“Old Babcock all ship-shape, then?” he asked, his arm going around her, his hand resting, inevitably, on her hip.
“He’s fine,” she said, giving up. He was Hartwig, he was harmless, and he had a lot on his plate. “Twiggy, the fireworks were wonderful.”
“Yes, well,” he said gruffly, and smoothed his moustache. “Only got one brother, haven’t I? Got to do the right thing by him. Even if he is an idiot who dives into canals.”
Carriages were waiting to take the wedding party back to the palace. Riding with Hartwig, the horses trotting through a storm of cheering and tossed confetti, Melissande searched every face in the crowd as it passed. But no Algernon. No Gladys. She wanted to weep.
It didn’t kill them, did it? Saving us? Please, please, don’t say I brought them here to die.
“Look at that,” said Hartwig, pitching his voice above the happy throng. “We’ve got clouds coming in. Think it might rain a bit, later tonight. S’posed to be a good omen, a touch of rain at a wedding. Brings luck, the old wives say.”
She glanced at the sky. He was right, the stars were clouding over. “Let’s hope so, Twiggy.”
Because right now I need all the luck I can get.
Toiling her way up to her suite, she debated with herself about whether or not she should tell Hartwig she’d misplaced her secretary and her lady’s maid and ask him to send out a search party for them. She knew he’d say yes in a heartbeat… but if she did ask, might she unwittingly be putting Gerald and Bibbie in danger? Assuming, of course, they weren’t- weren’t No. I refuse to entertain the possibility.
She was still trying to decide on the best thing to do when she walked into the guest apartment’s bedchamber.
“Good, there you are,” said Bibbie, neat and tidy in a primly demure dark blue satin dress. “I’ve got your green silk evening gown pressed and ready, because you can’t stay in that hideous purple thing. Honestly, all it’s good for is dusters.”
Melissande blinked. For a moment it was a toss up, whether she hugged Bibbie or slapped her. In the end she simply sat on the bed, beyond caring if she crumpled her maligned mauve dress.
“You wretched bloody nuisance,” she said, her voice unsteady. “Don’t you realise I thought you were dead?”
Bibbie’s brittle brightness faded. “Oh. Look, Melissande, there’s-”
“No, Bibbie. There is no looking. No there’s no need to make a fuss. Not after what happened with the fireworks. Something did happen, didn’t it? I mean, I’m not losing my mind?”
Her Gladys Slack face sombre, Bibbie perched on the edge of the nearest chair. “No. Something happened. Or rather nothing happened. Thanks to Gerald.”
It was a different kind of relief, to know she’d not been wrong. “And where is Gerald? Is he all right?”
“Honestly?” said Bibbie, after an unnervingly long silence. “I’m not sure. I think so. He didn’t die or go mad, which is good. Only…”
“Only what, Bibbie?” she demanded. “Please. Just say it. You’re frightening me.”
Bibbie looked up, her eyes haunted with wonder. “Well, the thing is, Mel? I think he should have. The grimoire incants in those fireworks?” She shivered. “I’ve never felt-I never imagined… ” She pressed her hands to her face, briefly. “They were brilliant, y’know. Wickedly, dreadfully brilliant. Monk could’ve made them. He wouldn’t, but he could. I don’t know who else is good enough. And I don’t know any wizard besides Gerald who could’ve destroyed them, and survived.”
Melissande stared. “Not even Monk?”
“No, not even Monk. Because Monk isn’t-he hasn’t-”
And now Bibbie was really frightening her. “What? Monk hasn’t what?”
But Bibbie shook her head. “I can’t, Melissande. I’m sorry. It’s not for me to say. You’ll have to ask Gerald.”
She slid off the bed. “Fine. Where is he?”
“In his room, getting gussied up.”
“Go and fetch him, would you? I needed to talk to him anyway. You two aren’t the only ones who’ve had an interesting night. Now, Bibbie. Or I’ll be late for the party.”
But when Bibbie returned, she was alone and frowning. “He’s gone down to the reception. He left a note.”
“The wedding reception?” Melissande said, disbelieving. “But you minions aren’t invited, he knows that. You’ve got drinks in the Servants’ Hall. What is he thinking? Upstairs isn’t going to let Algernon Rowbotham crash the pre-wedding party.”
“Trust me, Melissande,” said Bibbie, her expression grim. “He won’t give them a choice. He’s so angry about the fireworks. I’ve never seen him so angry. He swore he was going to unmask the plotters tonight or tear the wedding apart, trying.”
She could’ve screamed with frustration. “I’ve already unmasked them! It’s Dermit and Volker. Quick, Bibbie. Help me get changed. We need to find Gerald, just in case those Steinish bastards have figured out who keeps putting a spoke in their dirty wheel.”
But Bibbie was so still she might’ve been nailed to the carpet. “Dermit and Volker? Are you sure? How do you know?”
Heedless of seams and buttons, Melissande started undressing herself. “Abel Bestwick told me.”
“Abel Bestwick? When did you-”
“A few hours ago.” Melissande flailed out of the purple dress and flung it on the bed. “And no, I wasn’t holding a seance. He’s not dead, Bibbie. He’s been hiding in Mitzie the kitchen maid’s room in the palace.”
“Good lord,” Bibbie said faintly.
“I told you I’d had an interesting time,” she retorted. “Anyway, once I’d convinced him I wasn’t a madwoman, or an enemy agent, he told me everything he knew.”
“And he says it’s Harenstein? But-but what about the Lanruvians?”
“The Lanruvians have gone home,” she said, fumbling with the buttons on her boots. “I have no idea why. All I know is that Abel Bestwick swears blind that Dermit and Volker are our villains, and seeing as how one of them stabbed him I rather thought contradicting him would be impolite.”
“Good lord,” said Bibbie. “Dermit and Volker. Well, at least that explains why they wouldn’t succumb to my charms.”
Oh, for pity’s sake. “Yes, Emmerabiblia,” Melissande said slowly. “Because that’s what really matters. I’m so glad we’ve cleared that up. Now fetch me my bloody evening gown before I forget I’m a bloody princess and do you a bloody mischief they’ll write up in the Times!”
Bravely undeterred by the memory of crab puffs, and lured by the promise of limitless cherry liqueur, the well-placed and well-dressed of Hartwig’s acquaintance had arrived promptly to celebrate Splotze and Borovnik’s highly anticipated nuptials.
Eating, drinking, gossiping, the wedding guests swirled in a colourful cloud of national dress and perfume and sprightly music. Watching from a discreet nook halfway along one wall, almost but not quite hidden behind a crimson velvet curtain, Gerald paid special attention to the dancers who’d gone on the wedding tour… and admitted to a grudging respect. Life in the rough and tumble worlds of politics and international diplomacy certainly hardened the nerves. Not a one of them showed any sign of nerves over the near-tragedy at the Hanging Bridge. And if one of them was disappointed, well, he couldn’t tell that, either. Which was a damned shame.
The guests from Blonkken arrived, and were immediately plied with refreshments. But still no Lanruvians. Probably planning to make yet another fashionably late entrance. Puzzling bastards, they were. Try as he might, he couldn’t figure them out. He’d not felt them at the fireworks… but what did that mean? Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything. It was too soon to know.
The fireworks.
A dull, persistent ache was throbbing behind his eyes. And he felt oddly disconnected, as insubstantial as the music being played by Hartwig’s favourite ensemble. Echoes of the observation platform, belling through his blood.
I don’t know who or what I am any more, Bibbie. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m making this up as I go.
