sunshine.”
Monk gave her a dirty look then cleared his throat. “Yes. Well. The servants. The thing is…”
“They don’t belong to Monk,” said Bibbie. “Not this lot, at any rate.”
Melissande frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean they aren’t the servants he inherited from Great-uncle Throgmorton. They’re on loan, every last one of them.”
“On loan?” she said blankly. “What are you talking about? Servants aren’t-aren’t library books. You don’t just borrow them.”
“Not usually, no,” said Monk, harassed. “It was an emergency.”
“So where did they come from?”
“Mother,” said Bibbie, and giggled.
“You borrowed your mother’s butler?” she said, incredulous. “And her footman? What about her cook?”
Monk hunched into his dinner jacket. “Yes, the cook too. Actually, the under-cook. I didn’t leave Mother to starve, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“But why? Honestly, Monk, you’re starting to sound like Gerald. What’s going on? What happened to the staff who came with the house?”
Reg hooted. “I’ll tell you what happened, madam. He scared them away, butler to boot boy, with his experiments and his smelly smoke.”
“Is that true, Monk?” Melissande demanded. I don’t believe it, I don’t believe it. Except that she did. This was Monk, after all. “Is that why every one of your great-uncle’s servants gave notice? Are you experimenting again?”
Now Monk was looking distinctly evasive. “Well-”
“You are!” she said, and leaned sideways to poke a finger in his shoulder. “ That’s why you keep dashing out of the room, isn’t it? You’ve got one of your madcap inventions percolating somewhere in this house, haven’t you?”
Monk’s expression shifted from evasive to bolshy. “So what if I have? It’s what I do, Mel. I invent things.”
“Things that get you into a lot of trouble!”
“Things that save lives!” he retorted. “And expand our knowledge of the etheretic plane!”
“Things that aren’t sanctioned by the Department!” she groaned. “Things that get you hauled over the coals, put on probation and rapped over the knuckles till you can’t hold a pen! Monk, you raving idiot, are you out of your mind?”
“Of course he is,” said Reg. “Every last genius I ever met was both oars short of a rowboat. And even then you can’t trust them to paddle. Don’t see why your young man should be an exception.”
Melissande turned to Bibbie. “Did you know about this?”
Bibbie shrugged. “Of course.”
“And you didn’t try to stop him?”
“Stop him?” echoed Bibbie, eyebrows raised. “Why would I stop him? You heard him, Melissande. Inventing is what Monk does.”
Very carefully, Melissande folded her hands and rested them on the dingy white tablecloth. Saint Snodgrass, I beg you, give me strength… “ Monk, as a recent beneficiary of your illegal inventing I suppose I shouldn’t criticise, but honestly. I do wish you’d think first and invent later. The stink from what happened in New Ottosland has barely evaporated. You’ve only just been released from probation. So why would you risk running foul of the Department again so soon after-”
“I’m not risking anything!” said Monk, defensive. His untidy black hair flopped over his eyes. As a rule she found it appealing, but now it annoyed her. He was hiding. “Because I am off probation, and that means I’m free to-”
“Frighten a bunch of servants with your thaumaturgical shenanigans!”
“Mel, I’m telling you, the domestic staff quitting has nothing to do with me!” said Monk. “It’s Great-uncle Throgmorton’s fault. He won’t leave.”
Bibbie sat back, staring. “What do you mean, he won’t leave? He’s dead, Monk. He left weeks ago.”
“Huh,” said Monk. “That’s what you think.”
Melissande exchanged a look with Reg. The wretched bird dropped one eyelid in a rollicking wink, clearly prepared to take her entertainment where she could find it.
Much help you are, Reg. Thanks ever so.
She turned back to her perplexing and frequently infuriating young man. “Are you saying the house is haunted, Monk?”
Monk slumped. “I think so. Yes. It’s the only explanation I can come up with.”
“But that’s silly,” said Bibbie. “There’s no such thing as ghosts, every wizard worth his staff knows that.”
“Well, someone forgot to tell Great-uncle Throgmorton,” said Monk morosely. “Because the boot boy swore blind the old geezer kicked him down the scullery stairs. Cook claimed he flattened five souffles in a row. And both the parlour-maids were certain he pushed them out of bed. Twice! Sadie said he pushed her into the chamber pot — which she hadn’t got around to emptying. So everyone quit, which is why I had to ask Mother to lend me some of her people. But she can’t spare them for more than a few days because Father’s invited the High Hantofeermi of Tetin to stay with us after next week’s international symposium. And even if she hadn’t, and I could keep them, there’s already been muttering and they only got here this morning. I very much doubt this lot will stay the night. Oh, Bibbie-” He turned to his sister, beseeching. “I do wish you’d move in. You know how Great-uncle Throgmorton felt about gels. He’d run away screaming if he thought he’d have to share the house with you.”
“Well, Monk, flattered as I am by your generous offer,” said Bibbie, pink with crossness, “I’ll have to decline.”
“Decline?” Monk was almost wailing. “But why? I mean, you could have your own work room here, Bibs. You know you miss having your own work room. And I wouldn’t keep coming in telling you how you’re doing it all wrong, like Father always does. Why wouldn’t you want to move in?”
“Why?” Bibbie echoed. “I swear, Monk, for a genius you can be such an idiot. Because I’ve only just moved out of one family home, that’s why, and I’m not the least bit inclined to move into another. I like being on my own, thank you very much.”
“But you’re not on your own,” Monk objected. “You’re sardined in that boarding house with a bunch of other girls. Every time you turn around you’re tripping over one of them, you said so yourself.”
“Maybe I am,” said Bibbie, her colour still heightened, “but the point is, Monk, that not one of them is related to me and that’s as good as being on my own.”
Reg chuckled. “That’s the way, ducky. Twist the knife. The only good brother is a squirming brother.”
“And another thing,” said Bibbie, with a pleased nod at Reg. “Great-uncle Throgmorton left you two houses- this one and the terrace in Pilkington Mews. But I don’t seem to recall you asking me if I’d like to live there. If you’re so worried about me turning into a sardine, why not hand over its front door key right now?”
Monk was gaping. “How can I, Bibbie? You know the terms of the old fogie’s bequest! Gels cannot be permitted to set up their own establishments. I might not agree with him, in fact you know I don’t, but I’m stuck with his instructions.”
“Why? The houses belong to you now,” said Bibbie. “Surely you can do whatever you like with them.”
Monk dragged ink-stained fingers through his floppy hair. “Only up to a point! And I’m sorry, call me selfish if you like, but that point stops short of me breaking the terms of the will and seeing both places given to Aylesbury.”
“Well,” said Reg, head cocked towards Bibbie. “He’s got you there, ducky.”
“I know,” sighed Bibbie, and pulled another face. “But it’s still not fair.”
“Not fair?” Reg rattled her tail feathers. “Don’t you talk to me about not fair, madam. I’m the queen of not fair, not to mention Lalapinda.”
“Lalapinda doesn’t count,” said Bibbie, wrinkling her nose.
“It certainly does!” Reg snapped. “I was usurped, ducky. That throne still belongs to me!”
“You were usurped more than four centuries ago, Reg. The moment, as they say, has passed.”
