Her heartfelt compassion stung him to silence. The corridor wavered and her plain, freckled face blurred and he had to blink hard to see clearly again.
“You shouldn’t worry about me, Mel,” he said at last, his voice rough. “I’m fine.”
She sighed. “Fibber.”
Yes. He was. A fibber and possibly much worse. But there was no-one he could talk to about the changes still unfolding within him. Not yet. Not until he’d finished changing. How long that would take, he had no idea.
And by then there might not be any point in talking. By then…
He didn’t care to finish the thought.
“Come along then, Algernon,” said Melissande, with another resigned sigh. “Let’s get this journalistic charade on the road, shall we?”
But to his immense frustration, Leopold Getz wasn’t free to speak to them.
“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” said Peeder Glanzig. “The Secretary’s not free to speak with the New Ottosland Times. He’s in a meeting and can’t be disturbed.”
“Oh,” Melissande said blankly. “How unfortunate. Who with?”
Clearing his throat, Glanzig furtively looked around the barge’s Small Salon, which had been set aside for state matters not pertaining to the wedding. They were alone, but it seemed Ludwig’s lackey was unwilling to trust even the cushions.
“The Lanruvians,” he whispered. “But I didn’t tell you that. And I never said a single word about cherries.”
“Ah!” Melissande said brightly. “The Lanruvians! I’m so looking forward to meeting them, Mister Glanzig. When d’you think they’ll be free for a chat?”
Peeder Glanzig’s finger explored the miserly space between his collar and neck. “I can’t say, Your Highness.”
Melissande’s eyes narrowed. “And does that mean you can’t say? Or you can’t say?”
Helpless, Glanzig sought the nearest masculine support. “I don’t think the Lanruvians are the kind of gentlemen who give interviews to a newspaper, Your Highness. Not even when it’s wearing a tiara. But I shall be sure to convey your interest to Secretary Gertz as soon as he’s free.”
“Right then,” said Melissande, once they were outside on the barge’s middle deck walkway. “Ludwig it is. Although really, y’know, I think you should speak to him and Ratafia together. Two birds with one stone. Because as farfetched as it might sound, there’s always the chance they’re in cahoots.”
Yes. There was. The dire truth was that until further notice, everyone on the barge was still a suspect. Though surely some had to be more suspicious than others.
The elusive bloody Lanruvians, for a start.
Above them, from the promenade deck, they heard Bibbie’s unmistakable laugh, the girlish trill she used when she was plying her formidable feminine wiles.
“Come on, Algernon,” said Melissande. “You can’t complain. She’s only doing as she was told.” A snort. “For once.”
He lifted a hand. “I know, I know. Only-”
The sickness came in a thick wave, a roiling churn of nausea riding a dark thaumaturgical cloud. He felt the writing case slip from his numb fingers, heard it crash onto the deck, heard Melissande say something loudly, alarmed. His restored vision was flashing around the edges, drilling an augur of pain through his skull.
Then Bibbie cried out, a dreadful sound of fear and pain.
“Algernon, what is it? What’s wrong?”
As deep male voices babbled consternation, and hurried footsteps thudded on the barge’s various levels and stretches of deck and on its wrought-iron spiral staircases, Gerald fumbled himself free of Melissande’s alarmed grasp.
“Thaumaturgics,” he muttered. “The bad kind. Our villain’s close. Stay here.”
Before she could start arguing, he blundered away. The unreliable, rippled ether surrounded him like sludge, thick and oily and unreadable. More running feet. Slamming doors at the far end of the middle deck, where the important guest cabins were located. Slamming doors and raised voices below him, on the barge’s lowest deck. His matchbox-sized minion cabin was down there. So was Bibbie’s. Another poisonous ripple through the ether. Stumbling, he fell against a stretch of hand railing. Felt his knees buckle, and had to hold on to stay upright. This was ridiculous. He was a rogue wizard. Better. What the devil was wrong with him?
Fresh shouting below him, strident with alarm. Bleary eyed, smeary eyed, he struggled towards the nearest staircase. He could feel his grimly enhanced potentia writhing in his blood and thought, muzzily, that he knew what was happening. The rotten thaumaturgics were somehow warping Splotze’s unreliable ether, and his potentia was warping with it. He might as well try to run through cold glue. Bile rose in his throat. He wanted desperately to be sick.
Another familiar feminine cry, not pain this time but outraged surprise. Bibbie. She was beneath him now, she’d managed to find her way down to the lowest deck. Was that the source of the filthy thaumaturgics? He thought so, but with his senses so whirligig he was finding it hard to tell. Wait, Bibbie. I’m coming. Don’t do anything -
Loud protests. Someone bellowed.
“Good God, no! Look out!”
A startled scream… and then a splash.
“Gel overboard!” the someone shouted. “Gel overboard! Help! Quick! Miss Slack’s gone in the drink!”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Good evening, Mister Markham. Or should I say good morning?”
The cool, acidic voice, coming as it did out of the inky shadows pooled around the rear courtyard of his Chatterly Crescent town house, nearly stopped Monk’s heart.
“ What?” Shying, he tripped over an uneven edge of courtyard paving then had to windmill his arms to keep his balance. “Who the devil-Sir Alec? Is that you?”
A muffled rustle of clothing. A sharp, scraping snick as a match was struck, flaring brief flame. The nose- tickling aroma of burning tobacco. Sir Alec stepped into the back door’s lamplight, a thin cigarette neatly balanced between his fingers.
“Where’s the bird?”
Wary, Monk held his ground. Shoved his hands in his pockets. Fabulous, Reg. The one time I could use you sticking your beak in unasked… “Off stretching her wings. Sir Alec, it’s the middle of the night. What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you,” said Uncle Ralph’s infuriating friend. “Let’s go inside, shall we?”
He nearly said, Do we have to? but managed to swallow the words just in time. The honed edge to Sir Alec’s voice suggested sarcasm wouldn’t be wise.
Resigned, he headed for the back door. “Of course, sir. Follow me.”
A whispered word and a quadruple finger-tap neutralised his security ward. He led Sir Alec into the kitchen, abandoned him beside the pantry, filled the kettle and put it on the hob. Then he hauled his emergency brandy bottle out of the cupboard, set it without comment on the table, and fuddled about extracting the tin of ground coffee, the milk, the sugar, two mugs and two teaspoons from their various hiding places. Only then did he stop and properly look at his inconvenient, uninvited guest.
Sir Alec looked bloody awful.
“Have you an ashtray?” he asked, oddly polite, and vaguely waved his half-consumed cigarette. “Or should I use the sink?”
“Blimey, not the sink,” Monk said quickly. “If Melissande catches you, she’ll-” His over-running tongue stumbled to a halt. “Yeah. Fine. Use the sink.”
Sir Alec crossed the kitchen in the overly-careful fashion of a man who’d drunk too much… or slept too little. A sizzle, and a last pungent whiff of burning tobacco.
