She’d never seen him so upset. “I don’t understand,” she said, after a moment. “Monk, are you saying you don’t-you don’t trust the people you’re working with? That you don’t trust the government?”
With a heavy sigh he slumped against the pushbike she’d pedaled so hard. “No, I’m not saying that,” he muttered. “I just wish I had more control over what I do. Over what gets done with what I do. That’s all. Especially now, with me answering to Uncle Ralph and Sir Alec.”
“I thought you said the arrangement wasn’t working out too badly.”
“It’s not,” he said, and heaved another sigh. “Sir Alec says I’m making an important difference, even though he won’t go into detail. I mean, he’s a sneaky, secretive, unscrupulous bastard but funnily enough I do trust him.”
Oh, dear. “But not your Uncle Ralph?”
“No,” he said, grudging. “I trust him too, even though he’s an interfering, self-righteous prig. But the thing is he doesn’t work alone, does he? Neither of them does.”
“Monk…” Stepping carefully, mindful of what her young man would say if she so much as nudged one experiment a hair’s-width out of place, she joined him at the dratted pushbike and took his hands in hers. Squeezed lightly, reassuringly. “I think you’re worrying for no good reason. You’re letting your imagination run away with you because you’re tired and crotchety and you don’t like being bossed.”
He managed a small grin. “Well-that’s not entirely true. I mean, it depends on who’s doing the bossing, doesn’t it?”
“Oh,” she said, feeling her cheeks heat. “Well-”
His fingers tightened around hers. “Melly, I do wish you’d reconsider. Things are different now. With Bibbie moved in here, and Gerald, nobody could accuse you-accuse us-of doing anything improper. I’m the owner of the establishment, my sister’s the housekeeper and Gerald’s a lodger. You could be a lodger too. It’s all perfectly respectable. And there are so many empty rooms in this old pile I’d hardly notice you were here. Seriously, how much longer can you keep on living in that horrible little cubbyhole at the office?”
I’d hardly notice you were here. Now there was a romantic invitation… “It’s respectable to have a male lodger and a relative for a housekeeper, yes,” she said, shaking her head. Pretending his careless comment didn’t hurt. “But that’s as far as it goes, Monk. Especially since I’m not like other people.”
He groaned. “Oh come on, Mel, don’t start with all that I’m a princess malarkey again. This is Ottosland, we don’t believe in roy-”
“Not constitutionally perhaps, but the social pages of the Times believe in it with a passion,” she retorted. “And I am not about to do anything that will reflect poorly on Rupert. Besides, I like my little cubbyhole. It’s peaceful, it’s private, and it’s very economical. I’m particularly fond of the walk to work.”
Now it was Monk’s turn to shake his head. “I just don’t understand how you can bear to be cooped up in that little box. After growing up in a palace? It makes no sense to me.”
And it makes no sense to me why you’ll ask me to move in here like a lodger but you won’t suggest a-a formal arrangement.
But she couldn’t bring herself to say those terrible words out loud. For all that she’d railed against tradition back home, there were some time-honored practices she was happy to support. Like being the marriage propos ee, and not the propos er. Because there was bossy and then there was overbearing and she had no desire to cross that particular line.
“Yes, well, you don’t have to understand it,” she said. “All you have to do is accept it.”
Monk grumbled something under his breath, then shrugged. “Fine.”
They were still holding hands. That was something, wasn’t it? That was-was encouraging. A sign. Wasn’t it?
I wonder, is it being overbearing if I try to-I don’t know-nudge things along a bit? Drop a not-so-subtle hint?
“Monk, I-”
A flapping of wings, and then Reg was perched on top of the half-open attic door. “Oy, you two, that’s quite enough surreptitious canoodling to be going on with, thank you. Mad Miss Markham says to tell you that she’s finished telling Gerald all about Mr. Frobisher and she’s so famished now she’s beginning to feel faint, so if you don’t come downstairs this instant and start cooking her those promised pancakes then she’s going to start cooking them herself.”
“God, no,” said Monk, paling, and let go of her hands. “She’ll have the whole kitchen on fire. Come on, Mel. Quick. Before the house goes up in flames around our ears and I’m out on the street looking for a cubbyhole of my own.”
So they trooped on down to the cozy kitchen and she made what felt like hundreds of pancakes, each one crisp and light and flavored with laughter and friendship. Monk had abandoned the notion of keeping on a full-time staff after his late Great-uncle Throgmorton’s people refused to return to Chatterly Crescent, even though the sprite that chased them away had been sent packing to its home dimension. But it didn’t matter. He and Bibbie and Gerald managed between them, more or less, and if sometimes little chores like pantry-stocking got left up to her, well, she didn’t mind. It made her feel… needed.
At last even Bibbie pushed her plate away. “If I eat another bite I’m going to explode,” she announced. “That was wonderful, Mel. Y’know, if the agency does end up going ass over eyebrows you can always hire yourself out as a cook.”
“Hear, hear,” said Gerald, around his own last mouthful.
Monk was grinning. “And you can count on us for references.”
“Thank you so much,” she said with a sarcastic curtsey. “Truly, I’m touched.” She glanced at the kitchen clock, quietly ticking. “Golly. Look at the time.” A tug and a twitch had her apron strings untying. “I’ll have to head home. I’ve still got some I ’s to dot and some T ’s to cross with the Frobisher business.”
“So don’t you sit there like a rabbit in the headlights, Mr. Markham,” said Reg, with a rattle of tail feathers. “Go fire up your jalopy so you can drive us back to Witches Inc.”
“Oh,” said Monk, whose grin had faded. Now there was an all-too-familiar glazed look on his face. “Yes. Um-”
Gerald shook his head. “Bloody hell, Markham. You’re hopeless, you know that, right?”
“Don’t tell me, let me guess,” Melissande said, resigned. “You’ve been struck by a thaumaturgical thought and you need to follow through on it without delay.”
At least Monk had the grace to be embarrassed. “Ah-”
“It’s all right,” said Gerald. “I’ll drive you and Reg home.”
“What?” said Bibbie. “No. I can drive-”
“No, Emmerabiblia, you bloody well can’t!”
The chorus of refusal was deafening. Bibbie stared back at them, offended. “Honestly, you lot. I fixed the mangled fenders, didn’t I? What more do you want?”
“I want back the ten years you scared off my life, ducky,” said Reg. “That’s what I want.”
As Bibbie lapsed into sulky silence, Gerald picked up the jalopy keys from the bench. “All set?”
Monk slid off the kitchen stool. “I’ll-ah-I’ll walk you to the front door.”
Melissande lifted her hand to him. “That’s all right. I’m tolerably sure I can remember the way by now. Reg?”
Quietly snickering, Reg jumped onto her shoulder.
“Good night, Monk,” she said, with all the dignity she could muster, and hung her apron on the back of the kitchen door. “Bibbie, I’ll see you in the morning. Please don’t be late, and don’t forget the post.”
Gerald opened the kitchen door for her and she walked out, her head high… even as her heart broke, just a little.
CHAPTER NINE
You see,” said Gerald carefully, as he backed the jalopy out of Monk’s dilapidated garage, “the thing is, when it comes to thaumaturgics he just can’t help himself. He’s always been like that, ever since I’ve known him.
