And is that what he is? Is that what I became here? A villain? Is this Gerald the kind of wizard I’d be hunting, back home?
Stupid question. Of course he was.
I don’t understand. My didn’t Reg stop me? How could she stand by and let something like this happen?
Reg. Oh lord, he had to ask. And whatever the answer, he’d have to bear it. “And where’s our little feathered friend?”
“Who? Reg?” the other Gerald said carelessly. “She’s around somewhere. I’m sure you’ll see her sooner or later. Why, did you think-” He blinked, as though genuinely surprised. “Oh, Professor, come on. Anyone would think I’m a monster. But really, how can I possibly be a monster when I’m you?”
Dizzy with relief, he closed his eyes. It was crazy to care so much, of course. The Reg in this world wasn’t his Reg. Just as the woman in the thin scarlet silk dress wasn’t his Emmerabiblia. And yet… and yet…
It doesn’t matter. I still have to save them from what’s happening here. I have to save him, from himself if nothing else.
But to do that he had to survive. And to survive he had to play along, at least until he had a better idea of what he was dealing with. Until he’d found this world’s Monk, and seen Reg, and Melissande. If they were still themselves then he might have a chance. But if they weren’t… if they’d turned, like Bibbie…
No. No. I’m not going to think about that.
He opened his eyes. “All right. Bottom line, Gerald. Why the hell did you bring me here?”
The other Gerald heaved a theatrical sigh. “Well, it’s about time. I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever get to the point. Was I always this slow on the uptake, I wonder? Or is this simply a by-product of interdimensional travel?” He pulled a face. “Gosh. I hope not. When Monk emerges from his inventorly trance we’ll have him test you, or something. Because if traveling between worlds has fried your synapses, Professor, I’m going to be forced back to the drawing board. Again.”
“Monk’s inventing something? What?”
“I’m not telling you,” said the other Gerald, horrifyingly playful. “It’s a surprise. Now come on. Get dressed. It’s way past time for breakfast and I’m starving.”
The old, ornate mahogany wardrobe opposite the window was identical to his own. But the clothes inside it…
“I can’t wear these! ” he protested, looking at the boldly colored velvets and silk brocades. “They’re not me. I’ll look like a bloody-”
“Yes?” said the other Gerald, fingers caressing his black-and-gold silk lapel. “Like a bloody what, Professor?”
“Idiot,” he said, feeling suddenly reckless. “You can wear what you like, Gerald. That’s your business. But I wear tweeds or twill or wool. And if you don’t like it, feel free to send me home.”
The other Gerald tapped a finger against his chin. “Hmm. I wonder, does that petty little outburst mean you’re going to be difficult, Professor? I hope not, because I’ve enough on my plate without you getting temperamental on me.”
“What d’you think?” he retorted. “Since you know me so well.”
“I think you’re thinking there must be some way to-I don’t knowredeem me,” said the other Gerald, shrugging. “Because I remember that look. That stupid, soft, I need to save the world look. But you don’t have to, because that’s my job. And my way is much, much more effective. I’ve gone far beyond the notion of saving it one tedious compliance violation at a time.”
He managed a smile of his own. “Funny you should say that, Gerald. So have I.”
“Yes, well, whatever it is you’re doing these days, I can promise you it’ll pale into insignificance compared to my feats,” the other Gerald retorted. “So I suppose it’s only fitting that you wear tweeds or twill or wool.” With a great flourish he clapped his hands above his head. Power ripped through the ether, rattling the windowpanes and flapping the curtains. “There you go, Professor. Happy now?”
He looked at the drab brown worsteds, the dull green tweeds, the gray twills and the definitely unsilky white shirts. Good, plain cotton.
“Lovely. Thank you.”
“Then get dressed,” snapped his counterpart. “We’ve got a very busy day ahead of us.”
Since feeling awkward about dressing in front of himself was clearly ridiculous, he pretended he didn’t feel any such thing. Once he’d swapped the striped flannel nightshirt for underdrawers, a singlet, and a dull-as- dishwater worsted suit ensemble complete with braces, white cotton shirt, brown tie, brown socks and brown leather shoes, he looked at his incredibly unlikely captor.
“All done.”
“Hideous,” said the other Gerald. “I can’t believe I used to dress like that. I like this so much better.”
Another flourishing hand clap-another blast of thaumaturgic power-and the dressing-gown was gone, replaced by a supremely elegant royal blue silk suit and a white silk shirt so dazzling it looked like a snowfield at noon on a cloudless day. The ruby rings were gone too, replaced by diamonds and sapphires.
“You see, Professor? One can be elegant and stylish without being pretentious,” said the other Gerald, severely. “You of all people, a tailor’s son, should know that. I mean, if Father could see you now he’d roll in his grave.”
He felt the blood drain from his face. “That’s-you’re not-roll in his grave, that’s just a figure of-”
“’Fraid not,” said the other Gerald, pulling a face. “In my world we’re orphans, Professor. Mother and Father’s round-the-world trip? In hindsight, the little detour to Ling-Ling wasn’t such a good idea.” He sighed. “Tragic, isn’t it? Now for pity’s sake, come on. Breakfast’s going to be cold! And we both know how I feel about cold bacon and eggs.”
There was an even nastier shock waiting for him in the kitchen. Their kitchen, his and Bibbie’s and Monk’s and Reg’s. Well, Monk’s mostly, but his careless, anarchic friend did love to share. This one was exactly the same, old and cozy and comfortable, right down to the scarred wooden table that only moments ago, it seemed, he and she and Monk and Reg had sat around, laughing and eating pancakes, while Melissande stood at the old-fashioned cooking range whipping up yet another bowlful of batter and pretending their compliments meant nothing at all.
Oh, she was there, this world’s Melissande. Short and stocky and red-haired and aproned. But she wasn’t laughing and trading quips with Monk and Reg. Instead she was braced against the bench under the window, eyes closed behind her spectacles, head slightly turned away… from Bibbie. Bibbie in her scarlet dress, laughing as she plucked whole eggs from the empty air and tossed them at Melissande with a careless cruelty that stopped his heart. Egg yolk and albumen dripped down Mel’s face, dragging bits of eggshell with them. The conjured eggs were rotten, their stench thickening the kitchen’s air, painting over the proper breakfast smells of bacon and coffee and hot bread and fresh eggs nicely fried.
Worst of all, Melissande was wearing a shadbolt.
“Bibbie!” snapped the other Gerald as he led the way into the kitchen. “If you’ve started playing before she’s finished cooking-”
The other Bibbie’s laughter stopped. “No, Gerald. Of course not.”
Unappeased, the other Gerald scorched her with a look. “Honestly, did the eggs have to be rotten?”
“Well, yes,” said Bibbie. “It’s not nearly as much fun otherwise, is it?” Pouting, she crossed to him and stroked a teasing finger down his nose. “Come on, don’t be a spoilsport. You get to punish naughty people. Why can’t I?”
The other Gerald caught her finger in his mouth and sucked on it, his gaze burning into her eyes. She laughed again, in her throat, and pressed up against him. Plucked her finger from his mouth and brushed it over his lips.
“Was she naughty, Bibs?” the other Gerald murmured. “Why? What did she do?”
Gerald didn’t want to know. Shaken, he walked past them straight to Melissande, who hadn’t moved or made any attempt to clean herself. Behind the egg-fouled spectacles her eyes were still tight shut. This close to her the stink was overwhelming. If there’d been food in his stomach he’d be heaving it all out. But the stink wasn’t important.
“Hey,” he said gently. “Melissande-”
At the sound of his voice she flinched and whimpered. Melissande, whimpering? Oh, Saint Snodgrass. This
