“-were right and I was wrong. See? I can admit it.”
Errol, sounding oddly subdued. Conciliatory. Almost… entreating. Speaking not on the telephone, but through a crystal ball. He could feel the connection vibrating the ether: yet another legacy of his roguish, barely-charted powers. If there was time, he could very likely trace that connection all the way back to its source, but there wasn’t.
Who the hell is he talking to? Please, let it be Rottlezinder. Come on, Errol, give yourself away.
The person on the other end of the conversation said something in reply. The crystal ball’s volume was turned down so low there was no hope of hearing it.
“Yes. And I’m sorry, Haf,” Errol replied. He actually sounded humble. Was he sickening for something? “I want to make it up to you, old friend. Please, can we meet? Tonight? We need to sort this out.”
Though he’d been hoping for it… expecting it… Gerald felt his muscles slacken with shock. Confirmation at last. Errol was in cahoots with Haf Rottlezinder. Even as a small, vindictive part of himself that he hated to admit even existed let out a glorious, gloating yell-he thought: damn.
Because Errol was one of Ottosland’s leading thaumaturgical lights. But to serve his own base ambitions he’d turned against his own people. Their blood was on his elegant hands. There was going to be such a scandal… and the people who tended to look sideways at wizards, who supported the nutty anti-thaumaturgical brigade, who eschewed lives that took advantage of thaumic advances… their blind prejudices would be reinforced and they’d end up with more converts to their short-sighted cause.
Dammit, Errol. How could you?
He realised Errol was talking again. “-know where that is, yes. It’s too early to risk coming now, so wait for me. If you don’t-please, Haf. Just make sure you’re there.”
There? Where was there? Damn, if only he’d been able to hear Rottlezinder’s half of the conversation, or had time to trace the etheretic connection between the crystal balls back to Errol’s partner in crime. Now he’d have to remain hidden here until Errol left the lab then follow him… a venture fraught with the very real chance of discovery and failure.
But never mind. At least we know Rottlezinder’s here in Ottosland. At least he’s within our reach, at last.
So, should he contact Sir Alec? Call for some more agents? No. That would only further complicate an already complicated situation. Besides, he’d had it drummed into him repeatedly during the last six months: nine times out of ten, janitors worked solo. They relied on themselves and nobody else. A janitor was a lone resourceful wolf.
Gerald slunk back to the shadows, prepared to wait for as long it took.
Lord. I wish Reg was here.
“You know, Bibbie,” said Monk, tucking his hands into his armpits. “I’m starting to have second thoughts about this.”
“Really?” said Bibbie brightly, wrapping a striped scarf around her neck. “I’m not.”
He stamped his feet. “Bibs, you’ve only had your driving certificate for five minutes.”
“Excuse me? It’s been almost three months, thank you.”
“Where you’re concerned that’s pretty much the same thing,” he retorted. “And it’s dark, Bibs. Worse, you don’t even know where you’re going! For all you know you could end up in a not-very-salubrious part of town. Truly, I think you need to reconsider.”
Bibbie pulled on a battered old pair of gauntlet-style driving gloves. “I don’t.”
“Then at least you should let me come with you.”
“ No.”
“I think it’s quite interesting,” said Melissande, “that you’re not showing the least bit of concern for my welfare.”
“Yes, well,” said Monk, harassed, “you’re not my sister.”
“And a good thing too,” said Reg. “Or things might be a bit awkward.”
They were standing in the rear court of Monk’s Chatterly Crescent establishment. Once upon a time, before the invention of the thaumic engine, the rear court had been the stable yard. But the stables had been converted to woodwormed storage sheds and a single falling-down garage, which housed the battered jalopy that Great-uncle Throgmorton had left behind when he died. All the house’s back lights were on, casting everything into varying shades of black and white. Reg sat on the jalopy’s bug-eyed left headlight, feathers plumped against the night’s chill.
Monk looked at Melissande, his gaze owlish with distraction. “Please, Mel, don’t take me the wrong way. It’s just that if anything happens to you my parents aren’t going to come after me with a shotgun.”
She smiled her very thinnest smile. “True. But my brother might well come after you with an army borrowed from his friendly next-door neighbour Sultan Zazoor. You remember him, don’t you? He’s the one with the very nice war camel and quite a lot of swords.”
“I remember,” Monk said darkly. “But Zazoor’s half a world away. My parents are only two suburbs over.”
He had a point. “Monk, we’ll be fine.”
“The famous last words of disaster victims through the ages,” he said and tugged at his untidy hair. “Honestly, girls, I really think this is a bad idea.”
“So you said, Monk,” Bibbie replied. “But we didn’t ask you what you thought, we asked you to lend us the jalopy and you said yes. And then you asked what for, but you know the rules. Once you say yes, you can’t take it back.”
“ Nursery rules?” he said, incredulous. “Made up when we were five years old? Honestly, Bibs. You need to take this seriously. You’re talented but you’re not witching’s answer to Gerald Dunwoody.”
She shrugged. “I could be, one day. Or I could be a famous explorer and paddle a canoe single-handed down the great and mysterious Lanruvian River. Or I could try to solve the riddle of the singing forests of Fandawandi. I am Emmerabiblia Markham and I can do anything I want. Which tonight means I’m taking your rackety old jalopy and investigating a peculiar occurrence with my colleagues from Witches Inc. Because you said yes and now you can’t take it back.”
Melissande exchanged an eye-rolling look with Reg then patted Monk on the arm. “Truly, you mustn’t worry. I’ll make sure she doesn’t get into any trouble.”
“Will you?” he said, his expression so woebegone. “Really? Because I wasn’t joking about the shotgun, you know. Ma and Pa dote on her, Saint Snodgrass knows why. I know I don’t when she’s in this mood.”
“Oh, pooh,” said Bibbie. “And likewise fiddlesticks and furthermore pishwash.” She marched to the jalopy and flung open the driver’s side door. “Are we going or are we standing around here watching Monk be a wet hen?”
“Oy,” said Reg crossly. “How many times do I have to-”
“And you can stop being a wet hen too,” said Bibbie. “Are you going to come with us or fly? Make up your mind.”
Reg sniffed. “I’ll go with you. But you’d best leave a window down in case I need to make a fast getaway.”
And she flapped herself into the jalopy’s back seat as Bibbie slid behind the wheel and patted it, like a pet.
Now Monk was chewing the side of his thumb. “Oh blimey,” he muttered. “This is what comes of giving girls an education. And the vote. And familial emancipation.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Melissande, and instead of kissing his cheek punched him hard on the shoulder. “Would you like to withdraw those gormless, brainless, mannerless remarks?”
“No,” he said sulkily. “And what’s more I’m starting to regret ever introducing you to Bibbie.”
“What? You’re saying she’s my fault?”
“I’m saying that ever since you three started up Witches Inc. she’s-she’s-Mel, she could get hurt.”
Outrage surrendered to his genuine concern. Melissande, offended and touched at the same time, patted the shoulder she’d just punched. “Monk, honestly, stop fussing. We’re not trying to be Gerald. We’re just keeping an eye on a silly old biddy who agreed to go traipsing about the streets of Ott late at night for her very dear friend Permelia Wycliffe, when Permelia Wycliffe appears to be perfectly capable of doing her own traipsing… yet doesn’t want to.”