appreciate this barge is probably the most wonderful ever built, but I shan’t be sorry to leave it behind and continue the wedding tour in the carriages. I’m looking forward to being cheered along Splotze’s roads and through its townships.”
“I’m not,” Melissande said, still distracted. “I always feel like an exotic exhibit on day release from the zoo.” And speaking of exotic exhibits… “Ratafia, just out of curiosity, why did you invite the Lanruvians to the wedding?”
“The Lanruvians?” Ratafia perched on the edge of the nearest chair. “Oh, I think Hartwig invited them. As to why, you’d have to ask him.”
“I already did. He’s not sure what they’re doing here.”
“Really?” Ratafia shrugged. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. Every time I turn around there’s someone to smile at whom I don’t know from a knot in a tree. That’s what happens with this kind of wedding. It’s never-” And then her face lit up in a dazzling smile, and she pointed at the wrought-iron spiral staircase a little way along the promenade. “Oh, look, there’s Luddie, come to make sure I’ve not fallen overboard. Isn’t he sweet?” She stood. “Shall I ask him to stroll with us?”
Turning, Melissande considered Ratafia’s beloved. Sweet? Not the word she’d have chosen, but he certainly had good timing. Propriety forbade her from pigeonholing Prince Ludwig by herself, but what could be more unexceptionable than a gentle wander and some gossip with Hartwig’s brother and his soon-to-be wife?
And while we’re wandering ourselves dizzy going round and round this deck, with any luck I’ll be able to prise more information out of him than I’ve managed to prise from his betrothed.
“What a good idea, Ratafia,” she said. “By all means, run and ask.”
“And the prince couldn’t tell you anything useful?” Gerald frowned. “That’s disappointing.”
“I know,” Melissande said glumly, reclining on her stateroom’s striped and tasselled daybed. “All Ludwig wanted to talk about was the honeymoon. He’s taking Ratafia to some private island or other off the Fandawandi coast. I can’t believe they’re both so dim. Apparently there’s a scad of palace bureaucrats on both sides of the Canal handling all the ‘boring, pettifogging details’, like who the devil asked the Lanruvians to the party, but since neither Ratafia nor Ludwig is interested in being bored they’ve not bothered to keep track. I swear, Gerald, if someone had invited a herd of elephants to the wedding, those two wouldn’t think to wonder why!”
“You should ask Leopold Gertz,” said Bibbie, slouched in a chair by a gauze-covered porthole. “Uncle Ralph says secretaries of state always know everything about everyone.”
Melissande gave her a pointed look. “I did ask him, at the State Dinner. He wouldn’t say. I told you that, Bibbie. Why don’t you ever listen?”
“Anyway,” Gerald said quickly, before the girls could start bickering, “perhaps it’s an idea to ask him again. You should interview Gertz especially for the Times, Melissande. I need to know if he knows about this Lanruvian cherry business, for a start.” He glanced at the clock on the cabin’s fireplace mantel. “There should be just enough time before luncheon.”
Groaning, Melissande draped her forearm over her face. “Luncheon? Today? But I won’t be finished digesting breakfast until the middle of next week.”
“Never mind about that,” he said, and pushed off the stool belonging to the superfluous, velvet-covered piano. “Make yourself presentable, and let’s go chat with Secretary Gertz. And after him, if there’s time, you can wangle me near Ludwig and I’ll see if I feel anything untoward.”
“Oh dear,” said Bibbie, being waspish. “I think Her Highness is having second thoughts about suspecting Hartwig’s brother. It’s the billing and cooing. Our pragmatic princess has come over all romantical.”
Crossly blushing, making her scattered freckles stand out, Melissande tossed the hand mirror onto the daybed. “I am not getting romantical! I simply think he’s genuinely fond of Ratafia.”
“He might well be,” Gerald said, hating to burst her optimistic bubble. “Or, as you said, he could just be a very good actor. Or he could love her, but not enough to put her before Splotze.”
“But why would he go to all this trouble?” Melissande demanded. “Why not just tell the Marquis of Harenstein to mind his own business and then find himself some other princess to marry?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “That’s what I’m hoping to find out. Now, are you ready?”
“Wait a minute,” said Bibbie. “What am I going to do while you two are off playing journalist? And don’t you dare say stay here. I won’t be cooped up in this cabin like a canary.”
“Ha!” Melissande snapped. “More like a moulting parakeet, if you ask me.”
It was precisely the kind of thing Reg would say, and had the same bracing effect.
Since speaking up would be as helpful as pouring oil on a fire, Gerald fetched his suitably travel-worn secretarial writing case, made sure he had sufficient paper, fountain pens and ink to hand, jotted down the questions he needed Melissande to ask Leopold Gertz, then borrowed her mirror to slick down his hair, straighten his tie and be certain there were no wobbles in his obfuscation hex.
Only when he was satisfied he still looked like Algernon Rowbotham did he raise his voice. “You two do realise, I suppose, that I’m required to tell Sir Alec everything that happens on this mission? Do you really want him reading about moulting parrots and arthritic hens?”
The hurling of hissed, inventive invective ceased, abruptly.
“You might be required to tell him, but I’ll bet Monk’s jalopy’s weight in marshmallows that you don’t,” said Bibbie, truculent. “I’ve grown up in government circles, remember? Nobody writes down everything in their reports.”
He smiled, not very nicely. “For you, Miss Slack, I will make an exception. And that goes for you too, Your Highness. I know you’re feeling nervy. I know you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. On our heads. I don’t care. If you’re not helping me, you’re in my way. And trust me, girls, you don’t want to be in my way.”
Bibbie looked at Melissande, and Melissande looked back. Then they both turned identically accusing stares on him.
“Mister Rowbotham,” said Melissande, with chilly dignity, “I rather think that was uncalled for.”
“Definitely uncalled for,” said Bibbie. “I’m not impressed.”
He gave them a curt nod. “There. You see? I knew if you tried hard enough you’d find something to agree on. Melissande? Let’s go. And Gladys, why don’t you find someone new to flirt with? I expect you’re positively pining for some male attention. Bat your eyelashes hard enough and perhaps your unsuspecting swain will so far forget himself as to spill a few informative beans.”
Ignoring Bibbie’s offended gasp, he collected his writing case then ostentatiously opened the cabin door for Melissande.
“Algernon?” she said, subdued, as they made their way along a narrow, gaslit corridor. “Just then. What you said. Was that you being frightening by accident… or on purpose?”
Ah. “You think I was frightening?”
She caught at his sleeve, tugging him to a halt. The tinted light from the wall-lamp shaded her spectacled eyes and outlined the firm set of her jaw.
“Don’t. Please. You know perfectly well you were.”
He glanced up and down the corridor, but they remained alone. “I’d apologise for startling you, except I’m not sorry. I meant to.”
“Oh.” Troubled, she smoothed the sleeve her clutching fingers had wrinkled. “Well. Maybe Gladys and I were being a bit overwrought, but even so…” She bit her lip. “It’s not like you.”
He couldn’t meet her concerned stare. “Perhaps it is, though. This isn’t Ottosland, Melissande. I’m not your Algernon here. I’m Sir Alec’s Algernon. There is a difference.”
She snorted. “Believe me, Mister Rowbotham, I’ve noticed. But I think it’s more than that. And I think you know it’s more than that.”
Of course he knew. The point was how did she know? Poor Melissande was as thaumaturgically moppish as the lackeys he’d had breakfast with. It was one thing for Bibbie to notice he was different, but Melissande?
Perhaps it’s a good thing we left Reg behind, else I’d have all three of them noticing things, and prodding.
“Algernon…” Voice soft now, Melissande stroked his arm. “I can’t begin to understand what you’ve been through, these past weeks. The other Ottosland and-and-everything. But for your sake-for all our sakes- talk to someone about it. Monk, or Sir Alec, or an impersonal Department boffin if that would be easier. Reg, even. But someone. This awful grimoire magic. It isn’t a burden you should carry alone.”
