conquest.”
Bibbie squinted at her, unimpressed. “I feel bound to point out, Your Highness, that gloating is a most unattractive-”
“Excellent! Then I think we can be on our way at last!”
Crown Prince Hartwig’s shout reached almost to the last carriage. Wilting wedding tour guests immediately perked up. The horses perked up too, responding to the stir.
Giving up her promising squabble with Melissande, Bibbie slumped in her seat. “Saint Snodgrass be praised. Although why your Norbert waited so long to take charge is beyond me.”
“Good manners?” Melissande suggested. “You must have heard of them. And he’s not my Norbert.”
On his way back to his own carriage, Harenstein’s marquis slowed and favoured Melissande with a broad wink. “All settled now, Madrigal.”
“Yes, and I’m ever so grateful, Norbert,” she said. “However did you manage it?”
Flattered, he stopped. “Dear Ermingard,” he murmured. “She’s getting quite emotional at the prospect of handing her only daughter over to Splotze. Though it’s to be expected, I suppose. A mother’s love.”
“Heartbreaking, I’m sure. But can we leave now?”
“Yes, yes,” said Norbert of Harenstein. “Although sadly, since we’ve lost so much time, we’ll have to forgo the pleasures of this region’s best scenery, and instead play catch up travelling by way of Putzi Gorge.”
“Oh?” said Melissande. “You mean we shan’t be visiting Tirinz? Princess Ratafia will be so disappointed.”
“Can’t be helped, I’m afraid,” said the marquis. “What with gels falling willynilly off perfectly safe barges and so forth.”
Melissande cleared her throat. “Yes. Well. These things happen, Norbert. Ah-did you say Putzi Gorge? That sounds rather alarming.”
“Alarming?” The marquis laughed indulgently. “Not at all, Marybelle. If I’ve traversed the gorge once I’ve traversed it a hundred times. It’s a bit dramatic, of course, but safe as Central Ott’s High Street, I promise.”
“Well, Norbert, if you say so.”
“And the good news is,” the marquis added, oblivious to the fact that now he was the one holding up the proceedings, with the Dowager Queen and Crown Prince Hartwig and Prince Ludwig returned to their respective carriages, “that even though we’re being denied Tirinz, and must settle for second-best scenery, we’ll still be spending the night at Lake Yablitz. And that means crossing its famous Hanging Bridge. So cheer up, Matilda! All is not lost.”
“Hmm,” said Bibbie, once Norbert of Harenstein was safely out of earshot. “Putzi Gorge. Is it me, or does that sound like a suspiciously convenient place for an accident?”
“What?” said Melissande, her eyes widening. “You think our mystery villain might try something in the gorge?”
“I think I didn’t lose us that much time yesterday, falling into the Canal,” Bibbie said darkly. “And we made most of it up last night. But now, thanks to Erminium…”
“You think Erminium would-”
“Erminium, or someone taking advantage of her ghastly tantrums.”
“What d’you think, Algernon?” said Melissande. “Are you worried something awful could happen in Putzi Gorge?”
Gerald felt his muscles tighten. What he wouldn’t give to say no. But they’d know if he lied, and they’d never forgive him. “Anything’s possible, Melissande. But don’t worry. I’ll be watching.”
“No, we’ll be watching,” said Bibbie, and patted Melissande’s knee. “It’s all right, Your Highness. Algernon and I won’t let anything happen.”
Ah, yes. That was his Bibbie. Fearless and beautiful. An unstoppable force of nature.
And then there was no time for more discussion, because their coachman climbed back onto his seat. What a mercy the carriage design had him perched right out the front, a good distance from his passengers. So long as they kept their voices low they’d be able to speak freely. Whips cracked, hooves stamped, and the cavalcade of carriages finally took to the road.
CHAPTER TWENTY
If there was anything worse than waiting and waiting for something terrible to happen on the road to Lake Yablitz, not knowing when or where or how disaster would strike, Melisssande didn’t want to experience it. Stomach twisted into knots, she sat with Bibbie and Gerald in Hartwig’s beautifully sprung touring carriage and tried to enjoy the sunshine and fresh air, but it was a dismal struggle. Her nervous tension made it almost impossible to enjoy Splotze’s second-best scenery, which was full of flower-dotted meadows and cherry orchards and milch cows and brown goats with tinkly silver bells around their necks. There also seemed to be rather a lot of rabbits, which insisted on making suicidal leaps in front of the oncoming carriages.
Whenever she felt their own wheels bump, she closed her eyes, crossed her fingers and made sure not to look behind them.
Gerald had sunk himself into some kind of inconspicuous thaumaturgical trance, doing his utmost to stay two steps ahead of trouble. As the carriage bowled along Hartwig’s immaculately maintained road, the horses’ hooves swift trotting clip-clop reliable as a metronome, she gazed into his disconcerting Algernon Rowbotham face and marvelled.
I don’t know how he does it. Not just the thaumaturgics. I don’t know how he can bear to have so many lives depending on him. On what he does. On who he is. It really is mad, this life.
She’d had a taste of it herself, in New Ottosland, and the weight of responsibility had nearly broken her spirit. But Gerald seemed to be managing.
I hope Bibbie’s wrong, about him changing again. He’s had enough changes to be going on with. He needs to stand still for a while, settle back inside his skin. And anyway, what does that mean, changing again? I wish she’d tell me. I know she knows more than she’s saying. How could she not? She’s Emmerabiblia Markham. But I wonder if she realises that she’s treating me like a gel?
Beside her, Bibbie stirred. “At least we’re making good time,” she remarked, stifling a little yawn with her gloved hand. “Provided nobody loses a carriage wheel, and none of the horses breaks a leg, we should still be able to enjoy this evening’s reception at Lake Yablitz.”
Melissande looked at her. “I don’t suppose it ever occurs to you to think happy thoughts?”
“Your Highness…” Bibbie shrugged. “Those are my happy thoughts.”
Her stomach knotted tighter. “Oh.”
Somewhere ahead of them was the Putzi Gorge. She tried not to think of sudden stops and long, screaming plunges. If the wedding’s masked villain really was one of them, travelling in front or behind as part of their merry cavalcade, surely he-or she-wouldn’t be so reckless as to endanger his or her own life?
Unless, of course, this is a cause worth dying for.
No, no. Happy thoughts, Melissande. Happy thoughts.
Lolling now against her side of the carriage, apparently heedless of creasing her green-striped muslin dress, Bibbie stifled another yawn then waved vaguely at the passing countryside. “Oh, look. Another bunny. I’m not sure I can stand the excitement.”
Melissande nudged her sharply. Their coachman was yet to utter a word, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t listening like a bat.
“Thank you, Miss Slack. That will be quite enough from you. I’m sure Splotze’s rabbits are the most picturesque in the world.”
“They’d be picturesque in a red wine gravy,” said Bibbie. “I’ll grant you that much.”
“I think,” said Gerald, surprising them both, “that what Miss Slack means is that she’s feeling peckish.”
“Mister Rowbotham!” Bibbie stopped lolling. “Everything all right, is it? You’re enjoying the fresh air? And the scenery? Marvellous bunnies they have here, don’t you think?”
There were shadows of strain beneath Gerald’s Algernon Rowbotham eyes. “Everything’s fine, Miss Slack,”
