at least so far-which meant there’d been no government interference with how the agency was run-well, unless you counted clients like Arnold Frobisher-still… he thought she was unhappy. He thought she was resenting the loss of her autonomy.
And that is my fault. I got her and Bibbie and Reg caught up in the Wycliffe qffair. Exposed them to secrets they weren’t meant to know. And that gave Sir Alec no choice. Gave Melissande no choice. It was surrender independence to the Department or be closed down altogether. Damn. Why is it that every time I try to do the right thing it seems I help things go more wrong instead?
Melissande continued to gaze at the passing street. “You don’t need to worry about Witches Inc., Gerald. That’s my job. It’s my agency.”
“Oy! And mine,” said Reg, annoyed. “And Madam Scatterbrain’s, though probably it’s better if we don’t say that aloud too often. We don’t want to give the little horror ideas.”
“Hey,” he said, casting her a look over his shoulder. “Scatterbrained I’ll grant you. Plus she’s impetuous and careless and far too brave for her own good, but Bibs is no horror. So you can take that back, thank you.”
Reg sniffed. “Make me.”
Bloody hell. Ignoring Reg, he focused on Melissande. “Look, I know it’s your agency and I’m just the ring-in,” he said, slowing the jalopy for the left-hand turn that would take them off Central Ott Way and into the outskirts of the shabby genteel business district where the agency lived. “But, Mel, that doesn’t mean I don’t have a stake in Witches Inc. For all our sakes I want it to succeed.”
“I know you do,” said Melissande as they swung neatly around the corner, splashing through puddles and startling some scavenging rats.
“Well then, in that spirit,” he continued, “I’d like to suggest that in the future somebody who isn’t Bibbie should deal with any susceptible old men who come to us for help, no matter how they found their way to the door. I mean, honestly, we’re lucky the old boy didn’t drop dead from a heart attack. Just looking at Bibbie tends to increase the blood pressure.”
Melissande considered him. “It doesn’t increase mine.”
“It does when you’re looking at her floating on a dustbin lid on the other side of the open office window,” said Reg, ever helpful. “Or when she’s forgotten to bring in the post again. Or when she’s-”
“Thank you, Reg,” said Melissande, back to snooty. “I think we both know what Gerald’s referring to.”
Another tail-rattle from the back seat. “Oh. You mean the fact he’s ass over teakettle about the girl and can’t bring himself to say anything to her?”
This time he gave her a scorching glare. “ Reg! Do you mind?”
“Just stating the bleeding obvious, sunshine,” said Reg. “Or did you think neither of the very intelligent women in this jalopy had noticed?”
He swallowed. And what did that mean? Did it mean Bibbie knew that he had feelings for her? And if she did know was she wondering why he’d not declared himself? Was he hurting her the way Monk was hurting Melissande?
Oh, blimey. Why wasn’t I born a turnip?
“It’s all right, Gerald,” said Melissande. “Your not terribly secret secret’s safe.” She glanced at Reg. “Well. With me, anyway.”
Bloody Reg. “All I meant,” he said, in a valiant attempt to get the conversation back on track, “is that there are some clients who might best be dealt with by a man. Nothing to do with competence, just-”
“Don’t,” said Melissande. “Really, Gerald? Just don’t. Because if you think I’m in the mood to be told that women can’t do the job like a man then you’re nowhere near as clever as you look.”
“Um-” All of a sudden it was very important to concentrate on the rainy street in front of them. “Yes. All right.”
“And speaking of Arnold Frobisher,” Melissande added, still snippy, “just how many of our clients are Sir Alec’s fault?”
He shook his head. “Sorry. I don’t have a clue. Sir Alec doesn’t tend to confide.”
And if that’s not an understatement, I don’t know what is.
As he slowed them down again, getting ready for the awkward dog-leg turn that would put them onto Tapster Street which would then lead them circuitously to Daffydown Lane, Melissande folded her arms in that particular way she had.
“I’m sure he doesn’t,” she said sourly. “However, be that as it may, leaving Sir Alec’s procurations aside-and no matter how troublesome the inconveniently concupiscent Mr. Frobisher has proven to be-we needed his business. In case you’ve not noticed, Gerald, being taken over by the government hasn’t precisely made us rich. We’re still scrambling, and as far as I can tell we’re going to keep on scrambling for the foreseeable future.”
“Yes, I know, only…” He cleared his throat, feeling fresh guilt. “It’s all part of our cover story, remember? Sir Alec did explain.”
“Yes, and now I’m explaining,” Melissande retorted, a positively martial light in her eye, “since it seems to have escaped your keen wizardly observational skills, that like it or not Bibbie’s blood-pressure raising attributes are an asset to the establishment. Just like me being related to a king is an asset. And assets exist to be exploited.”
“Oy!” said Reg, and she sounded offended. “What about me? I’m the third witch of Witches Incorporated. Technically. I’m the technical advisor. I’m an asset too, ducky, and don’t you forget it!”
“That’s true,” Melissande admitted. “You’re cheap to feed.”
This time Reg’s silence lasted all the way to the end of Tapster Street, into Daffydown Lane and to Witches Incorporated’s front door.
Relieved, Gerald pulled the jalopy over to the pavement and shifted the gearstick into neutral so the engine could idle. If he was smart he’d bid the girls good night right now and pretend he’d never noticed the tension between Melissande and Monk.
But then nobody ever accused me of being smart, did they?
Besides. They were his friends, and in his line of work friends were hard-if not impossible-to come by. And he’d introduced them. It was his fault they’d met. So he had a vested interest in making sure things worked out, didn’t he?
He cleared his throat again. “Look. Melissande. About you and Monk…”
“Oh, Gerald,” she groaned. “Please, can’t you-”
“I know, I know,” he said hastily. “It’s none of my business. Except that it is my business because I care about both of you a great deal and I want you to be happy. So if it would help for me to talk to Monk then-”
“Don’t you dare! ” she gasped, horrified. “How would you like it if I took Bibbie aside and nattered to her about you?”
Despite all the reasons why that was a terrible idea he nearly said, Oh, would you? — but he managed to bite his tongue. Reg was aching for an excuse to poke her beak in and the thought of her giving Bibbie romantic advice about him…
I’d be better off sticking hot needles in my eyes.
“Then let me say this, Melissande, and then I promise I’ll shut up,” he said. “Whatever’s going on with Monk-whatever the reason is that he hasn’t-that he’s not-it isn’t because he doesn’t care. He really does care. But this business with his uncle-”
Sighing, Melissande tugged on her long, rust-red plait. “It’s all right, Gerald. There’s no need to fuss-or defend him, either. Monk’s old enough to do his own talking. As for me, I’m a big girl now too, which means I can fight my own battles. So if you don’t mind I’d rather not talk about it any more. Or about Mr. Frobisher, the old coot. I’ll handle him.”
He patted her hand. “I know you will, Your Highness. You’re brilliant.”
There was enough street-light filtering through the windshield for him to see that she was blushing. “Yes. Well.” She shoved her spectacles back up her nose. “As it happens, Gerald, since we’re talking agency business, there is a question I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. A note in her voice. An ominous undertone. “Yes?” he said, wary.
“When does Sir Alec intend sending you on another janitorial assignment? I mean, he bullied Witches Inc. into becoming part of his wretched Department and now here we are, nearly three months later, and you’re still
