Well. According to Bibbie, ever since he was born, practically. So…”
“I’m sorry, Gerald, but I’m not entirely sure what it is you’re trying to say,” Melissande replied in absolutely her snootiest princess voice ever. And that meant her feelings really were hurt. Dammit, Monk. Sometimes I really could kick your skinny ass. “And by the way, if you don’t steer to the left,” she added, still snooty, “you’re going to undo all of Bibbie’s work on the fenders.”
He bit off a curse and wrenched the old jalopy’s wheel hard to the right, swinging its rump just in time to clear the converted stable yard’s crumbling brick gatepost.
“Ha,” said Reg, perched on the back of the jalopy’s rear passenger seat. “And you’ve got the nerve to call Madam Scatterbrain cockeyed.”
Ignoring Reg he slowed, shifted the jalopy out of reverse then swung its long, blunt nose to follow the narrow driveway out to Chatterly Crescent, where he rolled to a stop. The autumn night was cool and damp, a drizzle misting before the vehicle’s bug-eyed headlamps. Thanks to the lateness of the hour the sweepingly curved street was quiet, muted lights shining cozily behind every curtained window. All those nice ordinary people, living their nice, ordinary lives. And to think he used to be one of them… those days seemed a long way off now. Another lifetime. Another Gerald Dunwoody. Abruptly melancholy, he breathed out a sigh.
But would I go back? if there was a way, would I undo Stuttley’s and the rest of it? Wipe my life clean and go back to being that Gerald? Apologetic… marginally competent… longing for more and so afraid I’d never get it.
The thought made him shudder. No, he was thrilled he’d left that Gerald behind. But then, remembering the price others had paid for his transformation, for his secret dreams of greatness spectacularly coming true, all pleasure died… and he felt nothing but a drowning guilt.
“Oy,” said Reg from the back seat. “Bugalugs. Have you fallen asleep?”
He shook himself out of pointless regret. He was who he was now. Nothing could change what was done to him. What he’d done. The only thing that mattered was what he did next.
Chatterly Crescent remained empty of traffic. Over to the right the looming bulk of the Old Barracks cast shadows across the uneven cobblestones. The drizzle, thickening towards rain, dripped with rising determination down the windshield so he activated the wipers as he eased the jalopy into the street.
“No, Gerald, that’s the horn,” Reg said helpfully, as an ear-splitting caterwaul shattered the peaceful night.
“Really?” he shouted, and tried one of the dashboard’s other buttons. “I would never have guessed.” He glanced at Melissande again, hoping to surprise a smile, but no. She was still frowning. Still regally distant. Brooding over Markham, though she’d never admit it.
Bloody hell, Monk. Have you got rocks in your head? Are you besotted with Her Royal Highness or aren’t you?
The answer, of course, was yes. Monk adored Melissande. So it was an absolute mystery to him why his friend was holding back, why he hadn’t come right out and unequivocally declared himself. Sure, things had been a bit tricky lately, what with him being tugged to and fro between the demands of his superiors in Research and Development and Sir Alec. And then of course there was the latest unpleasantness over his extra-curricular experiments-but what did any of that have to do with romance?
Nothing. And it’s not like he’s an idiot, or completely inexperienced. There have been other young ladies. Not many and not for long, but still.
Which perhaps meant that this was the first time Monk had been genuinely… smitten. And perhaps that was the explanation for his reticence in a nutshell.
Sleepy Chatterly Crescent came to an end, which meant they had the choice of turning left or right onto The Old Parade. Hitting the right indicator button, which produced an orange hand on a long lever, its fingers making a singularly impolite gesture- bloody hell, Monk! — he eased the jalopy into the sporadic westwards traffic flow. And that gave him an excuse to glance at Melissande. No two ways about it, she was definitely fed up-and quite possibly on the brink of tears. Which was so unlike her that he felt his stomach sink.
I’m no good at this. I think it’s time to change the subject.
“So, Melissande, I was wondering,” he said after a few moments of frantic brain-racking, as the jalopy chugged along with its narrow tires hissing on the wet road. He had to be a bit careful along here, they needed to turn off The Old Parade any tick of the clock. Easing back on the accelerator, he leaned over the steering wheel and peered through the windshield. Drat it, where was the turn-off? The night’s mizzling rain was making the world all smeary…
Melissande shifted in the passenger seat to stare at him. “Yes? Wondering what, Gerald?”
Hitting the indicator button again then changing down gears, he eased the jalopy to a grumbling idle and waited for an oncoming horse-and-carriage to pass. The horse was soaked, its ears pinned back to show its lack of enthusiasm.
Poor thing, and on a horrible night like this, too.
“Gerald!” Melissande said sharply. “Wondering what?”
He blinked at her. “What? Oh-yes-sorry-about this problematical Frobisher person.” The hard done-by horse trotted sullenly by, carriage in tow, and he made the turn across The Old Parade. “Will you be all right dealing with him or would you like me to-”
“Thank you, Gerald,” said Melissande icily, “but I’m perfectly capable of handling one dyspeptic senior citizen without a man’s assistance. Or a wizard’s, for that matter. In case you hadn’t noticed we are living in the modern era. It’s amazing what women can do these days without the help of men. Or wizards.”
“Although the same can’t be said for vice versa,” added Reg. “You do know you’ve just gone the wrong way down a one-way street, Gerald?”
Bugger. He’d turned too soon. It was all Monk’s fault.
There was nobody coming towards them and nowhere to turn around anyway so he took a deep breath, put his foot down on the soggy accelerator and nudged the jalopy along a bit faster with the merest hint of a speed- em-up hex. Nipping out of the entrance to the one-way street, barely avoiding an unfortunate encounter with a cab that was traveling far too fast for the prevailing conditions, he eased back on the jalopy’s accelerator and the thaumaturgic rev-up and settled into the fitful traffic bowling along Central Ott Way, which would take them in more or less the direction of Witches Incorporated’s modest office.
Melissande was so quiet. He glanced at her sidelong. Lord, she really was upset-and some instinct told him it was about more than just Monk and their unromantic romantic entanglement. So what else could it be?
“How’s Rupert?” he asked casually. “Have you heard from him lately? Everything going all right back home?”
“Rupert’s fine,” she said, distant, staring through the rain-speckled passenger window. “He’s very busy, working on his modernization program. Not everyone’s as enthusiastic about it as he is.”
“Tradition with a capital T digging its heels in?”
She shrugged. “Something like that.”
“You’re not wishing you were back there, giving him a hand?”
“ Lord, no,” she said. “And anyway, Rupert doesn’t want me involved. He says the idea of me in trousers and business is one thing but the fact of it just now would make his job harder, not easier.”
Right. So probably she wasn’t homesick. What did that leave? He could feel Reg settled on the back seat, loudly not saying any number of things.
Thanks, ducky. You’re a bloody big help, you are. The one time I could use some unsolicited advice…
Really, though, there was only one other explanation for Melissande’s glum mood. He glanced at her sidelong again. From the look on her face there was a very good chance she’d bite his head off for asking…
But she’s my friend and she’s miserable. And if I’m right it’s partly my fault.
In which case he owed her the chance to do some biting.
“So, Melissande, I suppose it’s time we talked about the agency. You know, how this new arrangement of ours is working out.”
Behind them Reg snorted, softly. Melissande stiffened as though he’d stuck her with a pin. Ah-hah. In his new line of work that was called a clue.
They hadn’t talked about it since he’d joined the girls at Witches Inc., but he strongly suspected that she still hadn’t come to terms with the agency’s new and unusual circumstances. Even though Sir Alec had kept his word-
