“Never mind,” said Reg, and fluffed all her feathers. “Now come along, sunshine. Either finish your dinner or bin it, because we’ve got work to do. I’ve forgotten more about blood magic than anyone else you know, so you can pin back your ears and get an education. All right?”
“All right,” he said slowly. “But I think I ought to ask how it is you-”
“No,” said Reg. “You really oughtn’t. Not if you want to sleep tonight.”
And on that trenchant note she flapped out of the kitchen. Monk binned his cold fried egg, and followed.
The Servants’ Hall in Grande Splotze’s palace was enormous. Buttoned into his precisely selected dinner suit-not too careworn, not too sleek, designed to reflect well upon his royal employer without hinting at undue largesse-Gerald waited in a slowly shuffling line with Bibbie to be formally admitted, and looked ahead into what he could see of the crowded room. How mad was it, anyway, such a sprawling space? So many servants? Splotze’s royal family was of middling size, as far as royal families went. Surely they couldn’t need so many people catering to their every whim? Two hundred and twelve, according to the briefing notes.
Two hundred and twelve people whose lives and livelihoods hang on Hartwig’s slightest whim. I don’t know how they bear it.
Standing beside him, masked by Gladys Slack, Bibbie remained her beautiful, brilliant self. He felt a cold chill run down his spine. If only there was a way to send her home. After Abel Bestwick’s lodgings
… the entrapment hex… the blood magic… this mission could spin out of control at any moment.
Leaning close, Bibbie brushed her cheek against his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
His heart thumped. “Nothing.”
“Really?” Bibbie murmured. “You’re going to keep on trying to fool me? That is a waste of time, Mister Rowbotham. You’re still upset. And you’re walking differently. Did something else happen while you were out? Are you hurt?”
Her soft questions set his pulse racing. “Hurt? No.”
“I don’t believe you.”
The line shuffled forward, and they shuffled with it.
“I’m fine,” he insisted, even though it was a lie. His dragon magic slept lightly, a shallow breath beneath his skin. But she couldn’t be feeling its presence. His shield was up. He was hidden, even from her. “Miss Slack, this isn’t the time or place.”
“Then make the time and choose a place,” she said, her fingers tightening on his arm. “Because I am not-the princess. You can’t fob me off with vague assurances and half-truths.”
So many fellow-guests, crowded in front of them and behind. He couldn’t shout at her, couldn’t wave his arms and splutter. The most he could do was snap, “Miss Slack.”
Bibbie dropped her hand and eased herself away from him. “I’m just saying.”
Yes, she was… in her inimitable Bibbie style. Damn, how did she know always what he was thinking and feeling? And how was it she could make his heart leap even when she didn’t look like Emmerabiblia Markham? But she could. She did. She was doing it now. It wasn’t her face, it was her. The sheer Bibbieness of her, that shone through no matter what face she was wearing.
I saw what she could be, in that other Ottosland. What she might become, the worst flaws in her magnified… just as I saw all the worst parts of me. So how is it I’m not afraid of her the way I’m afraid of myself?
And he was afraid, now more than ever. After today, there was no going back. Not even Monk would be able to suck the grimoire magic out of him after what he’d done. It was his blood, his bones, the air he breathed. His life.
Bugger. Monk’s going to go spare.
The line shuffled forward a few more paces. And yes, he was walking differently. He could feel it. With two good eyes again, his depth perception had returned to normal. Perhaps that explained the nagging ache in his head.
Or perhaps it doesn’t. Perhaps I’m on the brink of thaumaturgical chaos…
No. No. He couldn’t afford to think like that. He had a job to do. A wedding to save. A few more minutes and he’d be up to his armpits in suspects. Well, possible suspects. Or possible sources of information that would lead to the thwarting of the plot against Splotze and Borovnik.
His heart thudded again, but not because of Bibbie. Lord, could he do this? Could he prevent yet another international disaster? He’d averted calamity three times already, that was true, but only by accident. He’d stumbled into those other crises unwittingly. What if he wasn’t up to this task? Had Sir Alec lost his marbles, sending grimoire-tainted Gerald Dunwoody to Splotze? The whole bloody set up was so nebulous. And now with the discovery of that filthy blood magic, far more lethal than surely even Sir Alec had guessed, so much hung in the balance. There were so many dangerous knives to juggle, and he had the girls to worry about…
Hell’s bells, I wish Reg was here.
Probably he should be flattered that Sir Alec had such trust in him. He should take it as a compliment and use his superior’s confidence as a shield. Instead he felt crushed by the responsibility. The possibility of failure.
Besides, will he still trust me when he finds out what I’ve done? When he learns I’m no longer a simple rogue wizard?
A hand on his arm. He looked down, seeing not Gladys Slack but Bibbie Markham. His Bibbie. The girl he loved, and could never fear. She was staring at him with such an intent look in her changed eyes.
“Wherever you are, Algernon, it’s time to come back,” she whispered fiercely. “Whatever’s wrong, we can fix it. But we’ll have to fix it later.”
She was right, Saint Snodgrass bless her. So he found a small, proper smile for her, royal secretary to lady’s maid, then stepped up to the very stiff, very formal Splotze official barring their way into the Servants’ Hall.
“Names?” the official said, looking down his large, Splotzeish nose.
Gerald cleared his throat. “Mister Algernon Rowbotham and Miss Gladys Slack, attached to Her Royal Highness Princess Melissande of New Ottosland.”
The Splotze official looked for their names on his clipboard. “Ah. Yes.” A reserved, thin-lipped smile. “Of course. On behalf of the Crown Prince and Princess, welcome to Splotze. Enjoy your evening.”
Shrinking into herself, Bibbie bobbed the official a shy curtsey. “Oh, that’s ever so kind of you, sir. Thank you. I’m sure we’ll have a wonderful time.”
“Yes,” Gerald added, wishing he could kick Bibbie’s ankle. “It was good of you to ask us. Come along, Miss Slack. Let’s not hold up the line.”
As soon as they’d entered the crowded Servants’ Hall, Bibbie tugged at his sleeve.
“Right,” she said, abandoning demure Gladys Slack. “So you take this side of the room, I’ll take that side, and between us we should be able to talk to everyone here before the end of the night. And don’t forget to keep an eye on me, because if I find someone you need to talk to, I’ll give you a sign. All clear? Good. Then off we go!”
And before he could stop her, or sharply remind her that hello, he was the only janitor here, and she wasn’t meant to be drawing attention to herself, or him, she’d plunged into the jostling crowd of staff and servants, leaving him with no choice but to do as he was told.
Wonderful. Thanks ever so, Sir Alec.
He took a moment to make sure of his etheretic shield, rearranged his altered features into an expression of non-threatening, slightly bucolic pleasantness, turned to the nearest Splotze-liveried minion and beamed.
“I say there. Good evening. I’m Algernon Rowbotham, from New Ottosland. What a perfectly splendid shindig. And if might I ask, sir, who are you?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Yes, yes, I couldn’t agree more.” Eyes brightening, the
Marquis of Harenstein snatched a crab puff from a passing servant’s silver tray and engineered it into his walrus-moustachioed mouth. “This is indeed an auspicious occasion,” he added indistinctly, spraying a fine shower of pastry crumbs. “In fact, my dear-” A frown. “I’m sorry. Who are you again?”
Melissande smiled. Tosser. “Princess Melissande, Your Grace. King Rupert of New Ottosland’s sister.”
The Marquis of Harenstein’s frown deepened. “New Ottosland… New Ottosland… oh, yes! Little patch of
