“Oh, do hush, Permelia,” snapped her brother Ambrose. “You’re a gel. You can’t possibly understand my wizards’ dedication and loyalty. Good lord, woman, you shouldn’t even be here. You know perfect well that gels interfere with-”
“ Yes, Ambrose,” said Permelia Wycliffe sharply. “But I think tonight, of all nights, we can make an exception. Don’t you?”
Surprisingly, Ambrose backed down. “Ah-yes, well, perhaps this once,” he mumbled. “But only this once.”
“Actually, sir,” said Gerald, remembering Melissande’s outrage, “I’m pretty sure the notion of gels upsetting the thaumic balance has been thoroughly disproved by-”
“Who asked for your opinion, Dunwoody?” Ambrose shouted, spittle flying. “Keep your mouth shut, you Third Grade ignoramus. You’ve already said quite enough for one evening.” He rounded on the waiting ambulance orderly. “You there. What is Mister Haythwaite’s condition? He’s my best First Grade wizard. The man without whom Wycliffe’s resurgence is doomed! I demand to know-”
The orderly leaned away from Ambrose’s rabid intensity. “Ah, sorry sir, I’m not permitted to discuss the-”
“ Don’t you stand there telling me what you’re not permitted! I want to know how he is! ”
Everyone within earshot of Ambrose Wycliffe jumped, even Permelia. Well. Everyone except for Dalby, who was hovering around the edges of the lab, bruised-looking and completely unremarkable. Gerald let his gaze glide right over the man, then turned again to the quaking orderly.
“Look, I’m fine. Just a few bruises,” he said. “And I’m not important, I’m just Mister Haythwaite’s lowly assistant. I think-”
“Ha!” said Ambrose Wycliffe. “His former lowly assistant, you mean! Dunwoody, you’re sacked. I never want to see your incompetent face again. Getting the government involved in private Wycliffe company business-not having the courtesy to call me, your employer, before these interfering government busy-bodies-it’s outrageous! And I have no doubt this accident is your fault, just like-”
“Now, now, Ambrose,” said Permelia Wycliffe. The peculiar expression still hadn’t quite left her face. “I think you’re being a bit hasty. The young man is right, he is required by law to inform the authorities first. Doubtless they instructed him not to tell anyone else, even us.” She turned. “Isn’t that so, young man?”
Gerald blinked. Permelia was protecting him? How odd. But since the popular theory was not to go kicking gift horses in the teeth… “Yes, Miss Wycliffe. That’s exactly right, Miss Wycliffe. It’d be my licence if I disobeyed the authorities, Miss Wycliffe.”
She gave her brother a sharp, satisfied nod. “You see, Ambrose? And besides, you don’t know what caused this unfortunate explosion. You won’t know until you’ve spoken with Mister Haythwaite. You can’t sack a man who might be innocent of wrong-doing. That flies in the face of everything Wycliffe’s represents. Father would never have stood for it, you know.”
Ambrose Wycliffe’s face burned an even brighter red. “Really? Well, Permelia, in case you’ve not noticed, Father’s not here any more. But I am and I say-”
“That you’ve had a horrible shock,” said Permelia Wycliffe, and took her brother’s arm. “You’re quite overset, Ambrose, and who can blame you? But what kind of a devoted sister would I be, to stand by and let you make a poor decision without trying to stop you? Can you imagine I’d ever do such a thing?”
Ambrose Wycliffe stared at his sister, and she stared back. Some of the hectic colour died out of his jowly, whiskered face, and he cleared his throat. “No. Of course not,” he said hoarsely, tugging his arm free. “Very well. Mister Dunwoody here is not sacked outright.” Recapturing his authority, he puffed out his chest. “But you are suspended, Mister Dunwoody. Pending a thorough investigation into this disgraceful affair.”
“Suspended with full salary and benefits,” Permelia Wycliffe added smoothly. “In fact, don’t think of it as a suspension at all, young man. Think of it as a nice little holiday, to help you recover from your nasty experience. After all, it’s a wonder you weren’t blown to pieces.”
“Ah-yes-thank you, Mister Wycliffe. Miss Wycliffe,” Gerald said, very carefully not letting his gaze touch on the still-hovering Dalby. “I-ah-well, it has all been a bit upsetting. In fact, is it all right if I go home now? I’ve spoken with the men from the Department of Thaumaturgy. They know where to reach me if they need anything else.”
“All right,” said Ambrose Wycliffe, grudgingly. “You can go. But I don’t mind telling you, Dunwoody, you’ve handled this whole thing poorly. Very poorly indeed.” His disgruntled gaze swept around the now brightly-lit lab complex, crowded with busily investigating outsiders. “You might well have done irreparable harm to this establishment’s reputation. And if that proves to be the case-” Ambrose Wycliffe leaned close. “Not even my tender-hearted sister will save you.”
With an effort, Gerald kept his face under control. “I understand, Mister Wycliffe.”
“You’d better,” snapped Ambrose Wycliffe, then glared at the ambulance orderly. “And you. Take me to Errol Haythwaite at once.”
As the orderly hesitated, Gerald nodded. “Truly. I’m fine. I’ll be right as rain come the morning.”
“Very well, sir,” said the orderly, reluctant. “But you should see your own doctor, soon as you can.”
The Wycliffes followed the junior orderly to the other side of the laboratory complex, where two senior ambulance orderlies were still fussing over Errol. Permelia Wycliffe cast one last, puzzled look behind her. Gerald nodded and smiled gratefully, pretending not to notice anything was wrong.
Then he slid off his stool and made his circumspect way through the ongoing bustle to the lab’s main door… making sure to catch Dalby’s eye as he passed.
Outside it was cool and much more quiet, the aftermath of the accident mercifully muffled. Aching all over, his various scrapes and bruises vigorously complaining, Gerald folded his arms tight to his chest and waited.
A brief increase in noise, as the doors opened then closed again. The scrape of boots on the pathway. A roughly cleared throat.
“Dear me,” said Dalby sourly, very quiet. “What a hurly-burly to be sure. Never a dull moment when you’re around, is there, Dunwoody?”
Gerald didn’t turn. “Does Sir Alec know?”
“You could say that,” said Dalby, with a soft, derisive snort. “He wants to see you. Soon as. Proper put out, he is.”
Proper put out? I bet that’s an understatement. “Fine. I don’t suppose you could-”
“Don’t make me laugh,” said Dalby, and spat. “I’ve got to keep an eye on what’s happening here. Take Haythwaite in when the leeches have cleared him. You’ll have to make your own way to Nettle-worth, boyo.”
Oh. In which case, he’d have to soup-up another scooter. But that still left the one he’d ridden to South Ott. Somehow he’d have to get it back here before someone noticed its absence.
Damn. Why can’t anything ever be simple?
“ Fine,” he sighed. “Only there’s one small problem, Dalby.”
Another derisive snort. “No, there’s not. The scooter you left across town’s shoved in the garden, over there.”
“You found it?”
“Course I bloody found it,” said Dalby, scornful. “The amount of hexing you did on that thing, it’s a wonder every bloody wizard in town didn’t find it. Bloody show-off, Dunwoody, that’s what you are.”
Gerald felt his face heat. “Thanks.”
“Yeah,” said Dalby. “That makes my night, that does.”
And he went back inside.
Still aching, and now dry-mouthed with nerves on top of it, Gerald retrieved the scooter… and went to face the formidable Sir Alec.
“So you see, sir,” he finished, at the end of his long and convoluted explanation of the night’s events-keeping the girls out of it had been interesting, to say the least-“Errol Haythwaite is in the clear. But it looks like we’ll have to take another look at the Wycliffes.”
Leaning back in his chair, elbows propped on its arms, Sir Alec steepled his fingers and gazed at the ceiling. “Hmm. Yes. That certainly appears to be the case, doesn’t it?”