work here, I am. That other Reg-”
“Is dead,” he said quietly, and tried to ignore the ache in his throat. “So it doesn’t matter what she would or wouldn’t have done, or what Sir Alec might or might not have allowed, does it? She’s dead and you’re not. Now if you don’t mind, Reg, I’d like to finish my supper. Cold fried egg gives me wind.”
“Sorry,” said Reg, after a short, subdued silence. “I don’t mean to upset you. I know I’m not-I know I can’t- well. Sorry.”
And that was the most alarming thing of all, hearing her small and pained and uncertain. Saying sorry in that tiny voice, and meaning it. Reg. It brought back the dreadful memory of her dead twin, stuffed in that horrible cage, the other Gerald’s helpless prisoner.
“No, Reg, I’m sorry,” he said, letting his knife and fork drop. “There’s no point pretending this situation isn’t bloody awkward, because it is, but I don’t want you feeling like you have to apologise because you’re alive. I never want to hear you apologise for that.” He let out a sharp breath, feeling a tremble in his gut. “It’s not your fault she’s dead.”
Head tipped to one side, Reg regarded him with a disconcertingly knowing gaze. “No. And it’s not yours that he’s dead. That other Monk.”
The tremble in his gut tightened into a pain. “Yeah, okay, look-”
“No, Mister Markham, you look,” said Reg, with a sharp rattle of her tail. “I might not be her, but that doesn’t make me blind or stupid. You need to stop breaking your heart over what happened, sunshine, because there was no saving him. That other Monk. Believe you me, his Gerald was always going to kill him sooner or later. It’s just your bad luck he ended up dying here.”
The memory of the other Monk’s cruel death, still raw, still too near, closed his aching throat.
“So what say we start over,” said Reg, her careful gaze not shifting from his face. “No more wallowing in yesterday. No more flogging corpsed horses. They’re dead, we’re not, and life carries on.”
It sounded horribly heartless, put baldly like that. But she was right. Short of creating a thaumaturgically transduced temporal slipshift, recent events could not be undone.
And while that might be doable, maybe, not even I’m mad enough to give it a go.
“Agreed,” he sighed. “We’ll start over, starting now. Only…” He impaled a piece of crispy bacon on the end of his fork. “I’m not so sure about Gerald. If he can put it all behind him, I mean. That leftover grimoire magic? I’m telling you, Reg, he’s so scared of the filthy stuff he can hardly see straight. He’s scared of himself. And I’m worried he’ll-”
She chattered her beak. “Just you leave that boy to me. Because here’s what I know, if I don’t know anything else: whichever Reg I am, sunshine, first and foremost he’s my Gerald. And I’ll bloody well set myself on fire before I let him go the way of that other one.”
Whatever she’d been once, human, a witch queen, with possibly dubious powers, she was a frail, vulnerable bird now. More vulnerable than ever, given her ordeals in that other world. Even so, Monk felt bolstered by her stark declaration. More and more he was coming to believe that in her heart, where it counted, despite all the differences, she was still Reg.
He nodded. “Good. But when he gets back from Splotze, I think you and I need to-”
They both turned their heads at the sound of the front door bell, deeply chiming.
“Bugger,” said Reg. “Expecting visitors, are you?”
As he pushed back his chair, the door bell chimed again. “No. You?”
“Ha,” she snorted. “Very funny. Now go see who that is before they break the bloody bell.”
He opened the front door to find his brother scowling on the welcome mat. “It’s about time. What are you, Monk? Deaf?”
“Aylesbury,” he said stupidly. “Was I expecting you?”
With a roll of his eyes, Aylesbury shoved past him into the shabby foyer. “How should I know what you’re expecting? You can’t even answer your own front door in a timely manner.”
Bugger. It was turning into one of those kind of nights. Resigned to aggravation, Monk closed the door and trailed after his brother, who was acquainted enough with Great-uncle Throgmorton’s old house that he didn’t need to ask directions to the parlour.
“Do help yourself to a drink, Aylesbury,” he said, entering the large, comfortably untidy room.
His brother was already pouring a generous measure of brandy into a glass. A swift quirk of one eyebrow was his only response to the sarcasm. Without asking if he could pour his host a drink, too, he downed the brandy, sploshed another generous measure into the glass, then turned.
“So. Lanruvia. Seems I was a trifle… behind the times. Apparently they’re dipping their toes into murky waters again.”
Oh, lord. Monk crossed to the drinks trolley, poured himself three fat fingers of fermented peach and swallowed all of them in one go.
“What kind of murky waters?” he said hoarsely, as the brandy ignited a trail of fire down his throat and into his almost empty belly.
Aylesbury began an aimless wandering of the parlour. “I was pretty bloody peeved, you know, when Throgmorton handed you this place,” he said, his gaze roaming the faded wallpaper and the tatty carpet and the wide, curtain-covered windows. “He knew I wanted it. That’s why you got it, of course.”
Monk said the only thing he could think of. “Sorry.”
“Of course you are.” Aylesbury sipped more brandy, then smiled one of his small, sardonic smiles. “Bet the old codger’s spinning in the family sepulchre as we speak, knowing our dear little sister’s taken up residence. Assuming he does know.” Another smile. “We can but hope.”
Monk considered his brother. Aylesbury in his day-to-day work clothes was always more approachable than the brother who aped a lost age in velvets and neck ruff. And he had driven all the way out here with news of Lanruvia. That counted for something, surely. Meant there was maybe some hope for them to be more than impolite strangers. So perhaps, just this once, they might find common ground.
“Aylesbury… why aren’t we friends?”
Aylesbury choked on his brandy, then laughed. “Because you’re a pillock.”
Or possibly not. “I don’t mean to be.”
“And snakes don’t mean to be poisonous, but they’ll still kill you.”
“You think I’m a snake?”
“I think you’re a spoiled brat, Monk,” Aylesbury said, shrugging. “I think you’re so used to being fawned over as a genius you can’t imagine being wrong or not entitled to adoration. Everything you want, you get. You always have. You always will. You break the rules, you’re winked at. You ignore the rules, you’re winked at. You make up your own rules, you’re winked at. Your path’s strewn with roses and the rest of us walk in shit.” Another shrug.
