forgot him. Mordy was a good man. He cared about things. About right and wrong and helping people who needed to be helped, no matter what it cost him. Looking back, I can see there was something sad about him. Something driven.”
Gerald felt his jaw drop. “And you think that’s me? You think I’m sad and driven? Bloody hell, Monk. Don’t beat around the bush-you think I’m pathetic!”
“Not pathetic,” Monk protested. “You just… take things to heart. Like Mordy did.” He got up again and crossed to the fire. Stared down into the mesmerising flames. “And if you are feeling a bit… down… no-one could blame you. Not after what you’ve been through.”
Gerald reached for his glass and knocked back the remains of his brandy in one swallow. “Well, I’m not down. Right? I’m fine. I mean, I’m sorry about your uncle, but I’m not him.”
“No?” Monk swung round. “Then what’s the problem? And don’t tell me there isn’t one, mate, because I’ve still got two good eyes.”
Brought to it, suddenly he wasn’t sure what to say.
“Hey,” said Monk. “If you’re worried I’m going to let something slip…”
“No. Lord, no.” He shrugged. “It’s just hard to explain.”
“Explain what?”
“The final test.”
“What about it?”
“It was bloody peculiar, that’s what!” he replied, flooded once more with baffled unease. “Even now, Monk, I’m not sure how much of it actually happened. I mean, I know I got on a train in Central Ott. I know I got off the train in Finkley Meadows and a cart took me into the countryside and left me at the front gates of an obscure Department property. And I know I ended up drinking tea with Sir Alec and driving back to Nettleworth with him in a car. But everything that happened in between?” Another shrug. “I can’t explain it. It felt real. Too real. But I don’t think it was real.”
Monk frowned at the hearth. “How do you mean, not real?”
“It felt like a dream,” he said. “Things happening that make sense at the time, even while a part of you knows they’re impossible. You know?”
“Mmm,” said Monk, and gulped some brandy. “Maybe. Did you, ah, ask Sir Alec?”
“Of course I asked Sir Alec! Sir Alec said it wasn’t Department policy to discuss testing with agents.”
“Ah,” said Monk. Suddenly he was looking… uncomfortable. No, more than uncomfortable. He was looking guilty.
Gerald put down his empty glass. “Monk? What’s going on? Do you know something? If you do you’d better tell me.”
“Mmm,” said Monk. “Well. This is bloody awkward.” He stood. “Awkward? What do you mean awkward?” Now Monk’s face was a picture of woe. “I’m sorry, Gerald. I had no idea they’d use it. At least, not on you. They said they were exploring some new ideas. They said they were considering its application, maybe, sometime in the future. Once the kinks were ironed out.”
“ They said?”
Monk winced. “He said. Sir Alec.”
Sir Alec. Again, and at every turn. “And what is it?”
“The delerioso incant,” Monk mumbled.
“Never heard of it.”
“No. Well, you wouldn’t have,” said Monk, still mumbling. “It’s on the proscribed list.”
“The proscribed list?” He stared. “Then how the hell did you-”
Monk rubbed his nose. “I invented it.”
“Of course you did,” he said, dazed, and sat down again. “Enlighten me, Monk, before I punch you. Or worse.”
On a deep sigh Monk dropped cross-legged onto the fireplace’s cindery hearth. “What can I say? It was a stupid university prank. Something I dreamed up in second year. Back when I was smart enough to do that kind of thing but too stupid to realise it might backfire.”
“Oh, well, it’s good to know things have changed,” he said, giving sarcasm full rein.
“Bloody hell, Gerald,” Monk muttered. “I said I was sorry, didn’t I? I’m telling you I didn’t know.”
“Never mind the grovelling,” he retorted. “You can save that for later. What the hell is a delerioso incant?”
“It was meant to be a bit of harmless fun,” said Monk. “Good for a giggle, and embarrassing people you don’t like.” His sharkish grin flashed, irrepressible. “Worked a treat on Errol. He didn’t show his face for a week after, stupid git.”
“ Monk.”
“Oh. Yeah. Right.” Monk cleared his throat. “The delerioso tickles the subconscious. Gets you reliving a dream, or a memory, as vividly as if it’s happening right in that moment. You know, you think you’re dancing with some bird on the last night of school but in reality you’re making a fool of yourself in the quad waltzing with a broom. Stuff like that.” Monk couldn’t help himself: he grinned again. “So anyway, I tried it on Errol and he re-lived the time his mother dressed him in a sailor suit and it all got very ugly. The upshot was I got sent down for three weeks… and noticed by the Department of Thaumaturgy. They recruited me on the spot. Well, I say recruited but it was more like being strong-armed.”
“Like me,” said Gerald, slowly. “How come you never mentioned this before?”
“Water under the bridge, mate,” said Monk simply. “Turns out it was the right choice. I’m happy where I am. I do good work.”
“I don’t know about good,” he said, feeling bitter. “It’s bloody effective, I’ll give you that. Although…” He frowned. “I was doing more than re-living memories. I was experiencing new things as though they were real.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that,” said Monk, wincing. “They-he-Sir Alec-got me to kind of-you know-soup up the original incant. He said they were thinking of using the delerioso as an interrogation tool. A way of tricking villains into giving up vital information without having to-to-”
“Make them uncomfortable?” he suggested, with a savage delicacy.
“Well… yeah,” Monk admitted, thoroughly miserable now. “Something like that. I thought it was a good idea. We find out what we need to know and nobody gets hurt in the process.”
“Yes, it’s all very noble, really. So… what? I was your guinea pig?”
Monk rubbed his nose again. “I suppose. Sir Alec’s guinea pig, anyway.”
Bloody Sir Alec. Gerald reached for the brandy bottle beside Monk’s chair. Someone remind me to have words with him the next time we meet. Not bothering with his glass, he swallowed deeply.
“I really am sorry, Gerald,” Monk said quietly. “You know that, right?”
He shook his head. “It’s funny. I should’ve twigged you had something to do with it. There was this hex I had to break. Your fingerprints were all over it. Yours, and a bunch of other wizards.”
“They put that in?” said Monk, surprised. “Huh.”
“Something else you were playing at?”
“Ah…” Monk’s face coloured. “Yeah. The hex Lional used to lock Mel in her palace apartments. Remember? I kind of… borrowed it, and gave it the old Markham touch.”
He swallowed from the bottle a second time then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Speaking of Lional, he and I had an interesting conversation-courtesy of your delerioso incant. Congratulations. Your souping up efforts are a spectacular success.”
“Hell’s bells,” said Monk, and dropped his head into his hands. “Gerald, I’m sorry. I swear I didn’t know what Sir Alec had planned.”
With exacting precision Gerald put down the brandy bottle, temper bubbling beneath the warm apple glow. “And when I finished chatting with Lional I tortured someone to make them talk,” he added, feeling ruthless. The horror of those moments still hadn’t receded. “At least I thought I did.”
“ What?” said Monk, his head snapping up. “Gerald, I never — ”
“His name was William. Sir Alec told me people were going to die if he didn’t tell us what we needed to know. And because I thought it was real, I started to dismantle the shadbolt that was keeping him quiet. But he
