taking the plate and drying it. “I just wish I knew how. You don’t suppose-” He hesitated. “Would Monk have helped him? Your Monk, I mean.”
“I expect so,” said Melissande, watching him return the clean plate to its rightful place. “You know, that’s really quite off-putting. You’ve never set foot in this kitchen, yet you know where the tea towels are and where the plates live. I wonder if life could get any more peculiar?”
“I’m sorry,” he said, seeing the pain in her set face. “What you’ve been through-what you’re going through-” He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
“Why? None of this is your fault,” she said, trying to sound indifferent. “It’s just the way things turned out. For us, anyway.”
She set two more plates in the rack then handed him a third. Drying it, watching her, he thought she was going to ask him something. But then her lips firmed and she gave a tiny shake of her head, as though she were having a silent conversation with herself.
“What?” he said, holding the dried plate and tea towel. “Go on. Ask. It’s all right.”
The look she gave him was full of fear and sarcasm. “Really? How would you know?”
The imprisoning shadbolt was sunk deep in her etheretic aura. Given her limited potentia it was a far more powerful binding than was necessary. Much crueler. He could feel it waiting for her to trip up, say the wrong thing or wear the wrong expression, so it could tighten its grip on her and make her pay.
Shamed, he turned away. “Sorry. You’re right.” He put the plate in the cupboard. “I don’t know anything.”
She didn’t contradict him. Instead she made short work of the dirty cutlery then reached for the bacon pan. But halfway through scrubbing she stopped, her spectacles foggy. “Your world,” she said, her voice low. “Is it better than this one?”
“Yes,” he said, when he could speak past the lump in his throat. “Much.”
“You and me… after New Ottosland-we stayed in touch?”
He nodded. “We certainly did.”
“And am I happy there? In your world?”
The note of hope in her voice nearly broke him. How can I tell her without making things worse? But then how can I lie? She deserves the truth. “Very. At least, you are when you’re not worrying about the agency or rousing on Monk for being reckless or scolding Reg for-”
“No, don’t mind me,” she said, one hand raised and dripping suds, even as tears rolled down her thin cheeks. “I’m glad for me. Honestly. Your me. I’m glad for you, that things are good in your world.” On a deep breath she got back to scrubbing. “I hope you make it home again, Gerald. I hope-” Another deep breath. “I hope she knows how lucky she is.”
“Melissande…” he said, aching. “If there’s any way I can help you, I will. If I can get that bloody shadbolt off you, I will. I’ll-”
She shoved the scrubbed pan at him. “That’s sweet, really. It’s easy to forget you used to be a kind and decent man.”
He didn’t know what to say to that, so he took the pan and tea-toweled it dry.
“There’s nothing you can do for me, Gerald,” she said calmly. “I mean, I’m sure you could get rid of this shadbolt but he’d only replace it with something worse. And then he’d make you very sorry that you interfered. Don’t interfere with him, Gerald. Don’t get in his way. Nothing good happens to anyone who gets in his way.”
“But-” He stared at her. “I can’t help him, Melissande. Not if what he wants me to do means people will get hurt.”
She snorted. “Trust me, Gerald, if he shadbolts you then you’ll not have a choice. D’you honestly think Monk wants to help him? He’s shadbolted just like me.”
Oh, lord. Monk. “Where is he, Melissande? And where’s Reg?”
“I don’t know,” she said, scrubbing at the last pan. “I haven’t seen either of them for nearly six months.”
Feeling sick, he took the cleaned egg pan from her. “He said they were alive. Do you think he was lying?”
“About Monk?” She shook her head. “No. He needs Monk for his thaumaturgics. As for Reg, who knows? I mean, she’s Reg. He loves that stupid bird. Or he used to. But the last time I saw her she was still trying to change his mind, and these days Gerald doesn’t like being challenged. He’s got a new motto, you see. Be reasonable and do it my way. ”
“Oh.” Heart sinking, he put the egg pan away with the other pots. “Melissande… how bad is it out there?” He nodded at the window, at the unknown world beyond it. “What can I expect to find?”
She pulled the sink’s plug then fetched another tea towel. “Misery,” she said, starting on the cutlery. “Fear. Our Gerald’s got all of Ottosland gripped tight in his fist. And the only way you’ll get him to let go of it is by cutting off his hand.” Her eyes glittered. “Or better yet, his head.”
He swallowed. “You hate him.”
“Of course I do,” she said. “And so would you, if you were me.”
Yes, he probably would.
“I hate Emmerabiblia, too,” she added. “Even if she is Monk’s sister. Sly little trollop.” Her mouth pinched. “In your world, are you and she-”
“No,” he said, and had to clear his throat. “But I like her. In my world she’s-ah-well. She’s different. In my world you like her, too. In fact-”
“Stop,” she said, turning away. “Don’t tell me any more about your world. I can hardly stand my life as it is.”
Oh, lord. “I’m sorry.”
“And stop apologizing,” she snapped. “This isn’t your fault. Like you said, you aren’t him.”
I really bloody hope not. “Look-getting back to him,” he said diffidently. “What about the government? Surely he didn’t just… stroll in and take it over?”
“Actually?” She shrugged. “That’s exactly what he did. Very nicely at first. He only wanted to help. He solved a few sticky problems and everyone was thrilled. Solved a few more, and still everyone was thrilled. And then he started… butting in. So people started having second thoughts, but by then it was too late. And when you’re the only rogue wizard in the world, Gerald, and you’ve got more thaumaturgical firepower at your fingertips than a hundred regular wizards rolled into one, and no conscience at all, well-I’m afraid you can do pretty much what you like.”
He felt as confused now as when he’d first opened his eyes in the bedroom that wasn’t really his bedroom. “But-but-what about the United Magical Nations? Surely someone’s reported him. I mean, those grimoires Lional stole from Uffitzi, they’re on the proscribed list. They’re illegal. There are sanctions for using them. Surely someone must’ve-”
Sighing, Melissande put down the tea towel and the forks she was drying. “Gerald…” She took her hands in his. “You’re not listening. He’s made himself untouchable.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t believe that. Nobody’s untouchable. Somebody somewhere is fighting him. They have to be. Surely you’ve heard something, a whisper, a-a rumor even, of-”
She let go of him and stepped back, shaking her head. “You really don’t grasp the enormity of what’s happened here, do you? Gerald, I’ve not left this house for seven months. Aside from him and Bibbie, you’re the only person I’ve spoken to since I was shadbolted and prisoned beneath this roof. For all I know there is no more government and Central Ott’s nothing but a smoking ruin.”
“Oh, but-surely there has to be a government,” he protested. “I mean, every country has a government, Melissande. You know. Lords and ministers and bureaucrats and pen-pushers. We’re bloody overrun with them back home. A country can’t function without a government. You know that better than anyone. You used to be a prime minister.”
“For a brother who got rid of his government, remember?” she retorted. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Gerald’s not taken a page out of Lional’s instruction manual and done the same thing.” Frowning, she reached for the dried cutlery and began putting it away. “Gerald… about Lional… your Lional, I mean…”
Oh, lord. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But he died.”
She nodded, closed the cutlery drawer then picked up the tea towel. “Here, too. Gerald killed him.” She
