"No, Emmerabiblia, you bloody well can't!"

The chorus of refusal was deafening. Bibbie stared back at them, offended. "Honestly, you lot. I fixed the mangled fenders, didn't I? What more do you want?"

"I want back the ten years you scared off my life, ducky," said Reg. "That's what I want."

As Bibbie lapsed into sulky silence, Gerald picked up the jalopy keys from the bench. "All set?"

Monk slid off the kitchen stool. "I'll-ah-I'll walk you to the front door."

Melissande lifted her hand to him. "That's all right. I'm tolerably sure I can remember the way by now. Reg?"

Quietly snickering, Reg jumped onto her shoulder.

"Good night, Monk," she said, with all the dignity she could muster, and hung her apron on the back of the kitchen door. "Bibbie, I'll see you in the morning. Please don't be late, and don't forget the post."

Gerald opened the kitchen door for her and she walked out, her head high... even as her heart broke, just a little.

CHAPTER NINE.

You see," said Gerald carefully, as he backed the jalopy out of Monk's dilapidated garage, "the thing is, when it comes to thaumaturgics he just can't help himself. He's always been like that, ever since I've known him. Well. According to Bibbie, ever since he was born, practically. So..."

"I'm sorry, Gerald, but I'm not entirely sure what it is you're trying to say," Melissande replied in absolutely her snootiest princess voice ever. And that meant her feelings really were hurt. Dammit, Monk. Sometimes I really could kick your skinny ass. "And by the way, if you don't steer to the left," she added, still snooty, "you're going to undo all of Bibbie's work on the fenders."

He bit off a curse and wrenched the old jalopy's wheel hard to the right, swinging its rump just in time to clear the converted stable yard's crumbling brick gatepost.

"Ha," said Reg, perched on the back of the jalopy's rear passenger seat. "And you've got the nerve to call Madam Scatterbrain cockeyed."

Ignoring Reg he slowed, shifted the jalopy out of reverse then swung its long, blunt nose to follow the narrow driveway out to Chatterly Crescent, where he rolled to a stop. The autumn night was cool and damp, a drizzle misting before the vehicle's bug-eyed headlamps. Thanks to the lateness of the hour the sweepingly curved street was quiet, muted lights shining cozily behind every curtained window. All those nice ordinary people, living their nice, ordinary lives. And to think he used to be one of them... those days seemed a long way off now. Another lifetime. Another Gerald Dunwoody. Abruptly melancholy, he breathed out a sigh.

But would I go back? if there was a way, would I undo Stuttley's and the rest of it? Wipe my life clean and go back to being that Gerald? Apologetic... marginally competent... longing for more and so afraid I'd never get it.

The thought made him shudder. No, he was thrilled he'd left that Gerald behind. But then, remembering the price others had paid for his transformation, for his secret dreams of greatness spectacularly coming true, all pleasure died... and he felt nothing but a drowning guilt.

"Oy," said Reg from the back seat. "Bugalugs. Have you fallen asleep?"

He shook himself out of pointless regret. He was who he was now. Nothing could change what was done to him. What he'd done. The only thing that mattered was what he did next.

Chatterly Crescent remained empty of traffic. Over to the right the looming bulk of the Old Barracks cast shadows across the uneven cobblestones. The drizzle, thickening towards rain, dripped with rising determination down the windshield so he activated the wipers as he eased the jalopy into the street.

"No, Gerald, that's the horn," Reg said helpfully, as an ear-splitting caterwaul shattered the peaceful night.

"Really?" he shouted, and tried one of the dashboard's other buttons. "I would never have guessed." He glanced at Melissande again, hoping to surprise a smile, but no. She was still frowning. Still regally distant. Brooding over Markham, though she'd never admit it.

Bloody hell, Monk. Have you got rocks in your head? Are you besotted with Her Royal Highness or aren't you?

The answer, of course, was yes. Monk adored Melissande. So it was an absolute mystery to him why his friend was holding back, why he hadn't come right out and unequivocally declared himself. Sure, things had been a bit tricky lately, what with him being tugged to and fro between the demands of his superiors in Research and Development and Sir Alec. And then of course there was the latest unpleasantness over his extra-curricular experiments-but what did any of that have to do with romance?

Nothing. And it's not like he's an idiot, or completely inexperienced. There have been other young ladies. Not many and not for long, but still.

Which perhaps meant that this was the first time Monk had been genuinely... smitten. And perhaps that was the explanation for his reticence in a nutshell.

Sleepy Chatterly Crescent came to an end, which meant they had the choice of turning left or right onto The Old Parade. Hitting the right indicator button, which produced an orange hand on a long lever, its fingers making a singularly impolite gesture-bloody hell, Monk!-he eased the jalopy into the sporadic westwards traffic flow. And that gave him an excuse to glance at Melissande. No two ways about it, she was definitely fed up-and quite possibly on the brink of tears. Which was so unlike her that he felt his stomach sink.

I'm no good at this. I think it's time to change the subject.

"So, Melissande, I was wondering," he said after a few moments of frantic brain-racking, as the jalopy chugged along with its narrow tires hissing on the wet road. He had to be a bit careful along here, they needed to turn off The Old Parade any tick of the clock. Easing back on the accelerator, he leaned over the steering wheel and peered through the windshield. Drat it, where was the turn-off? The night's mizzling rain was making the world all smeary...

Melissande shifted in the passenger seat to stare at him. "Yes? Wondering what, Gerald?"

Hitting the indicator button again then changing down gears, he eased the jalopy to a grumbling idle and waited for an oncoming horse-and-carriage to pass. The horse was soaked, its ears pinned back to show its lack of enthusiasm.

Poor thing, and on a horrible night like this, too.

"Gerald!" Melissande said sharply. "Wondering what?"

He blinked at her. "What? Oh-yes-sorry-about this problematical Frobisher person." The hard done-by horse trotted sullenly by, carriage in tow, and he made the turn across The Old Parade. "Will you be all right dealing with him or would you like me to-"

"Thank you, Gerald," said Melissande icily, "but I'm perfectly capable of handling one dyspeptic senior citizen without a man's assistance. Or a wizard's, for that matter. In case you hadn't noticed we are living in the modern era. It's amazing what women can do these days without the help of men. Or wizards."

"Although the same can't be said for vice versa," added Reg. "You do know you've just gone the wrong way down a one-way street, Gerald?"

Bugger. He'd turned too soon. It was all Monk's fault.

There was nobody coming towards them and nowhere to turn around anyway so he took a deep breath, put his foot down on the soggy accelerator and nudged the jalopy along a bit faster with the merest hint of a speed-em-up hex. Nipping out of the entrance to the one-way street, barely avoiding an unfortunate encounter with a cab that was traveling far too fast for the prevailing conditions, he eased back on the jalopy's accelerator and the thaumaturgic rev-up and settled into the fitful traffic bowling along Central Ott Way, which would take them in more or less the direction of Witches Incorporated's modest office.

Melissande was so quiet. He glanced at her sidelong. Lord, she really was upset-and some instinct told him it was about more than just Monk and their unromantic romantic entanglement. So what else could it be?

"How's Rupert?" he asked casually. "Have you heard from him lately? Everything going all right back home?"

"Rupert's fine," she said, distant, staring through the rain-speckled passenger window. "He's very busy, working on his modernization program. Not everyone's as enthusiastic about it as he is."

"Tradition with a capital T digging its heels in?"

She shrugged. "Something like that."

"You're not wishing you were back there, giving him a hand?"

"Lord, no," she said. "And anyway, Rupert doesn't want me involved. He says the idea of me in trousers and business is one thing but the fact of it just now would make his job harder, not easier."

Right. So probably she wasn't homesick. What did that leave? He could feel Reg settled on the back seat, loudly not saying any number of things.

Thanks, ducky. You're a bloody big help, you are. The one time I could use some unsolicited advice...

Really, though, there was only one other explanation for Melissande's glum mood. He glanced at her sidelong again. From the look on her face there was a very good chance she'd bite his head off for asking...

But she's my friend and she's miserable. And if I'm right it's partly my fault.

In which case he owed her the chance to do some biting.

"So, Melissande, I suppose it's time we talked about the agency. You know, how this new arrangement of ours is working out."

Behind them Reg snorted, softly. Melissande stiffened as though he'd stuck her with a pin. Ah-hah. In his new line of work that was called a clue.

They hadn't talked about it since he'd joined the girls at Witches Inc., but he strongly suspected that she still hadn't come to terms with the agency's new and unusual circumstances. Even though Sir Alec had kept his word-at least so far-which meant there'd been no government interference with how the agency was run-well, unless you counted clients like Arnold Frobisher-still... he thought she was unhappy. He thought she was resenting the loss of her autonomy.

And that is my fault. I got her and Bibbie and Reg caught up in the Wycliffe qffair. Exposed them to secrets they weren't meant to know. And that gave Sir Alec no choice. Gave Melissande no choice. It was surrender independence to the Department or be closed down altogether. Damn. Why is it that every time I try to do the right thing it seems I help things go more wrong instead?

Melissande continued to gaze at the passing street. "You don't need to worry about Witches Inc., Gerald. That's my job. It's my agency."

"Oy! And mine," said Reg, annoyed. "And Madam Scatterbrain's, though probably it's better if we don't say that aloud too often. We don't want to give the little horror ideas."

"Hey," he said, casting her a look over his shoulder. "Scatterbrained I'll grant you. Plus she's impetuous and careless and far too brave for her own good, but Bibs is no horror. So you can take that back, thank you."

Reg sniffed. "Make me."

Bloody hell. Ignoring Reg, he focused on Melissande. "Look, I know it's your agency and I'm just the ring-in," he said, slowing the jalopy for the left-hand turn that would take them off Central Ott Way and into the outskirts of the shabby genteel business district where the agency lived. "But, Mel, that doesn't mean I don't have a stake in Witches Inc. For all our sakes I want it to succeed."

"I know you do," said Melissande as they swung neatly around the corner, splashing through puddles and startling some scavenging rats.

"Well then, in that spirit," he continued, "I'd like to suggest that in the future somebody who isn't Bibbie should deal with any susceptible old men who come to us for help, no matter how they found their way to the door. I mean, honestly, we're lucky the old boy didn't drop dead from a heart attack. Just looking at Bibbie tends to increase the blood pressure."

Melissande considered him. "It doesn't increase mine."

"It does when you're looking at her floating on a dustbin lid on the other side of the open office window," said Reg, ever helpful. "Or when she's forgotten to bring in the post again. Or when she's-"

"Thank you, Reg," said Melissande, back to snooty. "I think we both know what Gerald's referring to."

Another tail-rattle from the back seat. "Oh. You mean the fact he's ass over teakettle about the girl and can't bring himself to say anything to her?"

This time he gave her a scorching glare. "Reg! Do you mind?"

"Just stating the bleeding obvious, sunshine," said Reg. "Or did you think neither of the very intelligent women in this jalopy had noticed?"

He swallowed. And what did that mean? Did it mean Bibbie knew that he had feelings for her? And if she did know was she wondering why he'd not declared himself? Was he hurting her the way Monk was hurting Melissande?

Oh, blimey. Why wasn't I born a turnip?

"It's all right, Gerald," said Melissande. "Your not terribly secret secret's safe." She glanced at Reg. "Well. With me, anyway."

Bloody Reg. "All I meant," he said, in a valiant attempt to get the conversation back on track, "is that there are some clients who might best be dealt with by a man. Nothing to do with competence, just-"

"Don't," said Melissande. "Really, Gerald? Just don't. Because if you think I'm in the mood to be told that women can't do the job like a man then you're nowhere near as clever as you look."

"Um-" All of a sudden it was very important to concentrate on the rainy street in front of them. "Yes. All right."

"And speaking of Arnold Frobisher," Melissande added, still snippy, "just how many of our clients are Sir Alec's fault?"

He shook his head. "Sorry. I don't have a clue. Sir Alec doesn't tend to confide."

And if that's not an understatement, I don't know what is.

As he slowed them down again, getting ready for the awkward dog-leg turn that would put them onto Tapster Street which would then lead them circuitously to Daffydown Lane, Melissande folded her arms in that particular way she had.

"I'm sure he doesn't," she said sourly. "However, be that as it may, leaving Sir Alec's procurations aside-and no matter how troublesome the inconveniently concupiscent Mr. Frobisher has proven to be-we needed his business. In case you've not noticed, Gerald, being taken over by the government hasn't precisely made us rich. We're still scrambling, and as far as I can tell we're going to keep on scrambling for the foreseeable future."

"Yes, I know, only..." He cleared his throat, feeling fresh guilt. "It's all part of our cover story, remember? Sir Alec did explain."

"Yes, and now I'm explaining," Melissande retorted, a positively martial light in her eye, "since it seems to have escaped your keen wizardly observational skills, that like it or not Bibbie's blood-pressure raising attributes are an asset to the establishment. Just like me being related to a king is an asset. And assets exist to be exploited."

"Oy!" said Reg, and she sounded offended. "What about me? I'm the third witch of Witches Incorporated. Technically. I'm the technical advisor. I'm an asset too, ducky, and don't you forget it!"

"That's true," Melissande admitted. "You're cheap to feed."

This time Reg's silence lasted all the way to the end of Tapster Street, into Daffydown Lane and to Witches Incorporated's front door.

Relieved, Gerald pulled the jalopy over to the pavement and shifted the gearstick into neutral so the engine could idle. If he was smart he'd bid the girls good night right now and pretend he'd never noticed the tension between Melissande and Monk.

But then nobody ever accused me of being smart, did they?

Besides. They were his friends, and in his line of work friends were hard-if not impossible-to come by. And he'd introduced them. It was his fault they'd met. So he had a vested interest in making sure things worked out, didn't he?

He cleared his throat again. "Look. Melissande. About you and Monk..."

"Oh, Gerald," she groaned. "Please, can't you-"

"I know, I know," he said hastily. "It's none of my business. Except that it is my business because I care about both of you a great deal and I want you to be happy. So if it would help for me to talk to Monk then-"

"Don't you dare!" she gasped, horrified. "How would you like it if I took Bibbie aside and nattered to her about you?"

Despite all the reasons why that was a terrible idea he nearly said, Oh, would you?-but he managed to bite his tongue. Reg was aching for an excuse to poke her beak in and the thought of her giving Bibbie romantic advice about him...

I'd be better off sticking hot needles in my eyes.

"Then let me say this, Melissande, and then I promise I'll shut up," he said. "Whatever's going on with Monk-whatever the reason is that he hasn't-that he's not-it isn't because he doesn't care. He really does care. But this business with his uncle-"

Sighing, Melissande tugged on her long, rust-red plait. "It's all right, Gerald. There's no need to fuss-or defend him, either. Monk's old enough to do his own talking. As for me, I'm a big girl now too, which means I can fight my own battles. So if you don't mind I'd rather not talk about it any more. Or about Mr. Frobisher, the old coot. I'll handle him."

He patted her hand. "I know you will, Your Highness. You're brilliant."

There was enough street-light filtering through the windshield for him to see that she was blushing. "Yes. Well." She shoved her spectacles back up her nose. "As it happens, Gerald, since we're talking agency business, there is a question I've been meaning to ask you."