“Now, now, Mister Haythwaite,” said Ambrose Wycliffe, indulgently. “I can see that what we have here is an unfortunate clash of personalities. But since it’s been proven by an official government investigation that Mister Dunwoody here didn’t blow up Stuttley’s, and our Mister Methven has manfully owned up to his part in this unfortunate business and exculpated Mister Dunwoody, I don’t think it’s fair to sack the chap. Not when he comes with a Truscott guarantee and I won’t get a refund on my deposit.”
“It’s your decision, sir, of course,” said Errol, his voice dangerously clipped. He turned on Methven. “So you’re saying I’m responsible? The Mark VI is my ship. I designed it. I invented the new thaumic conversion matrix. So if there is a problem with the engine the fault is mine? Is that what you’re saying?”
Gerald cleared his throat. “No, Mister Haythwaite, I think what Mister Meth-”
Errol seared him with such a look he actually stepped back. “ Shut up, Dunwoody,” Errol hissed. “Didn’t you get the memo? Third Grade wizards should be seen and not heard.”
A ripple of unease ran through the gaggle of watching wizards, and as though Errol’s vicious retort was some kind of signal-or warning-they began to drift away to their desks and benches and labs.
Ambrose Wycliffe unlaced his fingers from his belly and stepped to Errol’s side. Sliding an arm around his shoulders he harumphed, understandingly. “Mister Haythwaite, your distress does you credit. We all know how dedicated you are to the success of the Ambrose Mark VI. But you must not allow yourself to become overturned. We are still in the experimental stages, are we not? These little setbacks are bound to happen.”
“That’s very generous of you, sir,” said Errol, stiffly. “I appreciate your understanding.”
Ambrose Wycliffe shook his head. “Not at all, not at all. Why, I could tell you stories of prototype disasters in my late father’s day that make this look like a mere peccadillo. Don’t forget, Mister Haythwaite, that this grand laboratory was my childhood playpen. I grew up with airships and I can assure you, when it comes to design teething troubles there is nothing new under the sun.”
Errol grimaced. “Keep Dunwoody around, sir, and I promise you’ll see it.”
“Ah, you’re a witty man, Mister Haythwaite!” said Ambrose Wycliffe, jowls jiggling. “And I do so enjoy the company of witty men. But I’m bound to remind you, sir, that I lost the Ambroses Marks II through V long before Mister Dunwoody arrived on the scene.”
“Yes, sir,” said Errol. “Which is why you hired me, and why I’m determined we’ll not lose the Mark VI as well. The future of Wycliffe’s is riding on this airship and I’ll do whatever I must to makes sure it succeeds.”
Ambrose Wycliffe’s basset-hound eyes went moist. “Dear boy,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. “Come. Let’s inspect the prototype, shall we, and see what’s to be done about salvaging it. And then you’d better have some ointment put on those blisters. Very nasty. Mister Methven-”
Robert Methven, who’d been hovering uncertainly on the sidelines, jumped. “Mister Wycliffe?”
“You’d best accompany us. Perhaps you can shed some light on precisely what happened, and how we can avoid an encore performance.”
Swallowing convulsively, Methven shoved his hands in his lab coat pockets. “Yes, Mister Wycliffe,” he whispered.
As Ambrose Wycliffe and Errol took a step towards the Mark VI lab, Melissande squeaked. “Ah, sir?”
He swung round. “Eh? What? Oh, it’s you. Permelia’s gel. What did you want?”
Gerald wondered if Ambrose Wycliffe knew how close he was to having his toes stamped on. “Miss Wycliffe requests that you read and authorise these purchase orders, Mister Wycliffe,” she said in the most alarmingly and uncharacteristic self-effacing murmur.
“What?” said Ambrose Wycliffe and held out his hand. Melissande passed him the first folder, which he flipped open. “What’s the woman fussing at me now for?” He snapped his fingers impatiently. “Pen!”
Robert Methven snatched up a pen and inkpot from a nearby bench. “Here you are, sir.”
Without even bothering to read what he was authorising, Ambrose Wycliffe dashed his signature at the bottom of all seven purchase orders.
“There you are, gel,” he said, vaguely staring past Melissande’s left ear. “And tell Permelia not to send you back here again. If she wants me to sign things, tell her to send that office-boy. She knows I don’t allow gels in the lab. They interfere with the thaumaturgical ether. I expect when we look into it we’ll find it’s your presence that caused the Mark VI prototype to fail. Oh yes-and tell Permelia I’ll not be in for dinner tonight. I’m dining with Calthrop at the Club.”
Melissande thawed just enough to nod. “Yes, Mister Wycliffe. I shall do that, Mister Wycliffe. Thank you, Mister Wycliffe.”
As Ambrose Wycliffe swept a still icily furious Errol away to the other end of the building, Robert Methven took a moment to replace the inkpot and pen on the bench. Gerald waggled his eyebrows at Melissande then touched the First Grade wizard’s elbow, very deferential.
“Ah, sir? Thank you for speaking up on my behalf.”
Methven gave him a distracted look of intense dislike. “Wasn’t personal, Dunwoody. I’d sack you too, for damned cheek. But it’s not good form to blame an inferior who can’t defend himself. Now get back to work. Find some filing or something. Don’t touch anything remotely thaumaturgical, is that clear?”
He nodded. “Yes, Mister Methven.”
“ Pssst!” said Melissande, crept up behind him. “Gerald, what the-”
“No, no, not here,” he muttered, keeping an eye on the other wizards who’d returned to their own tasks. They hadn’t noticed anything but that wouldn’t last long. Robert Methven, scuttling to catch up with Errol and Ambrose Wycliffe, was looking back over his shoulder, his expression still unfriendly. “Employee garden. Lunch at one.”
“But my lunch is at-”
“Then change it. Goodbye.”
And he hurried off before Melissande could try arguing with him. Because she would, he just knew it. He was convinced the first word she ever spoke was “but.”
He spent the next two and half hours trying not to speculate on the reason for Melissande’s presence at Wycliffe’s, and collecting test result sheets from the other labs and the wizards working on various projects at their benches, and filing them. Well, surreptitiously reading them and then filing them, making mental notes of anything that might even remotely have to do with his reason for being undercover at Wycliffe’s in the first place.
He paid particular attention to Errol’s results. Errol, who’d joined Wycliffe’s not quite a month after the Stuttley’s debacle. Who’d taken one look at him, his first day at the firm, and simply… erased him from the landscape. It had actually been a little frightening: the contempt. The desire for him to disappear. To not exist. Today had been the first time Errol had acknowledged his presence.
Which is fine. It’s quite suited me, really, all things considered. Only-why did his bloody staff have to explode?
Monaghan and another Second Grader-Phipps-were cleaning out the Pit now, decontaminating it and neutralising the overcharged thaumic particles. He sighed. It was a shame he’d not get the chance to inspect what was left of Errol’s staff, or the stricken experimental Ambrose Mark VI. He’d rather like to know why the prototype engine had exploded. From what he could tell it was sound… and ingenious. No two ways about it, Errol had a definite flair. And then the clock struck one and he stopped filing. He’d have to think some more about that later. Now it was time to meet Melissande for lunch.
Doing his best to appear nonchalant, he entered the employee garden and found an empty bench to sit on, located a convenient distance from the other dozen or so staff who’d been allotted a one o’clock lunch. Luckily there was a goodly amount of conversation going on that would cover nicely anything he and Melissande had to say to each other. Pretending interest in his packed lunch of fish-paste sandwich, iced cupcake and an apple, he kept a sideways eye out for her arrival.
And there she was, tit-tupping along in that dreadful long black skirt- lord, that was a hideous outfit! — looking so regal, so self-possessed, so Melissande, it brought a lump to his throat. Six months and more since he’d seen her? It felt like six years… and at the same time, six minutes. She was Monk Markham’s young lady and, after the events of New Ottosland, the next-best thing he had to a sister.
Disdainfully she wandered by him, ever-so-artfully letting the book she was carrying with her lunchbox slip to the grass. He dived for it and held it up.
“Excuse me, Miss! Oh, Miss? I think you dropped this.”
Turning, she looked over her glasses-rims and down her nose at him. Just the way she’d looked when he
