How could he go on, if something happened to Bibbie?
I don’t know how much longer I can keep on being Algernon. I’m treading so cautiously that I’m playing right into the enemy’s hands. If I don’t learn something definite in the next day then to hell with being circumspect. I’ll start shaking branches to see who falls out of the thaumaturgical tree.
And too bloody bad if Sir Alec didn’t like it.
After the fireworks and food came the dancing. For a little while Gerald amused himself watching Melissande adroitly avoiding the worst of Hartwig’s over-enthusiasms. Then, though it seemed nigh impossible that either of the Borovnik lady’s maids were involved in the wedding plot, he partnered each woman in a revelly so he could be certain of their innocence. Within a few minutes he learned they were neither plotters nor dancers.
Smiling bravely, he hobbled on bruised feet back to his bench, took refuge in a fresh tankard of cider and, under cover of the laughing and music and general frivolity, risked lowering his shield completely to hunt for untoward thaumaturgics.
And felt nothing, again, save the tortured writhings of Splotze’s distorted etheretics.
Bloody bloody buggering hell.
So that was that. He had no choice. No more walking on egg-shells. Time to start throwing a few thaumaturgical punches, starting with those damned Lanruvians, who’d already left the party and returned to the barge.
Because nobody is that elusive and innocent. Nobody is so secretive about bloody cherries. Somehow, I swear, I’ll see them stripped of their disguise.
But he had to be careful not to fixate on the Lanruvians. Because despite the fact he knew they were rotten, it turned out they’d not been anywhere near Bibbie when she fell-or was pushed-into the Canal. He had to remember there were other suspects. Dear lord, a lot of other suspects. In fact he was starting to wonder if he’d ever sort through them in time. He was even starting to wonder if Sir Alec hadn’t made a mistake.
I know he wants to keep our presence here secret, but if I can’t unmask the villain before we get back to Grande Splotze, that might not be possible. I mean, we can’t let people die just so Hartwig never finds out we put a spy in his palace.
Could they?
A shadow fell across him, and he looked up. Bibbie, showing no outward sign of harm from her plunge into the Canal. Bright eyed and rose-petal cheeked, she gave him a dimpled smile.
“Aren’t you going to ask me to dance, Mister Rowbotham?”
He put down his tankard. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want to, Miss Slack.”
Her dimples vanished. “Don’t be silly.”
She’d as good as said she didn’t trust him. Was afraid of him. How was he meant to feel about that?
“Algernon…” Bibbie held out her hand. “Dance with me.”
He needed her to trust him. He needed her not afraid. His life would be dust and ashes if she feared him. He took her slender hand in his, and they danced.
The next day got off to an unfortunate start.
“I swear,” Melissande muttered through gritted teeth, “that before this wedding tour is over, Algernon, you’re going to be arresting me for murder and international sabotage.”
If they’d been safely alone, Gerald would have given her a kiss on the cheek for comfort. But since they were seated with Bibbie in an open horse-drawn touring carriage, third from the front in a long line of elaborately old- fashioned equipages that were supposed to have left the royal barge behind on the Canal nearly two hours ago, he could only offer her a brief, understanding smile.
“I’m sure we’ll be on our way soon, Your Highness,” he said, politely diplomatic.
“And y’know, things could always be worse,” Bibbie added, her brilliant eyes wickedly amused. “I mean, Dowager Queen Erminium could be your mother.”
Seated opposite the girls, facing backwards, Gerald narrowed his eyes. Clearly, in Bibbie’s world, polite diplomacy was committed by other people. What a good thing their coachman was standing at the fractious horses’ heads… and that everyone else was too busy with their own complaining to overhear her remark.
Drifting on the late morning breeze, the sound of Queen Erminium’s querulous dissatisfaction as she questioned every twist and turn of the day’s proposed itinerary. Hartwig and Ludwig, decanted from their respective carriages, fruitlessly tried to satisfy her endless demands.
“For pity’s sake,” said Melissande. “It’s bad enough we had to wait for poor Brunelda to be carted back onto the barge with another attack of gout. Bloody Erminium’s had months to approve this tour. I wonder how much Borovnik had to pay Ludwig to propose to Ratafia, knowing it was a marry-the-princess-and-get-a-dowager-queen- for-free deal!”
Gerald winced. Apparently Bibbie’s rampant allergy to the diplomatic niceties was contagious.
All along the line of carriages stretching behind theirs, the horses stamped their feet and tossed their heads, tails swishing. Every so often he saw somebody lean over the side of his or her carriage, eyes shaded by one hand, and stare towards the front of the line where there was absolutely no movement.
“Oh dear,” said Melissande, as the Dowager Queen’s strident voice shifted up another octave. “I wonder if I shouldn’t-”
Gerald half-raised a warning finger. “Actually, Your Highness, it looks as though the Marquis of Harenstein is coming to the rescue.”
“Well, thank goodness someone is, because-”
Hearing the marquis’s heels thudding on the Canal towpath’s tangled grass, Melissande hushed. A moment later Norbert of Harenstein reached them, his impressive bulk swathed in primrose-yellow velvet and silk.
“Marigold,” he grunted, nodding at Melissande as he slowed almost to a halt. “Don’t despair. I’ll soon have this unfortunate fiddle-faddle smoothed over.”
Melissande favoured the marquis with an uncharacteristic simper. “Really, Norbert? Oh, it would be marvellous if you could. Harenstein to the rescue again!”
The marquis pressed a pudgy hand to his heart. “Fret not, Your Highness. Our wedding tour is as good as underway.”
“Marigold?” said Bibbie, once the marquis was safely out of earshot. “Don’t tell me I’ve been mispronouncing your name all this time.”
“He’s just got a little trouble with his memory,” said Melissande, sighing. “The poor man.”
“So he’s a poor man now? And you’re calling him Norbert? Melissande, is there some news you’d care to share?”
Melissande frowned. “Don’t be vulgar. I’ve changed my opinion about him, that’s all.”
“Since when?”
“Since he very kindly rescued me from Hartwig last night,” said Melissande. “Twice. And if you hadn’t been so busy flirting with all and sundry you’d know that, Miss Slack.”
Unrepentant, Bibbie grinned. “Slack by name but not by nature. Besides, Your Highness, I was only following orders. And very successfully, I might add. Give me another day or two and I’ll have completed my conquest of every male in the wedding party.”
“So nine men-including a prince-diving into the Canal on your behalf wasn’t enough?”
“Your Highness, nine men was but the beginning!”
Gerald blinked. Saint Snodgrass defend us. I’ve created a monster. “Your help is appreciated, Gladys, but for all our sakes, please don’t get carried away. Your Highness, I don’t suppose Norbert said anything useful while he was rescuing you?”
“Unfortunately not,” said Melissande. “Every time I asked him about his involvement in the wedding he launched into another story about his childhood. I did try to divert him, but once he gets going, well, stopping him is a bit like stopping Hartwig’s barge.”
“Never mind,” he said. “Maybe you’ll have better luck next time.”
“Maybe we both will,” said Bibbie, wrinkling her nose. “Because I’m afraid Norbert’s minions weren’t any more helpful than their master. Horribly rude, the pair of them. I tried to thank Grune Volker for diving into the Canal on my behalf and he had the nerve to lecture me about unladylike romping! And his friend, Dermit? All he can do is grunt.”
“Really?” Melissande fought not to smile. “So not every male in the wedding party can be counted your
