“Melissande…” Sighing, Rupert touched his knuckles to her cheek. “I’ve already lost my brother. I couldn’t bear it if I lost my sister too. I’m not cut out to be an only child.”
She stepped back. “And I’m not cut out to be a dress-up doll princess. Of course I have to do this. Quite apart from any considerations of international tranquillity, there’s Gerald. He needs my help, Rupert, and I owe him. We owe him. This kingdom. The chance to make a better future for our people. Oh, everything. And I know you’re a man who’s scrupulous about repaying his debts.”
Rupert’s face clouded until he looked so sad and serious she almost wished for the gormless butterfly prince to return. Then, without speaking, he crushed her in a desperate embrace that threatened to turn her ribs into matchsticks. She hugged him too, just as hard, heedless of her corsets, until she was in danger of flooding with tears. Then she released him, and stepped back.
“Right, then,” she said briskly. “I think that’s quite enough unseemly emotion for one visit. Gerald? Bibbie? Are you-”
“Gosh,” said Rupert, staring. “How utterly bizarre.”
Before them stood meek Gladys Slack, with her dark bun and her brown eyes and plain spectacles, her black skirt and white blouse, and Algernon Rowbotham, wearing inconspicuous brown tweeds. His straw-coloured hair was slicked close to his skull and his green eyes peered short-sighted through his own wire-framed spectacles. Ink splotched his fingers.
Used to the startling transformations by now, Melissande grinned. “Clever, isn’t it? Not so much as a hint of Bibbie or Gerald. I tell you, Rupes, between them those two possess more thaumaturgics than Sir Alec’s entire Department.”
“So I see,” said Rupert. “Extraordinary.” He didn’t sound altogether approving.
“And now we really do have to go,” said Gerald, in a voice hexed half an octave higher than normal, with a slight nasal whine added to it for good measure. “Thanks for your assistance, Rupert. I know the Department is deeply grateful.”
“So long as the Department takes good care of my sister,” said Rupert, “it will have my assistance whenever there’s need.”
Gerald nodded. “I’m sure Sir Alec understands that, Your Majesty.” Walking forward, he held out his hand. “I promise you I do. I’ll keep her safe, sir.”
Rupert took Gerald’s offered hand and shook it, firmly. Then he turned to Bibbie and bowed. “Bibbie. Or should I say Miss Slack? It was delightful to meet you. I look forward to seeing you again soon.”
Bibbie, who was taking her role as Gladys more seriously than any actress, sank into an impeccable curtsey. “You’re too kind, Your Majesty.”
“Right, then, Rupes,” said Melissande, and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “We’ll be off. Now, mind you don’t portal us to Babishkia by mistake and please, don’t let that dreadful old goat Billingsley bully you while I’m gone.”
With a nod at Bibbie and Gerald she led the way back into the portal, then smiled at Rupert until the doors closed in her face and the whirling thaumaturgics whisked them away.
“Princess Melissande! You’ve come! How utterly delightful!”
From his subservient position in the rear, with Bibbie demurely reticent beside him, Gerald watched Melissande stand formidably straight.
“Crown Prince Hartwig,” she said, her austere reserve pitch-perfect and quintessentially, royally Melissande. “How kind of you to meet me. I wasn’t expecting such an honour.”
“My dear Melissande, so formal!” Splotze’s ruler protested, his Ottish correct but strongly accented, approaching with both heavily beringed hands outstretched. “When you and I have known each other for so many delightful years. You must call me Twiggy when we are spared the rigours of public observances. And I shall call you Melly, just as that good chap Rupert does.”
Anyone less twig-like, Gerald couldn’t imagine. Splotze’s Crown Prince was nearly as wide as he was tall, an impression not helped by the miles of gold braiding on his crimson tunic and trousers.
“Well, Twiggy,” said Melissande, accepting his hands so she could hold them at bay, and suffering him to kiss her noisily on both cheeks. “That sounds lovely. And tell me, how is Brunelda?”
The Crown Prince sighed, lugubrious. “Sadly afflicted with the gout. Today is not a good day, or she’d have come with me to greet you.” Another sigh. “Don’t tell her I told you, eh? There’s something quite lowering about a Crown Princess with the gout. I’m afraid Brunelda feels it keenly.”
“I imagine she does,” said Melissande. “I understand it’s a most uncomfortable complaint.”
“Yes, yes, it’s devilish discommoding,” said the Crown Prince, vigorously nodding. “I’ve had to turf her into a spare bedchamber, Melissande. She was quite cutting up my sleep!”
Wincing, Gerald dropped his gaze to the gold-chased tiles beneath his feet. Sir Alec would go spare if his mission ended five minutes after it began because Melissande lost her temper with their stuffy, middle-aged host.
Bite your tongue, Mel. For pity’s sake, for all our sakes, please bite your tongue.
“Oh, dear, poor Hartwig,” she sympathised. “That’s too utterly bad. And you with so much to contemplate, now that Ludwig’s getting married at last.”
He breathed out relief. Shame on him for doubting the redoubtable Miss Cadwallader. After a lifetime of dissembling in the face of Lional’s tempestuous instabilities, of course she wouldn’t stumble over such a small hurdle. Stupid of him to think that she might.
“Oh, lord, Ludwig!” said the Crown Prince, rolling his bloodshot brown eyes. His florid complexion burned brighter as he tugged his luxuriant fox-red moustache. “If you have the smallest care for me, Melly, do not utter my brother’s name. Not after last night. He went out carousing with some men from Harenstein and didn’t stumble home until dawn.” Reluctantly releasing her, he waved a hand about the palace room into which they’d arrived. “Now, here’s a sweeter topic for conversation. How d’you care for my privy portal chamber, eh? A bit of extravagance, really. With our dodgy etheretics it only works one day out of five, if we’re lucky! But even so-it’s pretty delightful, don’t you think?”
No, pretty hideous, Gerald thought, but kept his face blank. Hartwig and Lional must’ve attended the same art classes.
Melissande, escorted by the Crown Prince, was taking a slow turn around the portal reception chamber, exclaiming in apparently sincere admiration at the plump, naked cherubs and the taxidermied foxes and stoats and the enormous glass domes under which were trapped colourful, taxidermied birds, caught forever in mid-flight.
Domes…
Shuddered by memory- that other Ott’s parade ground, full of the other Gerald’s hideously tortured victims — Gerald thought he felt the gold-touched tiles beneath his feet tilt.
Bibbie sidled closer. “Ger-I mean, Algernon. Mister Rowbotham. Are you all right?”
He nodded, a curt dip of his head. Bloody Bibbie. Flirting like that with Melissande’s brother. Did she think he was made of cold stone?
But how stupid am I, to feel betrayed by a little flirting? I haven’t declared myself, have I? I don’t even know if she cares. If she’s ever thought of me as anything more than her brother’s best friend.
With a wrenching effort, clenching his fingers so his neatly trimmed nails bit his palm, he drove the treacherous thought deep inside. Dammit. Let Bibbie distract him on this mission and Sir Alec would rightly skin him alive-assuming that said distraction didn’t get him killed first. Which it might well do, if he wasn’t careful.
On second thoughts, maybe bringing her as camouflage wasn’t such a good idea.
Rebuffed, Bibbie inched away again. A glance at her profile showed him her feelings were hurt.
Yes, well, my girl. That’s what those of us born and bred in Nether Wallop call tit for bloody tat.