The band launched into a stately Ottish parade. Giggling, Bibbie set her hand primly on his shoulder and slow-marched beside him the length of the dance floor.
“Well?” she said in an undertone, mindful of the other dancers. “Anything?”
“No. You?”
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think he’s been meddling with things Uncle Frederick wouldn’t like,” she said, neatly dipping at the corner without losing her balance. “And I didn’t catch a whiff of what I felt earlier.”
He’d never danced with her before. She was as graceful as a swan. “Good.”
“No, it’s bad,” she said, as they dipped and turned again. “I’ll just have to keep trying.”
Oh, wonderful. “Did you ask him about Ferdie Goosen?”
“He didn’t bat an eyelash. And when I wondered if everyone was pleased about the wedding, he said yes.”
He gave her a look. “That was taking a risk.”
“No, it wasn’t,” she retorted. “Don’t be tedious, Algernon.”
Tedious? He was terrified. Bibbie might be a powerful witch but she was no match for whoever had set that entrapment hex, or let loose the blood magic.
What if I can’t protect her? What if she stumbles across this evil bastard by accident and I’m not there to save her? What if -
The sedate Ottish dance ended, and the musicians started up a new jig.
“I’m thirsty,” said Bibbie. “Let’s sit this one out.”
So they retreated to the drinks table, accepted a glass each of fruit punch with bits of melon floating in it, and retreated to a safely empty stretch of wall.
Bibbie twizzled her wooden stirrer idly round her glass. “Nobody’s watching. You should see if you can feel that nasty ripple in the ether.”
Gerald sipped more punch. It was far too sweet. “I can’t. I’d have to lower my shield.”
“Then lower it,” said Bibbie, shrugging. “I’ll obfuscate for you. If there is a wizard here, he’ll never know he’s not alone.”
“Miss Slack-”
She slid him a sharp, sideways look. “Why are we arguing, Algernon? You have to. You might not get another chance.”
Damn. “Look, stop bossing me,” he snapped. “He’s my Uncle Frederick, not yours, which means I’ll be the judge of what I do and when I-”
“Oh, Algernon,” said Bibbie and, turning towards him, rested her hand on his arm. Her changed eyes were warm now, with sympathy. “Don’t be a tosser. Are you afraid I’ll be upset by the changes in your potentia? I won’t. D’you think I care about… you know. Grimoire magic.” She said the words silently, trusting he’d read her lips. “I swear, I couldn’t care less. You’re a good man, Mister Rowbotham. Nothing in the world has the power to change that.”
She was wrong. He’d already changed it. In Abel Bestwick’s dismal little home he’d rewritten the rules. And without meaning to, she’d already told him it might have been his worst mistake.
Something — or someone — dangerous is in this hall right now.
He took a half-step back from her. “Bibbie-”
A commotion at the entrance to the Servants’ Hall turned them both, and then one of the upstairs lackeys, splendidly silver-trimmed, flailed his way onto the dance floor shouting for Mister Ibblie.
Everyone stopped jigging as the music abruptly died.
“Lishboi?” Ibblie demanded, pushing forward. “What’s the meaning of this?”
Lishboi was sheet white. “It’s the Crown Prince, sir! And Prince Ludwig, and the princess! It’s all of them, just about. Somebody’s poisoned the State Dinner!”
Ibblie spat out a Splotzeish curse and plunged for the door. Ice-cold, Gerald plunged after him, knowing Bibbie was close behind. Following after them came the foreign dignitaries’ servants. In a herd, they thundered up the stairs to the State Dining Room, hard on Ibblie’s heels.
The magnificent chamber looked like a battlefield. It stank like one, too. Bodies were strewn everywhere, some of the wealthiest and most important people in the civilised world draped over tables and chairs or sprawled on the marble floor, heaving and groaning and spasmodically emptying their bellies.
“Oh, Saint Snodgrass!” Bibbie gasped, hand slapping over her mouth as they staggered to a halt not far into the stinking room. “Oh, Algernon!”
Ibblie was barrelling towards Crown Prince Hartwig and Prince Ludwig, who were seated on a dais at the far end of the chamber, wracked with pain. The servants from Borovnik and Harenstein barrelled after him, shouting at the sight of the Dowager Queen and Princess Ratafia and Harenstein’s Marquise in similar distress.
“Where’s Melissande?” Bibbie demanded. “I can’t see- no, wait, there she is!”
Gerald watched as she shoved and slid and leapt her way through the press of stricken dinner guests and their various appalled lackeys to where Melissande was slumped almost under the long table at the far end of the dining room’s dais. He felt his breath catch, and throttled the terror.
Melissande’s tough. She’ll be all right. I have a job to do. She’d want me to do it.
To hell with the risk. He was one of the most powerful thaumaturgists in the world. So what if he’d been tainted with grimoire magic?
I control my potentia. It doesn’t control me.
He let his shield drop. Wrapped his mind around his changed power, willing its new darkness to sleep, and with his safely rogue thaumaturgics went in search of villainy… and possible murder.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Food poisoning?” Sir Alec stared into the slight fogginess of his private crystal ball. Splotze’s etheretics were acting up yet again, making the connection jittery. “Mister Dunwoody, are you sure?”
“As sure as I can be,” said his most promising and problematical janitor. “The thinking is that the crab puffs are the culprits. The head cook’s been off his game ever since Bestwick disappeared.”
Bestwick. A possible connection, then? “This cook. You don’t think-”
“No, sir, he’s not involved. At least, not on purpose. He just about collapsed when he was brought up from the kitchens and saw what had happened. Burst into floods of tears at the thought of his precious crab puffs ruined.” A snort. “Not to mention his reputation.”
“Tears, Mister Dunwoody, are not a foolproof indicator of innocence.”
“No, sir. But I made sure to read him, and I couldn’t sense anything to suggest he’d mucked about with dubious magics.”
“And you’re confident you’ve not been misled?”
Even with the unreliable etheretic connection, he could see something shift behind Dunwoody’s eyes. Honed instincts stirred, and he leaned forward.
“Mister Dunwoody?”
“Yes, sir, I’m confident. The cook’s not involved.”
A flat statement, lacking room for doubt. Still…
Disquiet not eased, he decided to let the moment pass. For now. “And you have no other suspects?”
“There was one,” said Dunwoody. “The palace secretary. But I’ve ruled him out too.”
“So where does that leave us, Mister Dunwoody? Was the food poisoning accidental, or a deliberate attempt to sabotage the wedding?”
“Sorry, sir,” Dunwoody said, shrugging. “ I can’t say yet. The investigative waters are a bit muddy. Turns out the cook’s been helping himself to the good stuff in the palace wine cellar. He’s hazy about the last couple of days.”
Just what he needed. “In other words, he could have allowed tainted crab meat into his kitchens, or tainted it himself through drunken carelessness.”
“Exactly, sir. And if it was tainted when it got here the next question is, did someone deliberately taint it
