Right,” said Melissande. “I’ve had just about enough of this.”
Monk sighed. “I did warn you. Look, Melissande, they’ll get to us when they get to us so there’s no point-”
“No, Mr. Markham, there is every point! Because at the rate your precious Department’s going I’ll have qualified for the pension before they come to a decision!”
And stop calling me Melissande. Just because in a moment of weakness I sniveled all over you, that doesn’t mean you get to take liberites.
Except apparently it did, because she couldn’t quite bring herself to reprimand him out loud.
Squatting between them, Reg refluffed all her feathers and said, “Oh, give it a rest, you two, or I’ll do both of you a mischief.”
They were sitting uncomfortably side by side by side in a drab gray waiting room outside some official chamber or other in Ottosland’s antiquated Department of Thaumaturgy building. Apart from the back-breaking chairs there wasn’t a stick of furniture. Neither were there windows to look out of or any tedious old magazines to read. The room was cold and stuffy and not designed to succor its occupants.
Oh lord. I wish I knew what was happening to Gerald.
Shivering, she glanced through the open door to the drab gray corridor beyond. “Where the hell has Rupert got to? It doesn’t take this long to use the lavatory.”
“Ha,” said Reg. “He’s probably been side-tracked by a moth.”
“That’s not funny! Whatever you may think of him he really loved his butterflies, you horrible bird! And Lional killed them and now he’s grieving for them. He’s probably got his head buried in a towel right now, crying his heart out for those stupid, stupid insects!”
Monk, carelessly presumptuous and dangerously attractive, gave Reg a look. “You know, you’re really not helping.”
With an effort Melissande pulled herself back from the brink of embarrassment… and didn’t object when Monk took her hand in his. Even though she should. Even though public displays of affection were highly irregular. It was a wonder the bird wasn’t screeching about that, along with everything else.
“Nobody’s helping,” she muttered. “It was stupid to come here. Gerald had no business forcing me to come here. I should be at home, fighting for New Ottosland. After all, I’m prime minister and practically the queen!”
Not that she wanted to be. She couldn’t think of anything worse. I wonder if I’ll have to change my name to Lional…
Reg roused out of her slump. “Don’t you worry about New Ottosland, ducky. Gerald’s taking care of it. He’s a wizarding prodigy, he is. And we’ll be hearing from him any moment. You’ll see.”
She exchanged a mordant glance with Monk over the top of Reg’s head. Clearly the bird didn’t believe her own pep talk. I don’t believe it either. It’ll take more than a prodigy to beat Lional and his dragon. It’ll take a miracle… and I’m not sure they exist.
Monk tightened his fingers. “Don’t give up, Meli-I mean, Your Highness. The Department will come through for us. It’s just going to take a little time. It’s all such a bloody mess. At last count we’ve got five different nations involved and three of them aren’t officially talking to each other.”
Ah, politics. I am sick to death of politics. I think I’ll ban it when I’m queen. She pulled a face at him. “I’m not giving up. And call me Melissande.”
Despite his own imperfectly concealed worry, Monk’s lips quirked in a brief grin. “Thought you’d never ask. Look, do you want me to go hunting for Rupert while-”
The main chamber’s large double doors opened. “Come in, please,” said a discreet secretarial type dressed in sober black. “Lord Attaby will see you now.”
Abruptly aware of appearing less than her best, Melissande slid off the chair and lifted her chin, defiant. “And not a moment too soon. I was just about to make a Scene.”
As Reg hopped onto Monk’s waiting shoulder she marched past the discreet secretary and into the chamber. Stalked across the room’s dingy carpet, Monk and Reg at her heels, and halted in front of the long polished oak conference table on the far side of the room. There was a click behind her as the secretary closed the double doors.
To her fury she saw the Ottosland officials at the table had been drinking tea and eating biscuits. Tea and biscuits while my kingdom is dragged to hell in a hand-basket. How dare they? “Right,” she said, glaring at the three men ranged before her. “Which one of you is Lord bloody Attaby?”
The man in the middle, reeking of affluence and self-importance, inclined his head fractionally. His thinning silver hair was slicked to his skull with something smelly and expensive. “I am Lord Attaby, Minister of Thaumaturgy for the Ottosland government.”
She looked left then right at his silent bookends. “And these two?”
“My colleagues,” said Lord Attaby blandly.
“I see. And do they have names?”
“None that are relevant to these proceedings,” said Lord Attaby. “Madam.”
She snorted. “I’m not madam, I’m Her Royal Highness Princess Melissande, Prime Minister of New Ottosland and-and-Queen Presumptive.”
Lord Attaby laced his fingers before him, frowning. “Or so you claim.”
“ Claim?” she demanded. “What, you think I’m lying?”
“I think you are a young foreign woman lacking both identification and requisite travel documentation who has entered this country by dubious and possibly illegal means,” said Lord Attaby, looking down his nose at her. “And who, it would appear, has suborned one of its citizens into breaking some very, very serious laws.”
Monk stepped forward. “No, she hasn’t, Lord Attaby. That’s all on me. And she is who she says she is, I can vouch for that. Unless you think I’m lying too.”
Lord Attaby’s chilly expression plummeted below freezing. “It would appear, Mr. Markham, you have been laboring under the mistaken apprehension that your illustrious family name would afford you unlimited protection in this matter. Allow me to disabuse you of this naive-”
The man on Lord Attaby’s right lowered his almost-imperceptibly raised hand. Melissande looked at him more closely; anyone who could halt an aristocrat mid-tirade was worth examining. He was extremely… nondescript. Unlike Lord Attaby, whose shirt was silk, he wore plain cotton. His watchband was leather, not gold, and he altogether lacked a pampered air. His hooded gray eyes were years older than his round, faintly lined face and short, mousy brown hair suggested. He didn’t look like an enemy. He didn’t look like a friend. More than anything he looked like a greengrocer, or some other kind of inoffensive shopkeeper.
How very odd, she thought. I wonder who he is?
The man on Lord Attaby’s left took advantage of the silence and said, “Your part in this, Monk, will be dealt with in due course. For now let us focus on the reason for Her Highness’s unorthodox appearance in the country.”
Melissande glanced at Monk. He was subdued now and ever-so-slightly pink around the edges. “Yes, Unc-Sir Ralph.”
“Lord Attaby,” said Monk’s important relative, properly deferring. “Do continue, sir. I believe time is a commodity in short supply.”
“Time, Lord Attaby, has pretty well run out!” she said hotly. “At least for your citizen Professor Gerald Dunwoody! I’m assuming you do care about him at least, even if you couldn’t give a toss about the five dead wizards or the people of Kallarap or my people, in New Ottosland, some of whom are already dead because of this string of disasters! You know, none of this would ever have happened if people like you hadn’t failed to monitor Pomodoro Uffitzi more carefully! If he hadn’t got his hands on those dreadful grimoires I wouldn’t be standing here thaumaturgically related to a dragon!” She tilted her chin at him. “Now what have you to say about that?”
Lord Attaby sat back, thinly smiling. “A great deal, as it happens.” His fingers drummed the table, making his teaspoon dance on its saucer. “Am I to understand, Your Highness, that you… and your government… accept no responsibility for recent events? Are you claiming that your brother King Lional bears no culpability whatsoever for the murder of five wizards, one of whom was an Ottoslander, or the deaths of your unfortunate citizens and his intended invasion of your peaceful neighbor?”
Melissande felt herself turn red. “No,” she said curtly. “Of course Lional’s culpable. He’s also crazy. I’m not making excuses, I’m just giving you the facts.”
