That earned him another jaundiced look. “How long before the adventurously trustworthy Dodsworth can wangle his useful invitation into the Harenstein embassy?”
“A few days, he said.”
Sir Alec’s lips pinched again. “No sooner?”
“No, sir. Sorry.”
“In that case I’ll leave the matter in your hands Mister Markham. But I expect you to apprise me at once, no matter the hour, of any useful developments.”
“I will, sir.”
“As for this abomination-” With a jerk of his chin, Sir Alec indicated the ragged, bloodstained piece of carpet containing the blood hex. “I’ve changed my mind. Mister Dunwoody’s unique prowess notwithstanding, given the gravity of the situation I’d like to leave it here. So that when you’re rested you can make another attempt to identify the wizard responsible for creating that blood magic incant.”
Monk made himself look at the hexed bloodstain, not even trying to hide his shudder of disgust. Wrap his potentia around that thing again? He’d rather saw off his own head with a blunt butter knife. But how could he say no, with Sir Alec asking him almost politely, for once not making demands, and a tightly leashed tension in him that suggested he was a man straining hard at the end of his tether.
Reg rattled her tail even more emphatically, the gleam in her eyes ominous. “Now look here, sunshine-” “Reg,” he sighed. “It’s all right. Someone has to do it and who else can he ask? There’s only Gerald. And Gerald’s not around.”
The bird was practically bouncing with indignation. “I know that, don’t I? As if I need you to remind me of that!”
“I’ll do my best, Sir Alec,” he said, resisting the urge to throw a tea towel over her. “But I’m not making any promises.”
Sir Alec nodded. “And I am not asking for them, Mister Markham. Good night.”
As the muffled sound of the front door closing reached them, Reg chattered her beak. “That manky bloody man. One of these days, sunshine, I’m telling you. One of these days…”
Forcing open eyelids that felt gritty with weariness, Monk considered her. “Why do you always have to give him so much grief, Reg? Is it all government men you mistrust, or is there something about Sir Alec in particular that puts your beak on edge?”
Instead of answering, Reg fluffed her feathers and hunched her head close to her chest. Against every expectation, she seemed almost apologetic.
“Reg?” he persisted.
“Blimey, you’re a nosy bugger,” she muttered, resentful. “Instead of peppering me with impertinent questions, why don’t you wrap that ratty bit of carpet in a nice old-fashioned dampening hex and get it out of my sight before it sends me into a spontaneous moult?”
She might be prevaricating, but she was still right about the carpet. It was unsavoury, and dangerous. He retrieved a biscuit tin from the pantry, tipped its chocolate chip contents onto a plate, dropped in the bloodstained carpet and hexed the lid firmly shut.
“Happy now?” he asked the bird, waving the sealed tin under her beak.
She grunted. “Ecstatic.”
“I’m thrilled.” He hid the tin at the back of the top shelf in the pantry, then returned to the table. “And now you can bloody well stop dodging me, Reg. What the hell has Sir Alec, any Sir Alec, ever done to you?”
Fluffing her feathers, Reg pretended a culinary interest in chocolate chip biscuits.
“Reg.”
She gave him a look. “What?”
“Talk to me!” he insisted. “I want to know why you’re so convinced he’s the enemy!”
Mumbling imprecations, Reg hopped from the table to the back of the nearest chair and rattled her tail until its long brown-and-black striped feathers dangled neatly downwards. Then she heaved a great sigh and fluffed herself like a broody hen.
“I never said he was the enemy. And I know Gerald has time for him, so he can’t be all bad even if he is a manky government stooge.”
Monk felt his empty belly rumble, and reached for a biscuit. “He’s not bad, Reg,” he said, around crumbs. “He’s difficult, but that’s hardly the same thing. I mean, look at you.”
“Cheeky!” Reg snapped. Then she shook her tail, hard. “All right, if you must know… I can’t bear to look at the man. And that’s because every time I do, I see my Sir Alec, don’t I? And I remember how I begged my Gerald not to set him on fire then leave him burning alive until the end of time. But my Gerald wouldn’t listen to me. I failed. And so-”
Reg’s scratchy little voice broke, a dreadful sound of anguish. Biscuits forgotten, Monk picked her up and cradled her against his chest. She felt as fragile as a captive soap bubble.
“Reg, don’t do this,” he pleaded, fingers gently stroking her drooping wing. “It doesn’t help. Come on. Didn’t you agree, in this very kitchen, that we weren’t going to flog the corpsed horses any more?”
“I might have,” Reg muttered.
“Then for pity’s sake, enough! Because when you look over your shoulder, Reg, you’re making me look over mine. And I can’t keep tormenting myself with maybe and what if and why didn’t I. I can’t. I have to move on.”
Reg wriggled herself out of his grasp to land flat-footed on the table. Gazing up at him, she tipped her head to one side.
“Deary, deary me,” she said gently. “That manky blood magic hex proper took it out of you, didn’t it?”
He dragged his sleeve across his face. “I’m fine.”
“Eat another biscuit,” she suggested. “Rumour has it chocolate’s almost as good as brandy.”
Another biscuit would make him ill. “No, I’m fine.”
“Good. Then you can tell me what’s going on with Gerald that’s got you and Sir Alec scared spitless.”
Damn. He was hoping she’d forgotten. His gaze flicked to the closed pantry. “I don’t know that anything’s going on, exactly. It’s just… that blood magic hex is vicious. The worst kind of thaumaturgy.”
“I know, sunshine,” she said quietly. “I felt it. And yet seemingly our Gerald handled it like it was no more dangerous than a kitten.”
Monk felt his mouth dry. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.”
“No, you’re not, and neither is Sir Alec,” Reg retorted. “You’re worried, my boy. I’m worried. This is Gerald we’re talking about. It’s his left-over grimoire magic. And if that’s not worth worrying over, I don’t know what is.”
Feeling helpless, he stared at her. “Oh, Reg. What the hell are we doing to do?”
“What d’you think? Get the rest of those manky hexes out of him the minute he’s home.”
“If I can,” he said. “Reg-”
“Don’t you start that! You’re Monk Markham, raving lunatic and genius.” She chattered her beak. “Now why don’t you take yourself off to bed for a nice eight hours of shuteye. Your face is enough to frighten a sober woman to drink.”
“I can’t,” he groaned. “We’re testing the new and improved oscillating tetrathaumicle containment field this morning and if I leave Walthorpe and Dalrymple to their own devices they’ll blow up the lab. Or kill each other the old fashioned way, with their fists, because Dalrymple can’t mind his own business and Walthorpe won’t put up with being bossed.”
“Ha! And you call yourselves grown men.”
“Among other things.” Creakily, Monk got to his feet. “I’ll have a bath. That should help.”
But even as the watery heat soaked the ache from his muscles, the ache in his heart and mind, the briar-patch memories in his potentia, combined to rob him of relief.
Lord, I hope Gerald’s all right. I hope he and the girls are having better luck than me.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Melissande!” cried Hartwig, practically shoving past her into the stateroom’s parlour. “My dear gel, are you all right?”
Rolling her eyes, Melissande tactfully closed her stateroom’s door. “Yes, Hartwig, of course. I didn’t fall into the Canal. That was Miss Slack.”
“Indeed it was, the clumsy creature,” said Hartwig. He pulled a large red silk handkerchief from his blue velvet coat pocket and dabbed the anxious sweat from his brow. “And I hope you’ve scolded her severely for giving you such a terrible fright.”