Gerald turned away from the window in her guest suite’s bedchamber. “Under normal circumstances, perhaps. But none of this business is normal. Besides, there’s not a lot of point in you visiting the recently afflicted wedding guests, is there? Not when you’ve no hope of telling if any of them have been up to thaumaturgical shenanigans. And please, it’s Algernon, remember?”
“Fine. Then it’s just not done, Algernon,” Melissande persisted. “Any princess worth her tiara doesn’t send a secretary to convey a king’s concern. It might easily be taken as an insult, and what good will that do us?”
“How can anyone be insulted if I explain you’re still abed, recovering?” he said. “This way you’re making a good impression, unwell and still thinking of others, and I’m doing my job. We can’t lose.”
As Melissande shifted in her chair, unconvinced, Bibbie bounced a bit on the edge of the bed. “He’s right, Mel. With everyone recovering from that ghastly State Dinner, and resting up ready for the fireworks this evening, this is an ideal opportunity to run potential suspects to ground. Only…” She frowned. “Even though we’ve sorted through some of them, there are still rather a lot left. Why don’t I-”
Gerald turned on her. “Absolutely not! You are not helping me with anything remotely thaumaturgical. How many times do I have to tell you what Sir Alec said? Do you want to see me clapped in irons when we get back home?”
“Faddle,” said Bibbie, wrinkling her nose. “Clapped in irons. When it comes to exaggeration you’re as bad as Melissande.”
He loved Monk’s sister to distraction, but that didn’t mean there weren’t times he could easily shake her until her bones rattled.
“Call it what you like, Miss Slack, but my decision is final. You’re staying here. I swear, if you so much as poke your nose out of these apartments before I’ve finished investigating I’ll clap you in irons and ship you back to Ottosland on the slowest hot air balloon I can find! It’ll take you so long to get there that by the time you set foot on Ottish soil they’ll be celebrating the turn of the next century!”
Melissande looked at him over her new spectacles. “D’you know, Bibbie, I rather think he means it.”
“Yes, well, I rather think I mean it too!” he said, harassed. “Please, Bibbie, I am begging you. Don’t make my job any harder than it is already.”
She stared at him, her hexed eyes overbright. “Gracious. And there was me thinking I’d been of use at the Servants’ Ball. How silly. What a gel I am.”
Oh, damn. Crossing to the bed, Gerald dropped to one knee and took her hands in his. “I’m sorry. But no matter how brilliant you are, you’re not a trained agent and this is no time to be learning on the fly. It’s too dangerous. Sir Alec won’t risk you, and neither will I.”
“Besides,” said Melissande, breaking the taut silence. “While I might, at a pinch, send my secretary on this kind of errand, I’d never send my lady’s maid. That really would cause a stir.”
Bibbie slid her hands free. “Fine. Far be it from me to contradict Your Royal Highness. While our very special Mister Rowbotham’s off doing his important, manly duty, perhaps there’s a dirty fireplace somewhere I could clean.”
“Leave her,” said Melissande, as Bibbie retreated to the suite’s bathroom. “She’ll come round, eventually.”
Pushing to his feet, Gerald sighed. “I hope so.”
“It’s hard for her,” Melissande added. “She’s easily as talented as Monk, y’know. If life weren’t so unfair, if the world wasn’t so ridiculously prejudiced and shortsighted, she’d be making her own splashes in Research and Development. She might even be a proper government agent.”
The accusing undertone in Melissande’s voice had him folding his arms. “It’s not my fault Sir Alec and the rest can’t see past the fact she’s a gel! I’m following orders, Melissande. What else can I do?”
She smiled at him, gently. “You can at least try to see her as an equal, Mister Rowbotham. And stop protecting her. If Ottosland is in danger, then she has as much right as any man to defend it.”
Melissande was right. Of course she was right. Except…
“If you truly do love her,” said Melissande, eyebrows lifted, her gaze challenging, “there’s no better way for you to show it.”
Bloody woman. She saw too much. He sought distraction in checking his pocket watch.
“It’s nearly past luncheon,” he said, tucking the timepiece back into his vest. “I should go downstairs. It’ll be easier to check on the remaining guests if they’re gathered in one place. After that, I’ll visit whoever wasn’t feeling up to stirring out of his or her chamber.” He glanced at the closed bathroom door. “Make sure she stays here, Melissande. Please. There really will be hell to pay if anything happens.”
Melissande sighed. “I know. Don’t worry, I’ll keep her distracted. Now go on-and good luck.”
Dear Melissande. She was worth twice her weight in tiaras. Relieved, Gerald withdrew.
Whatever else he might be, Crown Prince Hartwig was a generous host. The grand dining hall, scrubbed and perfumed and redecorated after the state dinner debacle, now boasted sideboard after sideboard of aromatic dishes designed to tempt the most cautious of palates. Freshly cut flowers abounded, and a quintet of fine tenors and baritones serenaded every guest who ventured across the silk-draped threshold.
Sidling his unobtrusive way in, Gerald retreated to an empty corner of the chamber and took a moment to consider the Splotze-Borovnik wedding’s potential enemies. There was Ottosland’s bumptious Foreign Minister, Lord Babcock. His pallor a trifle waxen, he was exchanging pleasantries with the Zumana of Fandawandi while helping himself to some crumbed lamb cutlets. Over there, already seated, Jandria’s Minister of Foreign Affairs and his wife were eating roast squab with gusto. Clearly the tainted crab puffs had made no lasting impression on them. The guests from Graff and Blonkken entered the dining room, amiably chatting. Behind them came Aframbigi’s Foreign Minister and his Second Wife. A sideways swipe, that was, leaving the First Wife at home. A petty revenge for a small, unforgotten slight, most likely. Politics. So bloody tedious.
As a handful of impeccably liveried servants carried in more silver platters of food, Gerald half-closed his eyes and focused on his etheretic shield. Its outright lowering was still unwise but perhaps, with his grimoire-enhanced abilities, he could thin it a little. Shade it from opaque to translucent, leaving him just enough obfuscation to remain hidden… but not blind.
As his potentia stirred and he felt its power warm him, like shafts of sunlight through damp cloud. Felt it ripple through his shielding, those shafts of sunlight dispersing mist.
On the other side of the dining room the Jandrian minister’s head lifted, sharply, laden fork arrested halfway to his mouth. Damn. Holding his breath, Gerald yanked his potentia back inside. The Jandrian minister shook his head, then relaxed.
So. It was going to be a case of trial and error until he had the knack of controlling his new powers. Well, at least he was in no immediate danger of being bored.
Heart thudding, he tried again.
A softer stirring. No more than a hint, a whisper, of power. The Jandrian minister noticed nothing. The rest of the room was undisturbed. Imagining himself a searchlight, Gerald swept the dining room with his shrouded potentia, seeking something, anything, that didn’t feel right. The quintet sang on, joyfully, their music decorating the air.
How odd. I think — yes, I can taste the ether. It’s sour and thin here, like beer that’s aged well past its prime. Gone threadbare. No wonder this region’s thaumaturgics are so unreliable.
Nasty. A pain throbbed meanly behind his eyes. He tried to blink it away, marvelling anew at the glory of unblinded sight. When the sharp pulse didn’t ease, he did his best to ignore it. Risked eking out a sliver more of his potentia. Still the Jandrian minister remained oblivious. Excellent. Even better, he couldn’t sense anything immediately untoward in the dining room.