need. “Bibbie, when you looked for the shadbolt, what did you feel?”
To his dismay, Bibbie’s blue eyes flooded with tears. “I told you, I don’t know,” she said, her voice a broken little whisper. “I was imagining things. I had to be. It was a trick. He’s hexed. He must be. This can’t be real.”
“Hey, hey,” he said, sliding his arm around her shoulders. She was trembling. Bibbie. Shocked, he pulled her close. “It’s all right, Bibs. Come on, now. It’s all right.”
“No, it’s not all right, Monk,” she said, and wrenched herself out of his hold. “And do you know why? Because I felt you. I felt your potentia. And since that can’t be possible, I must be going mad!”
“No, you’re not, Bibbie,” said the man on the sofa. “You’re perfectly sane. You did feel his potentia. Because he’s me… and I’m him.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Bibbie, glaring. “There’s only one Monk Markham and I’m standing beside him.”
The man on the sofa nodded painfully. “You’re almost right. There’s only one Monk Markham in every world. But you see… this isn’t my world, Bibbie. My world’s next door.”
“Next door?” said Melissande, breaking the heavy silence.
“In a manner of speaking,” said the man on the sofa. “At least, that’s the easiest way to explain it.”
Bibbie took a hesitant step towards him. “You’re not making this up?”
“Bibbie…” The man managed a smile. “When it comes to metaphysics when did I ever make things up?” His voice cracked on the last word, and his haunted, horribly familiar eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Bibs. It’s really you. I’d forgotten how you used to be. It’s been so long and-oh-damn- damn- ”
“Monk? Monk, what’s the matter?” cried Bibbie, and dashed to the sofa.
Dazed, Monk watched his sister hold the man-another Monk-against the shudders of pain running through him without relief. They seemed to go on and on forever. But at last, just when he thought he couldn’t stand it any more, the man on the sofa let out a sobbing sigh and relaxed.
“What was that?” Bibbie demanded, easing back to a crouch. “Monk, what’s been done to you?”
The Monk from next door wiped a shaking hand across his face. “It’s the shadbolt,” he muttered. “He doesn’t like it when I talk out of turn.”
“Who?” said Bibbie fiercely. “Who put the shadbolt on you, Monk? And what kind of shadbolt is it that can stay hidden like that?”
“A special one,” said the Monk from next door, then winced and gasped. “Please-don’t ask me to explain-it hurts too much-it hurts-”
“Sorry, sorry,” Bibbie whispered. “Look, obviously you need help. Tell us how we can help you.”
“You can get it off me,” said the Monk from next door. “ Please. Monk?”
“What? No,” said Monk, feeling sick. Feeling his other self’s desperate stare punch him in the gut. “I can’t. Are you bonkers, mate? No.”
The Monk from next door’s face had drained to a sickly, sweaty gray. It was scarred, too. He’d not noticed that before. A cut along the left cheekbone, the kind of mark left behind by a blow from a fist made of fingers heavy with rings. Seeing that scar, knowing that if he looked in a mirror he wouldn’t see it reflected back at him, he felt a dreadful premonition whip through his blood like roaring flames of ice.
He’s a me from somewhere else not far enough away-and wherever that is, it’s got big problems. And now he’s brought those problems with him. Here. To me.
Oh, bloody hell.
“Look,” he said tightly. “Mate. I’m sorry, but you’ve made a mistake. Go home. We can’t help you.”
Shocked, Bibbie turned to him. “ What? No-Monk-listen, we can’t just-”
“No, Bibbie, you listen!” he retorted. “Don’t you see this is wrong? He’s not meant to be here. Saint Snodgrass alone knows what damage he’s doing to our etheretic integrity. He could be putting our whole world at risk.”
“You don’t know that!” said Bibbie hotly “You could be wrong!”
“And what if I’m right?” he said. “Are you willing to take that risk? Bibbie, we don’t even know how he got here!”
The Monk from next door laughed, a rusty, unused sound. “Yes, you do, Monk. You bloody well do. You stare at the ceiling at night when you’re meant to be asleep, wondering. Thinking, Is it even possible? I bet it is. I bet I could… We both know you do, mate. You can’t lie to me.”
He nearly jumped out of his socks when Melissande took hold of his arm. “Monk, what is he talking about?”
“Mel…” It was hard, it was so hard, but he made himself look at her. Princess Melissande of New Ottosland, short and stocky and bossy and brave. Ethics like armor. A sense of justice like a sword. The woman he loved, but wasn’t sure he could marry.
Me and Gerald, eh? What a bloody pair.
“Monk,” said Melissande, insistent, and tightened her grasp. “Do you know how he got here or don’t you?”
He looked across at the man on the couch. Of course I know. Because he’s me, and I’m him, and there’s precious bloody little we won’t try once. Their eyes met, and he felt the most peculiar jolt: recognition and fear and a terrible sorrow.
He sighed. “You brought it with you?”
“I had to,” said the other Monk. “I have to go back.”
“Then show them,” he said, and sighed again, because it was too late for all of them now.
The Monk from next door reached into his pocket and took out a small, rough, insignificant-looking stone.
“Hey!” said Bibbie. “That’s your portable portal. The-the Mark B prototype. The one you accidentally turned into an interdimensionaloh.”
“Blimey bloody Charlie,” said Reg, disgusted, breaking the stunned silence. “Oy. Mr. Twin. Did you jigger that thing to do what I think it’s done? And if you did, sunshine, then how many more of you idiots are running loose, d’you think?”
Reprehensibly, unforgivably, Monk felt a pang of pure jealousy shoot through him.
Bugger. He really did it. Does that mean I could do it too?
And then he yelled in pain as Reg leaned sideways on Melissande’s shoulder and yanked hard on a beakful of his hair. “Forget it, you raving lunatic!” she shrieked, slightly muffled. “Are you out of your brandy-pickled mind?”
“I’m sorry,” said Melissande, icy as winter, letting go of his hand completely and stepping aside. Reg squawked a protest as she was nearly pulled off her shoulder-perch. “Just let me see if I’ve understood this correctly. This other Monk Markham-to all intents and purposes you, Monk-took what he- you — freely admitted was a dangerously unpredictable accidental invention, namely the interdimensional portal opener-and-and twiddled it until he- you — could get it to open a portal into-into- what, exactly?”
“A parallel world,” said Monk, in perfect unison with himself from next door.
The look in Melissande’s eyes was lethal. “I see. Well, now. Ah-Reg?”
“Yes, ducky?”
“Do you know what I think?”
Reg’s eyes were gleaming too. “I think I can hazard a guess.”
“I think that if ever there was a time a man deserved a good poking in his unmentionables then-”
“Hey!” he said, backing up. “Don’t look at me, Melissande. I didn’t do it. He did. Poke him.”
Melissande wasn’t beautiful when she was angry. She was angry when she was angry. Practically breathing fire. “You heard what he said, Monk! You’ve been bloody thinking it! It was only ever a matter of time!”
The man on the sofa-Monk from next door-gasped a little, then started laughing. “Oh, Saint Snodgrass,” he wheezed. “I have missed this so much.” And then, quite dreadfully, he started weeping.
“Stop it,” said Bibbie, close to tears again herself. “All of you, just stop it. We’re in real trouble here and all you can do is squabble. Shame on you. We’re going to help him and that’s all there is to it.”
“But Bibbie-”
“ Fine,” she shouted. “Then I will. Don’t you see, Monk? I have to. This man is my brother! ”
Silenced, he stared at her. “No, he’s not,” he said at last. “I am.”
