We’ve already foiled one attempt that we’re sure of. There might’ve been more, but-”
Abel Bestwick was shaking his head. “I must be dreaming. Delirious. This can’t be real. Sir Alec would never send women into the field.”
Oh, yes. He was going to be difficult. “We’re not in the field, Abel,” she said, cajoling. “Bibbie and I aren’t janitors. At the most you could call us honorary agents.”
“Honorary agents,” Abel Bestwick murmured. “Right. I wonder if this means I’m dying?”
She could slap some sense into him, but then he might really die and she was in enough trouble already. “Look, Abel, we don’t have time for this. You’ll simply have to trust that we do have experience and we really have come to help. Please, please, won’t you believe me?”
“I must be mad,” Bestwick said. “All right. You’re an honorary agent. Now what?”
Oh, Saint Snodgrass be praised. “Well, for one thing, can you tell me who’s behind the plot? We thought it was the Lanruvians, but-”
“It’s Harenstein,” said Abel Bestwick.
“Oh, no,” she said, stupidly. “That can’t be right. Harenstein? Norbert, you mean? But-Erminium says Norbert’s been an answer to her prayers. He brought Ratafia and Ludwig together in the first place. And he was nearly killed at the bridge. No, no, Abel, you’re wrong. It can’t be Norbert.”
“I don’t know if the marquis is involved,” said Bestwick.
“But two of his men are. I overheard them plotting in the stables. I saw them.”
Mitzie’s tiny room was warm, but Melissande felt herself starting to shiver. “Dermit and Volker? Is that who you mean?”
Bestwick’s face darkened. “Yes. Them. One of the bastards stabbed me. Him with the scar.”
“Is your wound bad?” she said, because that was the proper thing to ask. But she could hardly see Abel Bestwick’s bloodstained bandage for the tears crowding her eyes.
Poor Erminium. Poor Ratafia. And Ludwig. And Twiggy. Poor everyone, when the truth comes out.
“Hey. Miss Cadwallader, or whoever you are,” said Bestwick. “D’you mind? Cry later.”
Blinking hard, she glared at him. “You’re bloody rude!”
“I’m bloody perforated,” he retorted. “I nearly died. If it hadn’t been for Mitzie…” His plain, angry face softened. “Look. Where’s-what’s his name, again? Dunwoody?”
“Yes. Gerald.”
“If he’s a janitor, why isn’t he here?”
“He doesn’t know I’m here,” she said, and slid off the edge of Bestwick’s mattress. “Nobody knows, Abel. Everyone thinks you are dead. As for Gerald, he’s convinced tonight’s fireworks have been sabotaged. If so, he and Bibbie are going to unsabotage them.”
Somehow.
“Why not call them off?” said Bestwick, frowning. “Better yet, postpone the wedding?”
She gave him a look. “I’ll give you three guesses, Mister Bestwick.”
Abel Bestwick sagged. “Right. Politics. I wasn’t thinking.”
Her eyes were dry again. Now she was far too angry to cry. All the lies. All the heartache. Someone’s going to pay. “I have to go, Abel. I have to find Gerald, and tell him what you’ve told me.”
“Tell Sir Alec while you’re at it.”
“I wish I could,” she said. “Only the etheretics aren’t co-operating. No crystal ball, no portal. And even the fastest airship is too slow. We’re on our own, I’m afraid.”
Bestwick grimaced. “Don’t worry. You get used to it.”
He sounded bitter, and she supposed she couldn’t blame him. An undercover janitor’s life looked anything but glamorous.
“You’ve had a bad time of it,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
He grunted. “Thanks. Now you should go, while I-”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Abel!” she said in her best no-nonsense voice, pressing him back to the narrow bed. “You’re staying here.”
“But-”
“But nothing,” she snapped. “You’re in no condition for janitoring, and you know it. Now, I’m warning you, don’t you dare step foot outside this room! There’s no need to worry. I’ll take care of everything. And if the worst happens, and you’re discovered, tell whoever’s found you that you’re under my protection. Her Royal Highness, Princess Melissande of New Ottosland, remember? Tell them Crown Prince Hartwig and I are particular friends.” When Bestwick’s eyes widened she added crossly, “Not that kind of particular, thank you. But I’ve known Twiggy for donkey’s years. Mention both of us and you should be all right. If you’re discovered. But let’s hope you’re not.”
“Yes, let’s,” said Abel Bestwick, giving in, and rolled his tired, pain-filled eyes.
She left Sir Alec’s other janitor locked in Mitzie’s room. Made her way back down the long spiral staircase, through the heavy leather curtain and into the kitchens, caught Mitzie’s eye and dropped the little brass key on the floor, in passing. Then she returned to the Entrance Hall, where she took a moment to catch her breath amid the shining suits of armour.
Saint Snodgrass preserve her. What should she do now? Tell Hartwig? Lord, no. He likely wouldn’t believe her. Or worse, he would, and he’d confront Norbert, and all hell would break loose. No. Her only choice was to find Gerald. She nearly laughed out loud.
Find Gerald? Down at the Canal? When the Canal’s overflowing with tourists? How am I s’posed to do that? Stand on a rubbish bin and wave my arms until he sees me?
Well, yes. If she had to. If that was what it took. What a mercy she’d not changed out of her second-best day dress and comfortable shoes.
Heart racing, once again despicably close to tears, she took a deep breath, then another, and then headed down to the Canal.
Not hand in hand, but nearly, Gerald walked with Bibbie along the noisily festive streets of Grande Splotze, at long last close to reaching the Canal. Splotze’s capital was more crowded than ever, the air fairly humming with excited anticipation for the fireworks, and the wedding, and the dawn of a new day for Splotze and Borovnik.
“Blimey,” said Bibbie, her voice almost lost in the babble and din. “If we walk any slower we’ll be going backwards. I’ve never seen so many different nationalities in the same place at the same time.”
“It’s a sight, isn’t it?” he agreed. “Careful. Mind your step.”
Bibbie neatly avoided tripping into the smelly gutter. Bumped shoulders with a man from Graff, prettily apologised, then laughed.
“Lord, Algernon. What a crush!”
Yes. So many people. Too many. Imagining the panic and chaos if the fireworks went wrong, if he failed to prevent disaster, he shuddered. And then he jumped, as Bibbie took his arm.
“Stop that, Mister Rowbotham. Everything’s going to be fine.”
He looked down at her, and felt his heart leap. Breaking every promise he’d made to Monk, to himself, he’d kissed her. Abandoned cautious pragmatism… and opened the floodgates to love.
And I’m not sorry. In fact, as soon as I can I’m going to kiss her again.
“Algernon?” Bibbie gave his arm a little shake. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said, and smiled, despite the danger. “Hold tight, Miss Slack. I’m done with dawdling. We’re going to pick up the pace.”
Using his potentia to nudge laggardly pedestrians out of their way, he hurried them across the last main thoroughfare and down several winding side streets until they reached the Canal promenade.
“Oh!” said Bibbie, delighted by the clowns and the jugglers and the cheeky dancing monkeys. “What a pity we don’t have time to play.”
He bent his head to her. “Maybe tomorrow. Let’s get past today first.”
“All right,” said Bibbie. “But before we do anything else, can we stop for a drink and something to eat?”
“Are your ribs playing knucklebones again?”
“They’re considering it,” she said. “Please, Algernon? We’ve got time.”
They had a little time, yes. And truth be told, he was hungry too. So they chose a food stall with the shortest queue, and bought cups of fresh cherry juice and fat spiced sausages, their skins split and dribbling juices. Then they cheated their way to a patch of grass on the Canal green and sat in the gradually waning afternoon sunshine to
