Bibbie.

It nearly killed him not to hold her, not to crush her to his chest. She was so brave, and he loved her, and barring a miracle-or a disaster-she could never be his.

With a gasp Monk pulled himself out of the ether. "I saw it! I saw what you mean. And you're right. But there's a trick to it. A nasty one. The bloody things are sequenced. Trip them out of order and-"

"And what?" said Bibbie. "Monk? And what?"

"You'll die," he said flatly. "It's a failsafe." He glanced sideways. "That isn't in the other shadbolt."

"Which is why you weren't expecting it," he said. "Monk, settle down."

But Monk was nowhere near to settling. "One mistake, Gerald. One mistake and I'll kill her."

Bibbie tilted her chin, just like Melissande. "Well, then, big brother. Don't make a mistake."

Groaning, hands pressed flat to his face, Monk turned away. "I can't. It's not just the sequence, Bibs, there's some kind of timing involved on top of it. Did you feel that too, Gerald?"

"I did," he said. Bugger it. "And that's not something I can help you with, Monk. I mean, I can-I will, if you want-tell you in which order to trip the semi-cants. But you're the only one who can judge the timing."

Monk let his hands drop. "I can't," he said, with a terrible intensity. "You do it. You do it all. You won't make a mistake, but I might."

"No, you won't," Bibbie protested. "Monk, you won't."

He turned on her, savagely. "You don't bloody know that!"

"Yes, I do," she said. "I do, because I'm your little sister and you love me and you know bloody well I'll come back and haunt you if you get it wrong. And if you don't do it, Monk, then you won't be able to remove the shadbolt from the man Plummer has in custody which means I did this for nothing. And then I'll hate you, Monk. D'you hear me? I'll hate you. Forever!"

"Which'll make us even, won't it?" Monk retorted. "Because I already hate you for doing this, you stupid, stupid girl!"

"Fine, then, hate me!" she shouted. "See if I care! So long as you get this horrible thing off me you can hate me all you like!"

"Hey, hey," said Gerald, catching Monk by the shoulder. "Bibbie's right. You have to be the one who does this. For once you need to take all the credit. The slightest whiff that I'm involved and we'd both be finished and-" He swallowed, hard. "It might be selfish to say it, but I need to stay a janitor. The only reason I'm breathing free air is because of Sir Alec. Right now, if I didn't have him to hide behind-well-I'd be in a spot of trouble."

Monk shook his head, his face taut with distress. "In other words you're asking me to choose between my best friend and my sister."

It sounded awful when he put it like that. "I'm asking you to trust yourself. You always have before."

"Yeah, well, before you were a clumsy Third Grade wizard, weren't you? And now-"

He took Monk by the shoulders. "And now I'm telling you that you can do this. I might have changed but you haven't. You're the great Monk Markham, the terror of R&D."

"God," said Monk, shivering. "I think I'd rather be a tailor."

"No, you wouldn't. Trust me." He spun Monk around and gave him a little push. "Now go on. It's not polite to keep a lady waiting."

"Ha," said Monk. "That's no lady. That's my sister."

But he walked back to Bibbie, and stood before her, and smiled. "Are you ready, Emmerabiblia?"

Her chin tilted again. "Don't call me that. I hate it."

Monk's hesitant smile quirked briefly into a grin. "I know." And then he flicked a glance over his shoulder. "So what's the order of the semi-cants, Professor Dunwoody?"

Gerald closed his eyes and summoned to mind the shape of the shadbolt. "Tero, duo, quadro, une. Canti, sexto, octo, sept."

Monk muttered the sequence under his breath, then nodded. "All right then. Hold down your petticoats, Bibs. This could get a little bumpy."

A deep breath, a whispered prayer-and Monk dived back into the ether. More than anything Gerald wanted to dive back in there with him, but he didn't dare risk it. Monk couldn't afford even the slightest distraction. And anyway, Bibbie shouldn't have to go through this alone.

"I'm holding your hand, Bibs. Can you feel it?"

She nodded, her eyes so bright and brilliant. "Yes. Yes. It's all right, Gerald. Don't worry. I'm not afraid."

Maybe not. But I am. Bloody hell. We're all mad.

He felt the first semi-cant surrender to Monk's command. Felt time tick by, each second like a blow from a sledgehammer. Then the second semi-cant collapsed, followed almost immediately by the third. The ether was writhing, thrashing at the release of dark powers. The fourth surrendered. The fifth. More waiting, and then the sixth. The seventh. And then he waited again... and he kept on waiting... and the sledgehammer seconds threatened to smash him to the floor.

"What's happening?" Bibbie whispered. "Is something wrong? What's taking so long? Gerald-"

"Don't-don't-" he croaked. "Bibbie, don't move."

The eighth and final semi-cant disintegrated in a soft thaumic explosion which tossed Bibbie backwards until she struck the parlor wall. Monk crashed to his knees, retching, bringing up brandy and blood.

"Bibbie!" Gerald shouted, and leaped for her. "Bibbie, are you all right?"

She was retching too but there was no blood, Saint Snodgrass be praised. The smothering shadbolt was gone, her aura untrammeled now and shining. She pushed him aside.

"Monk!" she said. "Monk, are you all right? Monk!"

Superfluous to requirements, Gerald watched as his best friend and the woman he shouldn't-couldn't-love fell into each other's arms.

"You did it, you did it, Monk," Bibbie sobbed. "I knew you could. I told you. And now you'll help Plummer catch that murdering black market wizard and that'll shut Uncle Ralph's bloody trap for good!"

"What?" Monk demanded, and wrenched himself free of her desperate embrace. "Bibbie-is that why you did it? To put paid to Uncle Ralph?"

Her old scarf had come undone, and her glorious golden hair tumbled free around her face and shoulders. "Why else, you idiot?" she said, and punched his chest. "I mean, I had to do something, didn't I? Or you'll have me pedaling that stupid stationary bike of yours until my feet really do spontaneously combust!"

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

Arms folded, kid-booted toes tapping, Melissande stood on the front steps of the Witches Incorporated office building and waited for Gerald and Bibbie to arrive. The previous night's miserable drizzle had cleared just after dawn, leaving the sky washed clean and the sun with its work cut out to dry up the generously scattered puddles. Boris, fastidious as ever, was seated on the front steps beside her, washing his face and whiskers and refusing to set so much as a toe onto the pavement until all the nasty water was gone.

"It's a quarter past nine, Boris," she announced, after glancing at the watch pinned to her sensible blouse. "And they're still not here. I'm at my wits' end, I tell you. In fact I'm starting to think that dreadful Miss Petterly had the right idea. As of today tardiness is going to be rewarded by salary deductions, no ifs, ands or buts. Unless that scatterbrained girl and the lovestruck idiot we got foisted on us without so much as a by-your-leave are here in the next five minutes I am keeping back a full ten percent of this week's wage. I'm putting my foot down, Boris. Hard. Move your tail."

It wasn't fair. It was rude and inconsiderate and-and unkind. And as if her colleagues' lack of punctuality wasn't enough to bring her out in hives, there was that singularly unnerving Sir Alec to deal with.

"Why me, Boris?" she said, peering along depressingly empty Daffydown Lane. Clients, clients, where were all the clients? "What did I ever do to deserve this?"

Boris, his tail now wrapped neatly around his haunches, dabbed a damp paw behind his ears and declined to answer.

She nodded. "Exactly. Nothing. I've done nothing to deserve this disrespectful treatment. Maybe I should stop being plain Miss Cadwallader and go back to being a Royal Highness. Maybe then I won't get treated like-a-a coat-stand. A rickety one, moreover, that's been shoved in a corner and left for the woodlice!"

Boris stopped washing his face and sat up a little straighter, ears pointing towards the end of Daffydown Lane. A moment later Monk's mud-splashed jalopy chugged into view.

"At last," she said, and marched down the pathway to greet them.

"Sorry, sorry," said Gerald, climbing out from behind the jalopy's wheel. He'd parked right behind Sir Alec, but didn't seem to realize. "It's my fault. I overslept."

"Really?" she said as he ducked around to open the front passenger door for Bibbie. "I find that hard to believe, Professor Dunwoody. In fact, as Reg would say, do pull the other one so I can-"

Bibbie clambered out of the jalopy. For once she didn't look cool and calm and elegant. Well, at least, she did on the surface. But underneath the usual polish- "Please, Mel, don't go on at Gerald," she said wanly. "It's my fault. I'm the one who overslept. I wasn't feeling well."

Gerald was hovering in a far more obvious fashion than usual. And Bibbie had faint purple shadows beneath her eyes. Her eyes met his once, briefly, then she quickly turned away.

Melissande glared at them, her temper rising anew. "Oh, wonderful. Reg could be playing marbles with both of my eyes and I'd still be able to read that look. Come on. Spill the beans. What's gone wrong now?"

"Wrong?" said Gerald. His voice was very nearly a squeak. "Sorry, Melissande. I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, yes you do," she retorted. "You both have I've got a big fat guilty secret written all over you-in capital letters!"

"No, we haven't," almost-squeaked Gerald.

Bibbie sighed. "Yes, we have. Come on, Gerald, we knew we'd probably never fool her. Mel-I'm sorry. But it's best if you don't know."

Hurt battled with outrage. Excuse me? What am I? A bloody big mushroom? "Really? And why would that be, pray tell?"

"Because if we explain then your blood pressure will shoot so high every last one of your arteries will explode."

"For once," Gerald added, terribly apologetic, "she's not exaggerating."

Oh-oh-buttocks. "Fine," she snapped. "Don't tell me. See if I care." I'll just get it out of Monk. "I don't have time for your silly games, anyway. As it happens we have a real crisis on our hands."

"Already?" said Bibbie plaintively. "But it's only twenty minutes past nine!"

"Don't remind me," she said, still snappish. "Or I really will dock your salary this week. Now pay attention, both of you. That wretched Sir Alec's here."

Gerald turned the color of week-old skimmed milk. "What?"

"You heard me. He's here." She pointed. "See? That's his car. And he's up in the office right now, drinking tea. Reg is keeping an eye on him."

"But why?" said Bibbie, as unattractively pale as Gerald. Did she realize she was clutching at his wool-coated arm? "Why is he here? Did he say? What does he want?"

"A word with Gerald."

"But-but-" Gerald waved his arms around, heedless of Bibbie's femininely clutching fingers. Which meant that whatever the two of them had done it was seriously serious. Something they couldn't afford for Sir Alec to find out about.

Wonderful. At this rate I'll have to move in to Chatterly Crescent, the proprieties go hang, or one of these geniuses is going to do someone else a great big mischief.

"I don't understand," said Gerald, staring over their heads to Witches Incorporated's blind-shrouded front window. "If he needs to talk to me he summons me to Nettleworth. Did he say he'd tried to reach me? My crystal ball's not on the blink. At least I don't think it is. Did he say if-"

"No, Gerald, the subject of your crystal ball did not arise," she snapped. And then, mortifyingly aware of the unfortunate entendre, felt herself blush in blotchy embarrassment. "So I can only assume he avoided regular communications. Which probably means that whatever he's got to say he's not keen for your colleagues at Nettleworth to overhear it."

Bibbie turned to Gerald. "Or else he knows," she whispered. "And he's decided to handle it under the table. I mean, he's not you or Monk but he is a powerful wizard, Gerald. Maybe he-"

"No," said Gerald, shaking his head. "They'd have sent your Uncle Ralph to the house if that were the case."

"You think so? Really?" Bibbie's tired eyes shone with hope. "Because otherwise-" She blinked back tears. And tears most definitely weren't like Bibbie. "Oh, Gerald."

Melissande felt her insides go cold. Saint Snodgrass preserve me, what did they get up to last night? "Gerald, are you quite sure you've no idea what he's doing here?"

"None," said Gerald. "He hasn't explained himself at all?"

She looked at him. "Suffering from a mild concussion, are we?"

"Sorry," he said, wincing. "What's his mood like? Could you tell?"

"Well, when I came downstairs almost half an hour ago he was perfectly polite," she replied, feeling newly waspish and not inclined to spare their feelings. "But now he's had almost half an hour of Reg making pointed remarks, so-"

"Bloody hell," Gerald groaned. "Did you have to leave him with Reg?"

"I had to leave him with someone, Gerald! I couldn't just abandon him alone in the office, could I?" she retorted, perilously close to unladylike shouting. "Now please go upstairs, find out what he wants and then get rid of him so we can get to work! Arnold Frobisher is due here at ten, if you recall, and it's going to take me nearly every minute I can lay my hands on to calm myself enough to make sure I don't kill him in lieu of you!"

Gerald took a prudent step back. "Right. Yes. I can do that. And while I'm doing that, ah, why don't you and Bibbie and Boris enjoy the sunshine? I won't take long. Two shakes of a lamb's tail, I promise."

"Are you out of your mind?" she said, glaring. "Whatever he's got to say to you he can say to me and Bibbie at the same time. We are Witches Incorporated and we are a team."

"Oh. Um." Gerald rubbed his nose. "Look. I know you and Bibbie signed various Secret Acts and so forth, Melissande, but given the lengths Sir Alec's gone to for a private conversation I'm pretty sure he won't want an audience for this."

She spread her hands wide. "And behold me, Gerald, once again not caring." She turned on her heel. "Now come on. I want this over with. Some of us have proper work to do."

"It's all right," said Reg from her ram skull, as they marched into the main office. "All the teaspoons are accounted for. I haven't took my eyes off him once."

"Sir Alec," said Gerald, very cautious, closing the office door. "Good morning."

Sir Alec, neatly seated in the best client chair, nondescript as ever in his ordinary brown suit, slipped the notes he'd been reading back into his shabby leather briefcase.

"Good morning, Mr. Dunwoody. I wasn't aware you kept bankers' hours at Witches Inc."

"No, no, that was me," said Bibbie, her cheeks pinking. "My fault. Don't blame him. Gerald's always on time when I'm not around."

"I see," said Sir Alec. His cool gray eyes lost a little of their chill. "You and your brother. So much alike."