Bibbie cleared her throat, inquiringly. “Are you all right, Mister Rowthbotham? You look like someone’s jabbed you with a very large pin.”
It could still be the Lanruvians, of course, attempting to hide their tracks by using another wizard’s incants and hexes. He felt sure there was more to their presence in Splotze than cherries.
But as various people keep on telling me, feelings aren’t facts. I might be wrong.
“Algernon!” Bibbie said sharply. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” he said, blinking himself free of furious thought. “Where are we?”
“In Splotze,” Bibbie said sweetly, a glint in her eyes.
Melissande poked Bibbie in the ribs with her elbow, then pointed. “I’m no expert on landscapes, but I think we’re coming up on Putzi Gorge. I mean, look around us. The countryside’s looking awfully gorge-like, if you ask me.”
They were travelling through more spindly woodland, flanked left and right by large patches of dry ground scattered with leaf litter and rocks. Leaning over the side of the carriage and twisting round, through the thin scattering of trees Gerald saw the road ahead start to wind and dip.
“You’re right,” he said, and felt his heart thump. Is it now? Is this it? Was I wrong about the fireworks after all? Does our villain intend the Splotze-Borovnik dream to die here? “That’s a gorge.”
“I wonder how deep it goes… and how long it’ll take us to reach the other side,” said Melissande.
She sounded like someone who was nervous and trying hard to be brave. He pulled back inside the carriage.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know. Your Highness, d’you mind if Miss Slack and I swap places? I’m afraid travelling backwards down a gorge will play havoc with my insides.”
“And what about my insides?” said Bibbie, prepared to be indignant. And then, bless her, she realised that he needed to be able to see what lay ahead. “Never mind. By all means, Mister Rowbotham, let’s swap.”
So they changed seats, and he settled himself next to Melissande. Risked taking her hand in his, and giving it a quick squeeze.
Bibbie bent forward, her gaze intent. “I don’t feel anything beyond Splotze’s loopy etheretics. Do you?”
Lowering his voice to match hers, a near whisper, he shook his head. “No.” At least not yet. “Gladys-”
“I’ve been thinking too,” she said. “Perhaps even if our mystery villain does try something, it won’t work. The etheretics here are ridiculous. I don’t see how-”
False hope was dangerous. “You felt what I felt on the barge, Gladys. The power of those thaumaturgics. Our villain must’ve been planning this for months. D’you really think he’s going to let some ridiculous etheretics get in his way?”
She wanted to argue, but she was Emmerabiblia Markham. She didn’t fear to stare a hard truth in the face. “No.”
Melissande’s fingers laced in her lap. “Are you saying you can’t stop him?”
“Of course not,” he said. “I’m saying he’s good. But don’t worry. I’m better.”
And for the love of Saint Snodgrass, don’t let that be a lie.
Ludwig and Ratafia’s carriage led the wedding tour party down into the forested gorge. They lost the sunlight quickly, the cloudless blue sky soon criss-crossed by a latticework of branches. The air grew cool and damp. Water trickled over the mossy rocks that edged the inner side of the fern-fringed and downwards-winding road, and shadows pooled beneath the gnarled and overhanging trees.
Only the horses’ hooves, the carriage wheels, the trickling water and the belling of hidden birds broke the deep silence.
Gerald felt his potentia stir, its grimoire magic roused by the ether’s twists and folds and pockets of darkness. Cantankerous was a kind word, compared with what he sensed here. But was there villainy, too? He couldn’t sense it. Could Bibbie? Like him she was seeking trouble, and even with his dimming hex in place her potentia glowed before his mind’s eye, bright amid the gorge’s gloom.
“Careful, Gladys,” he murmured. “You don’t want the wrong people knowing what you are.”
Dreamily she nodded, and a moment later her brightness faded a little.
The road unwound steadily, lowering them further and further from the sky. Here and there the trickling water turned into tiny falls, droplets splashing and spinning, making the lush green fernery dance.
“Well,” said Melissande, hands still folded tightly in her lap. “So far, so good.”
In front of them, one of the horses drawing Hartwig’s carriage spooked at a bird clattering out of a tree, in turn spooking its three companions. All four horses leapt forward in fright, crowding into the back of Ludwig and Ratafia’s carriage. Its team of four shied sideways, dangerously close to the road’s edge. Ratafia and Ludwig cried out. Small rocks tumbled, waking echoes all the way to the bottom of the gorge.
Melissande squeaked as their own carriage lurched, its horses quick to believe there was danger. “Algernon!”
Bloody horses. Bloody hell. Any moment now, any moment, the rest of the wedding tour’s carriage teams would start to panic… and there wasn’t any way for him to calm them with thaumaturgics.
“Hold tight, Your Highness,” he said. “Gladys?”
Bibbie’s face was pale, her hexed brown eyes narrowed in concentration as their carriage bounced alarmingly. “Nothing,” she muttered. “No incants. What about you?”
Did he dare drop his shield entirely? Could the writhing etheretics hide him, or would his true nature be revealed? And there was Bibbie, so close to him, lord, close enough to touch. What would she feel? Nothing? Or would she feel everything and turn away from him in fear?
Coward.
In a short, sharp burst he reached out with his full potentia, swift and searing like a lightning strike. Splotze’s ether convulsed. He heard Bibbie’s shocked gasp, feeling him untrammelled, then felt her take the same risk. Inspiration struck. He reached out again, letting her potentia blur his own. Bibbie gasped again, startled, and then she followed his lead. Used her potentia to hide his completely, leaving him free.
Desperate, he searched the ether. Clutched at the side of the carriage as it lurched again. The coachman was cursing in ripely inventive Splotzin, and he could hear other voices raised in alarm. Was this sudden upset the villainy he’d dreaded? And if it was, could they find the culprit and stop him in time?
Come out, come out, wherever you are.
But like Bibbie, he found nothing. The only grimoire magic in Putzi Gorge was his own. He opened his eyes.
“Nothing.”
Bibbie was staring, her eyes crowded with difficult questions.
He shook his head. “Not now, Gladys.”
“Not now what?” said Melissande, alarmed. She was clutching the side of the carriage, too. “Mister Rowbotham-”
“Everything’s fine, Your Highness,” he said, squeezing her hand again. “No need to worry. Look, Prince Ludwig’s coachman has his horses under control.”
And so did their own coachman, praise Saint Snodgrass, and the burly man in charge of Hartwig’s carriage team. Above the calmed thudding of hoofbeats they heard relieved laughter from Ludwig and Ratafia, booming praise to his coachman from Crown Prince Hartwig… and a rising tide of complaint from Borovnik’s Dowager Queen.
Melissande sighed. “Oh dear. She just can’t help herself, can she?” Then she leaned a little closer. “You’re quite sure we’re safe, Algernon?”
“As sure as I can be,” he replied softly. “As hard as I looked, there were no rotten thaumaturgics. I really do think we’re fine.”
“But from now on,” Bibbie added, scowling, “nobody is allowed to say so far, so good. Right?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Not quite an hour later, the wedding party emerged unscathed from the shadowed cool of Putzi Gorge into
