His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. A note in her voice. An ominous undertone. "Yes?" he said, wary.

"When does Sir Alec intend sending you on another janitorial assignment? I mean, he bullied Witches Inc. into becoming part of his wretched Department and now here we are, nearly three months later, and you're still pretending to be a Third Grade wizard. I was under the impression you were supposed to be an occasional thaumaturgical contributor, not a permanent fixture. So what's going on?"

It was a very good question-and he had no answer. "Tired of having me around, are you? Eager to see me off the premises for a while?"

"Don't be silly," she snapped. "Even pretending to be a common or garden not terribly special locum you're as much an asset to the firm as Bibbie's blue eyes or my soppy brother."

"I am? You mean as a mere male I'm good for something after all? Aside from taking out the rubbish, I mean."

"Target practice, if you're not careful," Reg muttered from the back seat.

Melissande tossed her plait off her shoulder with an impatient shrug. "Of course you are. Because even though it pains me to admit it, you're right. Sometimes the best woman for the job is a man. Mr. Arfenbacher's little embarrassment, remember? He was never going to talk to a witch about that. And Lady Grune? A total stranger to the concept of sisterhood, that bloody woman. You saved the day there too, Gerald."

"Oh," he said, and was surprised to find himself ridiculously pleased. "Well. You know. Just doing my bit."

"And that's the problem, isn't it?" said Melissande. "Because the more you keep doing your bit the more clients are going to ask for you to work on their case. You'll turn into your own walking billboard and we won't need to mention you in our advertising even as a footnote. Which is going to make running the agency that much harder, if I can't say for certain whether you're going to be available. What if I give you a terribly important job and then in the middle of it Sir Alec whisks you away? What happens to us then? To our reputation?"

"You'd manage," he said. "And Melissande, Sir Alec did explain that-"

She slapped the jalopy's dashboard. "Yes, Gerald, I know what he explained. I was there, remember? I signed the paperwork. In triplicate. But the plain unvarnished truth is that we're a better agency with you than without you so just answer the question, would you? Please? When are you likely to be sent away on Department business?"

He shrugged. "Honestly, Melissande, I don't know."

"Well, that's not good enough!"

"I'm afraid it'll have to be. Sorry."

She snatched up her plait and bit the end of it, savagely. "Well, it's not. I've a good mind to make an appointment with your precious Sir Alec and-"

"No! No! Melissande, you can't!" Horrified, he stared at her. "Really, you can't. You promised you'd stay out of Department business, remember? Don't you know how close-run a thing it was, you and Reg and Bibbie and Monk getting mixed up with the Wycliffe affair? The favors Sir Alec called in to protect all of us-to keep the agency open and you from being sent home to Rupert in disgrace-Melissande, please. You can't."

"I didn't know there'd been that kind of trouble," she said after a long silence. Then she tilted her chin, and behind her spectacles her eyes glittered dangerously. "Why didn't you tell me there'd been that kind of trouble? Is that why you've not been sent on an assignment yet? Are you being punished because of what happened with Wycliffe's?"

"No, of course not," he said, even though there were moments when he had his suspicions. "It's just the way things go in the janitor business. The right kind of assignment hasn't come along, that's all."

"Good," said Melissande. Then she frowned at her lap. "Although, to be honest, Gerald, I hope it never does. I don't want you disappearing into the underworld of black market thaumaturgics or international skullduggery or whatever catastrophe comes along next."

"But that's my job, Melissande," he said gently. "My real job. The agency-it's just camouflage."

Staring out of the passenger window, she sighed. "I know."

"And when that Sir Alec does get around to sending you on another mission, even if you could turn him down you wouldn't," said Reg. "Would you?"

"Is she right?" said Melissande, when he didn't answer.

Reg hopped from the back seat onto the back of the driver's seat, behind his left shoulder. "Don't be a tosser, madam. Of course I'm right. Our Gerald's getting antsy-aren't you, Gerald? You're starting to feel cooped up. Bored. And even though that Sir Alec's got you jumping through hoops once a week out at Nettleworth, it's not the same. It's not enough. You're as bad as that Markham boy, drat you. You don't like having your wings clipped any more than he does. You, Gerald Dunwoody, are pining for action."

Melissande raised an eyebrow at him. "Exactly. What she said."

Rats. "Well, she happens to be wrong," he retorted. "I'm not pining for anything and I don't have wings, clipped or otherwise."

"Oh, pishwash, Gerald," said Reg. "Pull the other one. With any luck it'll come off and then I can smack you over the head with it."

Scowling, he let himself slump until his knees hit the dashboard. "Fine. So you're right. But what difference does it make? I can't force Sir Alec to send me out on assignment, can I? And anyway..."

This time it was Melissande's turn to prompt. "Yes? And anyway what?"

At this time of night Daffydown Lane was as silent as the grave. As he stared out at the darkness the drifting drizzle hardened, turning into proper rain. The sound of it drumming on the jalopy roof and the lane's cobbles was oddly comforting. A childhood sound of warm blankets and steaming hot cocoa and his mother tucking him in with a kiss.

"The problem is," he said at last, "that I'm neither fish nor fowl. I never have been, really. When I was a Third Grader I scraped by as a compliance officer, just, but I was never going to climb the ladder of bureaucratic success. And then came Stuttley's, and New Ottosland, and suddenly I'm the most powerful wizard in the world, apparently, which means I'm too dangerous to be let loose without supervision. The thing is, I'm starting to suspect it's not that there aren't any missions Sir Alec could send me on. There are. The problem is he's afraid to."

"Sir Alec? Afraid?" Melissande shook her head. "Sorry, but he doesn't strike me as the fearful type."

"Fine. Then not Sir Alec, but the men he answers to. He's got clout, a lot of it, but he's not autonomous."

"Told you that, did he?" said Reg. "Over crumpets and a nice cup of tea?"

Not in so many words. Sir Alec had turned being cryptically circumspect into an art form. But there had been some hints, since the Wycliffe affair-some gaps in the conversation he'd been able to fill. And once or twice Mr. Dalby had given away more than he realized.

And then of course there's how the other janitors look at me, when they think I'm not looking. The truth is I don't bloody well belong anywhere.

"Something like that, Reg," he said, shrugging. "The point is they really don't know what to do with me. I think if I accidentally fell under a bus tomorrow there'd be a lovely funeral and sighs of relief all around."

"Oh, Gerald, surely not!" said Melissande, genuinely shocked. "Surely they appreciate your immense value to Ottosland. To the world. Certainly to thaumaturgics. They can't be so short-sighted as to let their fear of the unknown override what they've got in you?"

Reg cackled. "Of course they can, ducky. They're politicians, aren't they? And bureaucrats. The most dangerous combination of criminals in the world."

"Do you mind?" he said, glancing over his shoulder. "I was a bureaucrat, remember?"

"And I was a politician," added Melissande.

"Ha," said Reg smugly. "And so I rest my case."

Melissande pulled a horrible face at her, then gave up. "So what are you saying, Gerald? That this whole idea of seconding Witches Incorporated into his Department was a ruse? Sir Alec's way of-of-hobbling you? Containing you? Keeping you out of mischief?"

"I don't know," he muttered. "I didn't think so at first, but every time I turn around lately someone else is on a job and I'm still here."

She chewed at her lip. "Well-what does Monk think?"

"I haven't talked it over with him."

"Why not?"

He gave her a look. "Why do you think? Because he's got his own problems to worry about. And because if I did, and if he even halfway agreed with me, he'd be off shouting at his Uncle Ralph-or maybe even Sir Alec-and what he needs to do in the next little while is keep his head down and not draw any more attention to himself. At least, not for the wrong reasons."

"Oh," said Melissande, subdued. "So-he really is in hot water then? I mean, he laughs it off and tells me not to worry, but-"

"Um-well-" he prevaricated. Then Reg whacked him on the back of the head with her wing. "Ow! Reg, don't do that!"

"If you'd answer the question, sunshine, I wouldn't have to!" she retorted. "Is that Markham boy in trouble or isn't he?"

Damn. Me and my big mouth. "He's under scrutiny," he said. "It's complicated. Not everyone in the government likes the Markhams. There are people-a few people-important, influential people-who wouldn't sob themselves to sleep at night if Monk had a spectacular fall from grace and maybe took Sir Ralph and a few more of the family down with him."

"And how do you know this?" said Melissande. Not in her snooty princess voice this time, but the voice that reminded him that for a while, and under impossible pressures, she'd single-handedly run an entire kingdom.

He made himself meet her steady, serious gaze. "Sir Alec told me," he said. "Over crumpets and tea."

It had by far been the most frightening conversation of his alarming career. Sir Alec's curt advice had burned itself into his memory.

"Take heed of your incorrigible friend, Mr. Dunwoody. There are those around him who are less than friendly. He would be wise to curtail his exuberance-and you would be wise to encourage him in that pursuit."

"And you're only mentioning it now?" Reg demanded, and hit him again. "Gerald Dunwoody, what's the matter with you?"

"I'm thinking concussion," he snapped. "Now lay off me, Reg. As it happens I've been waiting for the right time to say something to him. But there hasn't been a right time. He's been too busy climbing the walls."

"That's true," said Melissande, after another silence. "And I've been too busy pouting to notice. Gerald-"

"Yes. Of course I'll look out for him. Trust me, Melissande, no matter what it takes I'll always protect Monk-even from himself." He snorted. "Especially from himself."

"Thank you," she whispered, then kissed his cheek. "And good night."

"Good night, sunshine," said Reg, getting ready to flap after Melissande. "See you in the morning."

Bugger. He couldn't stay cross with her for more than five minutes. "Night, Reg. Sleep tight."

She looked down her beak at him. "And while you're busy worrying about that Markham boy," she added, "spare a frown for yourself, Gerald. Because I've got a nasty feeling in my water things are about to hot up around here."

Oh, Reg. Shaking his head, he watched her join Melissande at the front door of the old building that housed the Witches Inc. office.

Ignore her, Dunnywood. She only says things like that to make you hop.

But still... as he put the jalopy into gear and pulled away from the pavement, he couldn't ignore the nasty tickle in the back of his mind that said maybe, just this once, Reg wasn't wrong.

CHAPTER TEN.

By the time he got back to Chatterly Crescent, Bibbie was nowhere to be seen and Monk was in the parlor brooding into a glass of finest aged Broadbent brandy and poking at the pine branches burning cheerfully in the fireplace.

"She's barricaded herself in her workroom so she can play with her ridiculous ethergenics," his friend said, not turning away from the crackling flames.

Damn. Am I that bloody obvious? "What? What are you talking about?"

Monk gave the burning logs one last good shove then leaned the poker against the hearth. "Come on, Gerald. I know you're keen on her. And I don't want to insult you. But-"

Suddenly cautious, he headed for the drinks trolley and poured three fingers of brandy for himself "But if you lay a hand on my sister it'll be pistols at dawn? Monk-"

Brooding into the leaping flames now, Monk hunched one shoulder. "Don't Monk me, mate. You think I like having to say it? You think I think you're not good enough? If you think that you're an idiot. Bibs could travel the whole world and she'd not find a better man."

He swallowed half his brandy in one gulp, poured himself a generous finger more, then retreated to an armchair.

I was wondering when we'd get around to this conversation. Funny, how when it comes to tricky things to say we always seem to find ourselves in the parlor, with the brandy.

"It's all right," he said, even though it wasn't, really. Even though a tight knot had formed under his ribs. "She's your sister. Your only sister. You love her. You want to protect her. And when you look at me all you can see is danger."

Monk swung around to face him. "So. You do understand."

"Don't you be an idiot, Monk," he said tiredly. "Why the devil do you think I've not breathed a word to her?"

"Oh," said Monk, after a moment, and retreated to the other armchair. "Right. Sorry. I should've realized-"

"Yes, you bloody should've." He tipped the rest of the expensive Broadbent down his throat. Probably not a good idea, given that the pancakes he'd had for supper weren't noted for their alcohol absorption properties, but in that moment it was hard to care.

"I mean," said Monk, determined to flog the expired equine, "let's face it, Gerald. In your line of work you've got old agents and bold agents but no old, bold agents. At least none that I've seen. And you're pretty bloody bold, mate. And come to think of it, as far as your Department's concerned old is something of a relative notion. Sir Alec's what-in his fifties? And he's the oldest fogey you've got."

Sadly, that was true. "I'm not arguing with you, Monk."

Monk swallowed more of his own brandy. "Bibbie's still practically a girl. And the bald truth of it is that I don't want her widowed before she's grown her first gray hair."

"Neither do I."

"It's just-you need to understand a brother's position, mate," said Monk, waving his almost-empty glass for emphasis. "I don't want Bibbie's heart ripped out of her chest and thrown onto the ground and-and stomped to mush. I mean-I mean-what if there were sprogs, Gerald? What if you and my little sister fell all the way in love, and you got married, and you had a baby, and-and then that bloody icicle Sir Alec sent you off to somewhere like-like Tarikstan, say, some thaumaturgical hellhole, anyway, and you got yourself killed and there's Bibbie with a baby and no husband and what kind of a brother would I be, eh, what kind of a loving brother would I be if I stood back and let that happen? I ask you?"

Gerald looked at him. "Um-just how much brandy have you had?"

"That's not the point," said Monk, jabbing a finger at him. "The point, my friend, is-"

"Yes, I know what the bloody point is," he snapped. "So long as I'm a janitor I can't afford to get myself tangled up in petticoats."

"Hmmm," said Monk, and leaned back in his chair. "Don't think Bibs wears petticoats, actually. Something about suffrage-although I couldn't say for certain. I wasn't really paying attention at the time. You know what she's like. Once she gets on a hobbyhorse she tends to ride it to death."

"A Markham family trait, it would seem," he murmured. Then he sighed, and put his empty glass down on the small table beside him. "Look. Monk. I'm not about to pretend I'm not fond of Bibbie, because you're my friend and I owe you the truth. So. The truth is I'm very fond of her. And if circumstances were different I'd throw my hat in the ring, petticoats or no petticoats. But as you say, my circumstances are precarious and I don't want Bibbie's life ruined or her heart stomped to mush any more than you do."

"Good," said Monk. "I'm happy to hear it."

"Really?" he said, considering his friend closely. "Because you don't look happy. You look like a cat that lost the canary. You're not still bothered about the thaumaturgic limit, are you? Because that'll be lifted in no time, Monk. The whole bloody thing's a storm in a teacup anyway. It's politics. Face-saving. If you weren't a Markham I'll bet nobody would've said boo."

"I know," said Monk. "It's not that. And anyway, I've fiddled a way around the bloody limiting, haven't I? Because I am a Markham and we never say die." He pulled a face. "We might say ouch a lot while they're trying to beat us to a bloody pulp but the fateful word die doth never pass our lips."

"Then what is it?" he asked. "If it's not the bureaucrats playing silly buggers-what's the matter?"

Monk rolled his head on the armchair and stared into the fireplace. The flames' warm, reddish glow cast deep shadows and remolded his face. He looked much older all of a sudden, solemn and serious and nothing like himself.