warm afternoon sunlight.
As Gerald and Bibbie changed seats again, she raised her eyebrows at him. Whatever qualms she was feeling, given what she knew of him after their little thaumaturgical adventure, she was keeping them well hidden.
“First the fireworks and now this,” she said lightly. “I wonder, Mister Rowbotham, if you’ve ever heard the story of the janitor who cried wolf?”
“And I wonder, Miss Slack,” said Melissande, “if the old saying better safe than sorry rings any bells for you?”
He gave them both a warning look. “Perhaps we should enjoy the scenery. Quietly.”
“Good idea!” said Bibbie. “And the first one to spot a rabbit wins a seat beside Dowager Queen Erminium at dinner.”
Really? Sitting back, Gerald folded his arms.
I wonder if it wouldn’t have been smarter of me to fall in love with Melissande, instead.
The carriages bowled on without further incident. Several more miles closer to Lake Yablitz, as they passed through countryside featuring trees and hedgerows but thankfully no rabbits, Crown Prince Hartwig called another halt so the horses could be watered again, and his guests could stretch their legs and so forth.
With nature remaining silent this time, Gerald and the girls contented themselves with alighting from their carriage and unkinking their various kinked bits.
“No, Gladys,” said Melissande, as Bibbie looked longingly along the verge at Norbert of Harenstein’s men, who stood apart in deep conversation. “I think, in this case, the time has come to accept defeat. Hard as it must be to admit, Bern Dermit and Grune Volker are apparently immune to your charms.”
Bibbie heaved a sigh. “Well, I suppose there must be a first time for everything. Although now I really am sorry Volker didn’t catch pneumonia when he went over the barge’s railing with me into the Canal.”
“When he what?” Gerald stared. “Went over with you? But he dived in after you. Didn’t he?”
Bibbie was frowning at the two men, clearly rankled by her failed conquest. “With me, after me, does it really matter which?”
“I don’t know,” he said, and resisted the urge to shake her. “Maybe. Do you actually remember him going in with you or is it just a figure of speech?”
“Oh,” said Bibbie, abruptly seeing his point. “You mean did Dermit lie? Well-I’m not sure. It’s all still a blank, what happened. Only for some reason, just then, I thought… I felt…”
“You felt what?” he persisted. “Come on, Gladys. Think.”
She swatted at him. “I am thinking. Don’t bully me.”
“You’re not suggesting Volker was trying to harm Gladys, are you?” said Melissande, disbelieving. “On purpose? But Algernon, why would he? He’s from Harenstein.”
Biting his lip, Gerald stared at Grune Volker. Yes, he was. And at first glance nothing could be more ridiculous than the notion that Harenstein was behind the plot against the wedding.
But nothing is impossible. And someone here is guilty.
With another gusty sigh, Bibbie pressed fingertips to her temples and turned away. “No. I’m sorry. Whatever I thought I felt, or remembered, it’s gone.”
He smothered disappointment. “Never mind. Melissande’s probably right. The notion of Harenstein as the villain is rather far-fetched.”
But as soon as he could punch through Splotze’s ether to Sir Alec, he was going to ask his superior to take a very close look at bluff, bumptious Norbert and his men.
And then Princess Ratafia joined them, resplendent in turquoise silk and glowing like the happiest bride-to-be in the world. Playing the part of well-trained secretary, Gerald retreated a few paces, taking Bibbie with him. She didn’t pull away from him. He had to think that was good.
“Putzi Gorge was exciting, Melissande, wasn’t it!” Ratafia exclaimed. “Especially when the horses decided to be silly. Were you frightened? I was. But then Luddie put his arms around me and I knew we’d be safe.”
“The gorge certainly had its moments, yes,” Melissande agreed. “But does it make up for missing the cheering townsfolk in Tirinz?”
The princess giggled. “Oh, I’m not bothered about missing Tirinz. I don’t care where I am, so long as I’m with Ludwig. Anyway, Hartwig says we need to get on. So I’ll see you again at Lake Yablitz!”
“Don’t suppose anyone’s got a lemon handy, have they?” said Bibbie, as Ratafia of Borovnik danced away. “Only that much sugar makes me feel ill.”
“Since when?” said Melissande, snorting. “I’m not the one who ate four office sticky buns in one sitting.”
I miss Reg, Gerald thought, as he ushered the bickering girls back into the carriage. Where’s Reg when I need her? If I poke them in their unmentionables I’ll end up behind bars.
More miles through second-best scenery, still no rabbits. Hedgerowed fields gave way to open moorland. More miles and the countryside grew hilly, the road undulating, in places quite steep.
Remembering his Department briefing notes, and the photographs included with them, Gerald looked at the girls. “I think we’re quite close, now.”
“Good,” said Bibbie. “Because my posterior’s positively snoring.”
“That’s not very delicate, Gladys,” said Melissande.
Bibbie grimaced. “You think of something, anything, delicate about a numb bum, Your Highness, and I’ll sit next to Erminium at dinner.”
Ignoring that, Melissande clasped her hands in her lap. “And everything’s still all right, is it, Mister Rowbotham?”
“I think so,” he said, after a moment. “My bum’s not numb, anyway.”
That made her smile, which was what he’d wanted. Poor Melissande. She wasn’t having much fun on this mission. In her own way she was as brave and bold as Bibbie, but she really wasn’t cut out for the janitoring life.
They lapsed back into silence. Another few miles rolled by. He risked lowering his shield, yet again, to test the surrounding etheretics. Nothing different. No alarm bells. Only the same busy, tizzied twistings.
Four years in this place? I don’t know how Bestwick didn’t go mad. It must’ve been like sleeping under sandpaper sheets, all this rubbing against his potentia.
Then again, Bestwick did succumb to the charms of kitchen-maid Mitzie, knowing full well what Sir Alec would say. So perhaps he had gone mad.
The carriages followed the road round a wide, sweeping bend. Bibbie sat up and pointed. “Oy. Out there. Am I seeing things, or does that look like a bridge?”
As Melissande shaded her eyes and squinted, Gerald shifted round on his seat. Leaning sideways again, so he could see past the coachman and horses and the two carriages in front of them, he squinted too until the hazy suggestion of bridginess resolved into solidity: Splotze’s famous Hanging Bridge of Yablitz. His parents had sent him a post-card, and covered the back with exclamation marks.
Constructed of ornately carved wood, the bridge stood high and deceptively fragile above a narrow silver ribbon of river, which doubled back on itself in a long lazy loop to pour into distant Lake Yablitz. The horizon-sliding sun gilded the wide, still water and burnished the roofs of picturesque Lake Yablitz township.
As the road began to drop away before them, leading down to the bridge, the carriage horses slowed from a trot to a walk. The road’s left-hand side was open, while up ahead its right-hand side was crowded by a high and wide rock-strewn slope of hill. Spindly saplings struggled for life between the stones.
“Algernon…”
Gerald pulled himself back into the carriage, nerves scraped by the warning note in Bibbie’s voice. “Gladys?”
“What’s wrong?” said Melissande. “Is something wrong?”
Brows pinched in a frown, Bibbie was staring at the top of the hill, where rocks were carelessly scattered like a giant’s abandoned game of knucklebones.
“I don’t know,” she murmured. “Algernon?”
His rear end might not be numb, but his potentia was feeling muffled. The grimoire parts of it, especially, resented Splotze’s tortured ether. He followed Bibbie’s troubled gaze to the hilltop, and risked a thaumaturgial look. Felt his own face collapse in a frown.
