Princess Pushy. I’m starting to think you should’ve fallen for Gerald after all.”
Melissande heaved another sigh. There was no point holding a grudge against the horrible bird: Reg made a warthog look thin-skinned. Besides, she had a point. Not about falling for Gerald, but about Monk.
I care for him a great deal, I truly do, but…
“ It does sound as though you’re playing with fire, you know,” she told him. “You really ought to be more careful.”
Sometimes he reminded her of a helium-filled balloon: impossible to repress for longer than a few moments. “Mel, trust me, it’s perfectly safe,” he insisted. “We’re not in a skerrick of danger. Not from the sprite, and not from the portal opener. I promise.”
How could she doubt him? He was a thaumaturgical genius, after all. “Fine. If you say so.”
“I say so,” he said, that anarchic grin lighting up his face.
“Yes, well,” she muttered, trying in vain to smother her own answering smile. “Only the thing is, aren’t you talking theoretically? I mean, I don’t suppose you can actually prove any of it, can you? Because if you’re right and this sprite creature did leave your place with us last night, I’d like to know for sure.”
“And so would I,” Bibbie added. “Because I’ve got some hexes to put together and I don’t want them going kablooey.”
“As a matter of fact I can prove it,” said Monk. “Hold on.” He rummaged in the nearby lush tropical undergrowth and pulled out a large, shabby carpetbag. “I threw this together over breakfast. It’s a bit rough and ready but I’m pretty sure it’ll do the trick.”
Melissande frowned as he opened the bag and took out an eye-boggling contraption consisting of a metal rod wrapped in copper wire and attached to some kind of needle-and-gauge arrangement.
“What is it?” she said, suspicious.
His eyebrows shot up. “A portable etheretic sprite detector, of course.”
Which he’d invented while eating scrambled eggs and bacon. Of course. She shook her head. “How does it work?”
Monk opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again. “Ah… do you really want me to explain or should I just show you?”
She sniffed. “Good point.”
Flicking a switch, he passed the wire-wrapped rod down his front. Nothing happened. “See?” he said, grinning again. So ridiculously pleased with himself. Take away his inventions and Monk would go into a decline, she was sure. Just like a baby deprived of its rattle. “No reaction. That means no sprite activity for the last ten hours at least.”
Bibbie clapped her hands like a child at a party. “Ooooh, test me, test me!”
Her brother obliged. The needle flickered a couple of times, and the gauge emitted a squeak.
“Ha!” he said. “Contact… but only minimally. You’ve been in the vicinity of a sprite recently but you haven’t had a significant encounter.”
“All right then,” said Melissande, bracing herself. “Test me.”
As Monk ran the sprite detector over her the gauge screeched like a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs. Reg let out a shriek and erupted into the humid air, shedding feathers and curses in equal measure.
“Bullseye!” Monk said, practically chortling with satisfaction. “That’s excellent. It’s always nice to see a theory proven out. You, Melissande, are covered in etheretic spores.”
She took a step back. “ Etheretic spores? What do you mean etheretic spores? What are etheretic spores? ”
“Oh, you know,” he said vaguely, checking the readings on the gauge. “Randomly excreted thaumaturgical particles.”
Still squawking, Reg landed on a branch of the Botchaki Silk Tree and started a complicated little foot-wiping dance on its pale yellow bark. Horrified, Melissande stared at her outstretched hands.
“Monk, I don’t like this!” she said, mortified to hear a quaver in her voice. “I don’t like this at-”
“Oh, don’t worry,” he said blithely, glancing up from his equipment. “I’m pretty sure the spores are harmless.”
“ Pretty sure? Monk, you raving lunatic, you irresponsible bird brain, you-”
“Oy!” said Reg. “Mind who you’re calling a bird brain, madam!”
Monk looked up, surprised. “You’re fine, Mel. Really.”
“Says you,” she retorted. “Forgive me if I’d like a second opinion. After all, you’re the one who thought sprites were mythical!”
His face split in another wide grin. “And now we know they’re not! Isn’t it great? I had no idea that humming three bars of descending cyclonic harmonics in B-flat minor while holding the portal key would get me into other dimensions! If I had I would’ve gone looking for the one with the voluptuous can-can girls!”
If she’d had a parasol handy she would have poked him in the buttocks with it. “Monk Markham, I swear, either you start taking this seriously or-”
“I am taking this seriously!” he protested. “This is a major thaumaturgical breakthrough, Mel, and they don’t come along every day. It’s fantastic!”
“ Fantastic?” Breathless with outrage, she came perilously close to snatching up the carpetbag and throwing it at him. “It’s not fantastic, you-you turnip, it’s disgusting! I’m covered in interdimensional sprite shit! Where’s the nearest tap? Has anybody got a clean hanky? How much of the stuff is on me, I can’t see a bloody thing!”
Monk stared at her, bemused. “Of course you can’t. We’re dealing with a basic visual incompatibility between dimensional vibrations, remember?”
“No, not really!” she shouted. “I’m a bit too busy being covered in interdimensional sprite shit! Where’s the wretched thing now, Monk? Is it in my hair?” She began frantically patting her head. “Oh, Saint Snodgress preserve me, don’t let there be a sprite in my hair!”
He ran the sprite detector over her again. This time the volume was appreciably lower, more beeping than screeching. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s not in your hair, Mel,” he said, trying to appease. “It’s not anywhere. You’re one hundred percent sprite-free, I promise.”
“And yet still covered in sprite shit, yes?” she demanded.
“Um… well… yes. Sorry about that. But the rate of decay is accelerating,” he added encouragingly. “That’s good, isn’t it?”
She goggled at him. “ Decay? You mean I’m covered in decomposing sprite shit? How is that good, Monk? ”
“It’s all right, Mel,” said Bibbie, trying to be helpful. “We’ll get you cleaned up somehow.”
“We certainly will,” said Reg from her safely distant tree branch. “The Department’s bound to have a decontamination chamber they can spare for a week or two. In the meantime, Mad Miss Markham and I can mind the agency. She’ll even remember to collect the mail without being reminded, won’t you, ducky?”
“Absolutely,” Bibbie agreed. “I promise.”
Breathing heavily, Melissande glared at the pair of them. “Strange as it may seem, I don’t consider that particularly comforting. In fact I won’t be comfortable until we track down this inconvenient creature and send it back where it belongs!” She rounded on Monk. “So if it’s not stuck on me, where is it?”
“Still at the agency,” said Bibbie. “It must be.”
Raising her eyebrows, Melissande flicked a glance at Monk’s unhelpful sister. “Must it? How do we know it’s not rampaging around town even as we speak?”
“Because there’s nothing registering on the Department’s monitors,” said Monk. “Believe me, I’ve checked. Besides, if the sprite was loose in town we’d have heard about it by now. Exploding tamper-proof ink would be the least of our worries.”
“Then what are you waiting for?” she demanded. “Let’s get back to the office so you can catch the little bugger and send it packing!”
He winced. “Sorry. I’d love to, only I can’t. I’ve got a secret briefing with Uncle Ralph. But after I invented the portable sprite detector I invented a sprite trap to catch it in. See?”
She stared as he opened the carpetbag again and pulled out what looked like a birdcage for a stunted canary. “It’s not very big.”
He shrugged. “Neither’s the sprite.”
