think.”
And the same as the deadly incants at Abel Bestwick’s lodging, the blood magic hex too, but he didn’t want to say that. Not until he’d had a chance to talk to Sir Alec. Call him old-fashioned, accuse him of treating them like gels, he didn’t care. Bibbie and Melissande had been frightened enough for one day.
Instead of answering, he helped Bibbie to her feet.
“Well, even if they’re not the same,” said Melissande, “we can be sure of one more thing.” She nodded at Hartwig and Ludwig and the rest, still embracing and exclaiming and consoling each other. Norbert of Harenstein had joined them, and Ratafia was clutched to his breast in an extravagance of tearful relief. “Whoever’s behind this, they can’t be here. We were all of us nearly killed. So the culprit must be elsewhere. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” said Bibbie. “Algernon?”
Gerald hesitated. He wanted to say yes, if only to calm their fears, but there were too many blank spaces. The Lanruvians. He still found it hard to fathom that they’d tried to help avert the bloodshed. And there remained that question mark raised over Norberts’ minions…
The thought turned him towards Harenstein’s carriage. Volker and Dermit stood in the road beside it, their faces pale with shock.
“Algernon?” Bibbie prompted again.
He looked at her. “It does seem unlikely.”
“Unlikely?” Melissande snorted. “That’ll do. So if you’ll excuse me? I’m putting a stop to this.”
What? “Wait-Melissande-”
“No, Gerald,” she said sharply. “It’s over. Yes, I know, you saved us all. This time. But what about next time? Now both of you, stay here.”
And before he could restrain her, she’d leapt down from their carriage and was marching towards the shattered bridge, and Hartwig.
“Melissande, my dear!” cried Hartwig, his voice shaking. His face was chalky pale, his eyes wet. “My dear, are you unharmed?”
He was a grabby old goat but she hugged him anyway. “Yes, Twiggy, I’m fine. You?”
“Yes, yes,” he said, blustering. Defying her to notice that he’d just been scared out of his wits. “Of course. I’m the Crown Prince of Splotze, m’dear. Takes more than a few stray pebbles to unseat me!”
Neatly extricating herself from his fervent clasp, to her surprise she found herself being clutched by Norbert of Harenstein.
“It was a close thing, Millicent,” he declared fervently. “A damned close thing!”
Good lord, the marquis was shaking. She patted his back. “But we’re all safe, Norbert, and that’s what counts.” After a second strategical extrication, she looked to Borovnik’s Dowager Queen. “Your Majesty?”
A splinter of carriage-wood or boulder had struck Erminium’s right cheek. A swollen bruise was forming, and there was blood on her parchment skin and dust all over her tawny silk dress. But her head was high and her spine was straight and there was as much anger as fear in her eyes.
“Disgraceful,” she declared. “Disgraceful. Hartwig, this is no way to treat your guests! Have you never heard of hillside maintenance?”
Happy to be ignored, leaving Hartwig to defend his honour, Melissande joined Ratafia and Ludwig, who looked as though they wanted nothing more than to remain in each other’s consoling arms forever.
“You must’ve been so frightened, both of you,” she said, and took one of Ratafia’s cold little hands in hers. “But you’re not hurt, praise Saint Snodgrass. And just think of the story you’ll have to tell your children!”
Though she was tear-stained, Ratafia smiled. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
“Of course she is,” said Ludwig, and kissed Ratafia’s dusty cheek. “I shall put them to bed each night with tales of their sweet mother’s courage.”
“Oh, Luddie… ”
Tactfully turning aside from the fresh billing and cooing, which surely they’d earned, Melissande saw that all the wedding tour guests had clambered out of their carriages and were picking their way along the road to join them. Even the Lanruvians were approaching, their disconcerting detachment unshaken. Spying Gerald and Bibbie, inching closer, she started to shake her head, warning them off, but an indignant cry from Erminium distracted her.
“No, Hartwig, I demand that you make arrangements for us to go back to Grande Splotze tonight!”
“Oh, Mama, that’s not necessary,” Ratafia protested. “This was an unfortunate mishap, that’s all. Please, don’t make us go back!”
“There, you see?” said Hartwig. “Such a brave gel, she’ll make Splotze a wonderful Crown Princess! Now Erminium, I know we’ve had a fright but we can’t let this little mishap spoil the rest of the wedding tour. All those people, waiting to see Ludwig and Ratafia. Besides, we don’t want to give anyone an excuse to say Borovnik’s easily rattled, do we?”
Erminium’s fear for her daughter had drained the colour from her cheeks. Now it flooded back. “Do not insult me, Hartwig! The courage of Borovnik has never been in doubt!” Elbowing Ludwig aside, she took her daughter by the shoulders. “Ratafia, are you quite sure?”
“I am, Mama,” said Ratafia. “Hartwig’s right. I owe it to the people of Splotze to keep going. And I warn you, I’ll swim the river if I have to and walk the rest of the way on bare feet. The tour must continue.”
Melissande ground her teeth. Bugger. Just when she’d thought she’d get what she wanted without having to lift a finger.
Curse you, Ratafia. Of all the times to be brave and stalwart and princessly.
“Well, I’m sorry, but I won’t!” she announced. “I think it’s madness to go on. I think we should all return to Grande Splotze at once.”
“What’s that?” said Hartwig, staring. “But Melissande, you said you were fine!”
She pressed an artfully shaking hand to her face. “I lied, Twiggy. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be such a ninny but I’m afraid I can’t help it. I’m afraid I’m afraid! Oh, Hartwig. Dear Hartwig. I beg you… I implore you… take us home to Grande Splotze!”
And on a deep breath, she burst into noisy tears and flung herself into Hartwig’s surprised but welcoming arms.
“There, there, Melly,” he said, patting her shoulder. “It’s all right, m’dear. Don’t cry. Of course we’ll go back to the palace, if that’s what you want.”
Oh, lord, she thought, feeling a pang of guilt at the genuine distress in Hartwig’s voice. When Sir Alec finds out I’ve stuck my oar in, he’ll go spare.
Another day, another six hours spent fighting idiots in the Department of Thaumaturgy’s unswept halls of power.
And to think his day was still only half over.
Resisting the urge to bang his head on his desk, Sir Alec initialled the last page of Mawford’s final report on the latest nastiness in West Uphantica. Perhaps now someone other than Ralph would believe him when he said trouble was brewing again.
As he replaced his pen in its holder, someone tapped on the closed office door. “Come,” he said, flipping the file’s folder shut.
Frank took one look at his face and rolled his eyes. “West Uphantica?”
A sigh. “What else?”
“And Gaylord’s being a pillock.”
“He is.”
“You put up with too much shite from that tosser.”
“I do.”
“I’ve got a plan to take care of Ravelard bloody Gaylord,” Frank said, shoving the door closed with his foot. “Want to hear it?”
He kept his lips from twitching, but only just. “No.”
“Fine.” Frank crossed to the desk and held out the steaming mug he’d brought with him. “Then listen to this. And while you’re listening, pour some bloody tea down your throat.”
“I can fetch my own tea.”
“By the looks of you, Ace, you wouldn’t make it to the stairs. Drink.”
