She rubbed her spectacles clean on her sleeve and shoved them back onto her face. “Monk. It’s Melissande. Monk, can you hear me?”
“Is he alive?” her Monk croaked from the floor.
“Well, he’s not dead,” said Reg, always helpful. “But I won’t pretend I’ve not seen healthier corpses.”
“Monk,” Melissande said again, and pressed her palm to the other Monk’s cold, clammy cheek. “It’s all right. It’s over now. You’re quite safe.”
Her Monk groaned. “Help me sit up, Bibs. I’ve gone all rubbery.”
“No, no, you shouldn’t move,” said Bibbie, still tearful, clutching him closer. “You should rest a bit longer before-”
“There isn’t time, Bibs!” said Monk. “Please.”
Swearing under her breath, Bibbie helped him sit up.
Melissande gave him another sideways glance. “Bibbie’s right. You should be lying down.”
“Don’t you start!” he snapped, then shook his head. “Damn. Sorry.”
She turned her attention back to the other Monk. “Doesn’t matter.” Leaning close again, she patted his cheek. “Monk. Monk?”
Reg rattled her tail feathers. “Oh for pity’s sake, woman, stop pussyfooting around and slap him, would you?”
“Don’t you dare!” said Bibbie, crowding close. “Shut up, Reg. You’re no bloody help at all!”
“Well, at least I’m not impersonating a watering pot!” Reg retorted. “I mean, if you want to turn a hose on him, ducky, turn a hose on him and be done with it. Splashing him with a few maidenly tears isn’t going to-”
Bibbie turned on her, ferocious. “Oh, you horrible bird, how can you be so callous? After what he’s just gone through? Sometimes, Reg, I wonder-”
“Hey,” said the other Monk, and opened his eyes. “I thought paradise would be a little more peaceful than this.”
Pulling her hands back to the safety of her lap, Melissande managed a wobbly smile. “Not if Reg is there with you, it won’t be.”
“I think you might be right,” said the other Monk. His voice was thready, almost no air behind it. And then his sunken, bloodshot eyes warmed. “Hello, Mel.”
Oh, Saint Snodgrass. “Hello.”
He fumbled for her hand. She let him. His fingers held hers, weakly. “It’s so good to see you. I haven’t seen you for so long.”
Really? Why not? But she couldn’t ask him.
“God…” His voice broke. “Melissande, I’ve missed you.”
No, no, no. She couldn’t begin to have that conversation. “You and your bloody inventions,” she said, seeking refuge in scolding… but didn’t pull her hand free. “You never learn, do you?”
He shook his head. Smiled. Shattered her heart. “Apparently not.”
“Monk,” said her Monk, behind her, and put a hand on her shoulder. “Can you talk now? The shadbolt… it’s gone?”
The other Monk closed his eyes again. Coughed, a horrible rattling sound. “Yes,” he murmured. “Feels… strange.” His eyelids lifted slowly. “Thanks, mate.”
Melissande heard her Monk make a funny little sound in his throat. “Don’t thank me. You know-”
“Yeah. I know,” said the other Monk. “Not your fault. Had to be done.”
“What?” said Bibbie, alarmed. “What’s not his fault?”
The other Monk looked at Bibbie, his eyes washing over with tears. “Oh, Bibs. I wish you’d listened to me. I wish I’d known what to say. How to say it. I’m so sorry. You deserved so much better.”
“Than what?” said Bibbie. “Monk, you’re frightening me. What are you talking about, why are you sorr-”
“It doesn’t matter,” the other Monk whispered. “It’s not the same here. You’ll be all right.”
“No, tell me,” she insisted. “I want to-”
“Bibbie, don’t,” Monk said quietly. “There isn’t much time.”
Bibbie stared at her other brother. “What?”
“Open your eyes, ducky,” said Reg, impatient on the sofa’s arm. “Something went a bit wrong breaking that bloody shadbolt.” She looked at Monk. “Didn’t it, Mr. Clever Clogs Markham?”
Melissande felt her Monk flinch. “I did my best.”
“He did,” said the other Monk, his voice hoarse. “It’s all right. I always knew-”
“Knew what?” Bibbie demanded. “Monk-both of you- either of you-what’s going on?”
Ignoring her, Monk grasped his other self’s forearm. “How long?”
“Soon,” whispered the other Monk.
“Tell us what you can,” said Monk. “Quickly. When did everything go ass over elbows?”
The other Monk groaned. His eyes were starting to cloud. “New Ottosland. Lional and his dragon. Gerald swore to stop them.”
“We know,” said Bibbie. “And he did. He made another dragon and-”
“No,” said the Monk on the sofa, sickly pale and sweating. “That didn’t happen. Not in my world. My Gerald made a different choice. He-”
A surging wave of pain silenced him. And as he fought his way through it “Oh, blimey bloody Charlie,” said Reg, with a violent rattling of tail feathers and a great flapping of wings. “ And his bunions and his piles!”
Monk looked at her. “Reg?”
“The palace roof, sunshine. Remember?” said Reg. Her tail was still rattling and her eyes were wide with horror. “Just before Shugat and his swanky sultan turned up? Gerald was all set to help himself to Lional’s manky grimoires.”
“And you talked him out of it.”
“Yes, I did,” Reg retorted. “But the other me didn’t.” She looked at the Monk on the sofa. “Am I right? I’m right, aren’t I?”
Wheezing, the other Monk nodded. “And by the time we got back from Ottosland, it was too late,” he whispered. “My Gerald had… turned.”
Melissande, looking at him, could have wept for his pain. He blamed himself. Gerald was his best friend and in his mind, he’d failed him.
How close did we come to his fate, I wonder? Was it serendipity that saved us, or something else?
“But-how does that work?” said Bibbie, breaking the stunned silence. “Gerald’s Gerald, isn’t he? He can’t decide to do one thing here and another thing-”
“Ha,” said Reg. “’Course he can, ducky. Don’t tell me you’ve never been in two minds about something. I’ve seen you in front of the icebox.”
“So that was the moment when our worlds diverged,” Monk said, frowning. “Our Gerald made his own dragon and defeated Lional in thaumaturgical combat. Whereas his Gerald-”
“Corrupted himself,” said the other Monk. “He was trying to do the right thing, but-what was in those grimoires, combined with his unique potentia — ”
Monk ran a shaking hand over his face. “Bloody hell. No wonder his thaumic signature felt so wrong. Your Gerald, mate, he’s got to be-”
“Stopped,” whispered the other Monk. “I know. Why d’you think I’m here? He’s convinced the world needs saving, and only he can save it. By ruling it. He won’t listen to reason. And the things he’s done-the things he’s doing-what he plans…” Another shuddering, indrawn breath. “Everything’s falling apart so fast. My world’s on the brink of war. Half the member states of the United Magical Nations have banded together and delivered an ultimatum. Ottosland must stand down from its demands or face an all-out punitive response.”
“And oh wait-let me guess,” Reg said darkly. “The other half’s agreed to join your Gerald’s team in return for a share of the international spoils. Politics.”
“Exactly,” said the other Monk. “And he could win. He’s powerful enough, and-and-”
“And you’ve been helping him?” said Monk, his voice tight. “A few new inventions? A nifty little thaumaturgical gadget here and there?”
The other Monk flinched. “I did try to stop him. We were friends.” Another flinch. “I thought we were
