Closing her mouth with a snap she fetched a screwdriver and tried to remove the hinges holding the doors to the wall. The screwdriver sagged like a limp piece of liquorice. No. No. There was a hex on her doors? Gerald, how could you?
Tears welled. Angrily she smeared them away and dropped again into her chair. At least this explained why she hadn't heard from him in over a week. Meditation? Meditation her fat Uncle Albert! Gerald had caved, that's what he'd done. He was aiding and abetting impossible Lional. What pressures her brother had brought to bear on him she couldn't imagine… and didn't much care about, actually. Gerald was a scummy turncoat, full stop, end of discussion.
Damn him. If she could stand up to Lional why couldn't he?
What a rnessl The only person left on her side of the argument was Rupert and there was no point considering help from that quarter, even if she could reach him. Rupert couldn't even help himself. Expecting him to defy Lional and come charging — no, make that fluttering — to the rescue was like expecting Reg to keep her beak shut.
And as if her personal crisis wasn't bad enough there was the imminent national disaster waiting to explode in all their faces once Lional's dealings with the Kallarapi were made public. But instead of being out there in the thick of the action, doing her job, taking charge, organising some kind of intelligent response, she was stuck in here behind a pair of hexed doors without the first idea of how to get around them.
Which meant she was stuck here indefinitely, because those doors were the only way out of her apartments. It was an absolute catastrophe. And if she wasn't careful she was really going to cry.
From the direction of the bedroom came a heavy, clunking-on-glass sound. She stood up, frowning. What the hell?
I've had about as much nonsense as I can take for one lifetime. If you're a burglar you're going to be sorry.
Fists clenched she marched to the bedroom, stopped just inside the doorway and glared into the corners. Then she heard it again, a banging against the windowpane behind those curtains therel
Heavy drapes in either hand, panting, she found herself staring nose to beak at Reg, who was hovering like an ugly overgrown hummingbird on the other side of the window.
'Well don't just stand there, you stupid bint!' Reg shouted through the thick pane of glass. 'Or do you want him to fall screaming to a messy death?'
That's when she noticed the fingers ranged along the window ledge. The window ledge of the window that was seven storeys up the side of the palace wall, that she couldn't escape through because not even all her sheets and blankets tied together would reach the ground and, thanks to Madame Ravatinka, her levitation skills hadn't progressed past lifting and lowering very short thin pencils.
The fingers were bloodless, and clutching the window ledge in a manner that did suggest imminent letting go and a subsequent screaming fall to a messy death.
She opened the window and Reg half-flew, half-fell into the room. 'What are you waiting for?' the wretched bird gasped, collapsed in a heap on the floor.'Pull him in!'
She lunged forward and over the windowsill, grabbed the wrists belonging to the slipping fingers, dug her heels into the carpet and heaved. Inch by inch the wrists became arms, became shoulders with a head centred neatly between them, became a whole body kicking and cursing and scraping over the sill and into her bedroom.
With a startled grunt she overbalanced and fell on the carpet, rump first. The body landed on its face between her outstretched legs. After a grumbling groaning moment, it looked up. She stared.'What the hell? You're not Gerald!'
The body shook the floppy black hair out of its face, offered her an engaging grin and waved its inkstained fingers at her.'Hi there, Your Highness. Monk Markham. Remember me?'
Far too much whiskey. A dip in Gerald's fountain. A wobbly face in his crystal ball. She repressed a shudder. 'Vaguely' she said, and scooted herself backwards to a decorous distance.'How did you get here?'
Markham wriggled himself into a sitting position.'Long story. Where's Gerald?'
She scowled.'I neither know nor care. I consider myself gravely deceived in Gerald Dunwoody'
'Deceived?' Reg demanded, heaving herself unsteadily upright. 'You watch what you're saying about that boy, there's not an ounce of deception in him! And not for want of my trying, either. A good wizard needs a dash of the devious but will he listen? No, he won't.'
'Really?' She glared at Reg. 'Then why did he hex my doors so I can't get out after he swore blind he'd help me?'
'How should I know?' said Reg. 'I haven't been here. But I'll bet you a new hairdo it wasn't Gerald. Or if it was, he had a very good reason. Probably something to do with saving you from yourself. The ether knows you could do with it. Those trousers, girl! With that shirt? With any shirt?'
Just what she needed in a time of crisis: more acerbic fashion advice. 'Of course it was Gerald, who else could it be? And what do you mean you haven't been here? Where have you been? And what are you doing in my bedroom? With Markham? Answer me!' i would if you'd let me get a word in edgewise!' Reg retorted. 'We're in your bedroom because we couldn't get into my bedroom! And we couldn't get into my bedroom because Gerald wasn't there to let us in! Now where is he, ducky?' 'Don't ask me! And don't call me ducky!
Reg glared. 'Why shouldn't I ask you? Are you the princess round here or aren't you?'
'Yes. I am. I'm the princess who's been locked in her suite since the day that rotter Gerald fell off Dorcas! You're his keeper, why don't you know where he is?'
'Because I've been out of the country since the day after that!'
Grabbing hold of a handy chair, Melissande hauled herself to her feet. 'Out of the country? What are you talking about? What the hell is going on around here?'
Markham glanced at Reg, who nodded. He got up, lifted her onto the back of the same chair then pulled a lump of rock from the pocket of his slightly threadbare blue jacket. 'Can you keep a secret, Melissande?'
She looked at him. 'I'm the prime minister of New Ottosland and I have two older brothers, one of whom is Lional, King of Insane and Inappropriate Wedding Plans and the other Rupert, Prince of Butterflies. What do you think? And don't call me Melissande. It's 'Your Royal Highness' to the likes of you.'
'It's all right, Monk,' Reg said gruffly. 'We can trust her. She's got the manners of a warthog and the grace of a drunken rhinoceros but unlike Rupert she's not a complete ninny'
She goggled. 'Excuse me? Did you just call me a — '
Markham cleared his throat. 'Okay, ladies, probably right now we should be concentrating on — '
'Oh, why don't you put a sock in it, ducky]' Reg snapped. 'If you can't dress like a princess you can at least act like one. Now listen up. We — '
'Listen up? To you? The biggest mistake I ever made in my life — after hiring Gerald, that is — was listening to you] You're a bird, for God's sake! A scruffy, coarse, drab, irritating, uninvited bird] What do you know about being a princess? What do you know about anything?'
'What do / know?' said Reg, clutching at the chair back to stop herself from falling; she was swaying with exhaustion. 'A damned sight more than you do, ducky, I'll tell you that for nothing! I may well die a bird, dearie, but I sure as shooting wasn't born one. I was born a princess and became a queen and I was a witch to boot. The most powerful witch in all of Lalapinda!'
Melissande opened her mouth then closed it again.Turned to Markham.'Is that true?' Markham shook his head and sat on the end of her four-poster bed. 'Don't ask me. Reg's past is a closed book, Your Highness.'
Frowning, she leaned against a bedpost and considered the bird.'So what happened?'
Reg sighed, it's not important. What's important is finding out what's happened to Gerald.'
'Nothing's happened to Gerald!' She scowled. 'Yet.'
'Urn…' Markham exchanged a worried glance with Reg. 'Look. Not that I make a habit of contradicting royalty, but… we're pretty sure you're wrong.' 'Why?'
'Because a few hours ago the Ottosland Department of Thaumaturgy's thaumatograph's readings hit the roof, kept on going and are currently headed for outer space,' said Reg. 'So?'
'So,' said Markham, 'the source of the readings was New Ottosland. And their cause was the biggest Level Twelve transmog ever recorded. Gerald's the only wizard I know who's capable of successfully pulling one off.'
