"It doesn't matter," the other Monk whispered. "It's not the same here. You'll be all right."

"No, tell me," she insisted. "I want to-"

"Bibbie, don't," Monk said quietly. "There isn't much time."

Bibbie stared at her other brother. "What?"

"Open your eyes, ducky," said Reg, impatient on the sofa's arm. "Something went a bit wrong breaking that bloody shadbolt." She looked at Monk. "Didn't it, Mr. Clever Clogs Markham?"

Melissande felt her Monk flinch. "I did my best."

"He did," said the other Monk, his voice hoarse. "It's all right. I always knew-"

"Knew what?" Bibbie demanded. "Monk-both of you-either of you-what's going on?"

Ignoring her, Monk grasped his other self's forearm. "How long?"

"Soon," whispered the other Monk.

"Tell us what you can," said Monk. "Quickly. When did everything go ass over elbows?"

The other Monk groaned. His eyes were starting to cloud. "New Ottosland. Lional and his dragon. Gerald swore to stop them."

"We know," said Bibbie. "And he did. He made another dragon and-"

"No," said the Monk on the sofa, sickly pale and sweating. "That didn't happen. Not in my world. My Gerald made a different choice. He-"

A surging wave of pain silenced him. And as he fought his way through it- "Oh, blimey bloody Charlie," said Reg, with a violent rattling of tail feathers and a great flapping of wings. "And his bunions and his piles!"

Monk looked at her. "Reg?"

"The palace roof, sunshine. Remember?" said Reg. Her tail was still rattling and her eyes were wide with horror. "Just before Shugat and his swanky sultan turned up? Gerald was all set to help himself to Lional's manky grimoires."

"And you talked him out of it."

"Yes, I did," Reg retorted. "But the other me didn't." She looked at the Monk on the sofa. "Am I right? I'm right, aren't I?"

Wheezing, the other Monk nodded. "And by the time we got back from Ottosland, it was too late," he whispered. "My Gerald had... turned."

Melissande, looking at him, could have wept for his pain. He blamed himself. Gerald was his best friend and in his mind, he'd failed him.

How close did we come to his fate, I wonder? Was it serendipity that saved us, or something else?

"But-how does that work?" said Bibbie, breaking the stunned silence. "Gerald's Gerald, isn't he? He can't decide to do one thing here and another thing-"

"Ha," said Reg. "'Course he can, ducky. Don't tell me you've never been in two minds about something. I've seen you in front of the icebox."

"So that was the moment when our worlds diverged," Monk said, frowning. "Our Gerald made his own dragon and defeated Lional in thaumaturgical combat. Whereas his Gerald-"

"Corrupted himself," said the other Monk. "He was trying to do the right thing, but-what was in those grimoires, combined with his unique potentia-"

Monk ran a shaking hand over his face. "Bloody hell. No wonder his thaumic signature felt so wrong. Your Gerald, mate, he's got to be-"

"Stopped," whispered the other Monk. "I know. Why d'you think I'm here? He's convinced the world needs saving, and only he can save it. By ruling it. He won't listen to reason. And the things he's done-the things he's doing-what he plans..." Another shuddering, indrawn breath. "Everything's falling apart so fast. My world's on the brink of war. Half the member states of the United Magical Nations have banded together and delivered an ultimatum. Ottosland must stand down from its demands or face an all-out punitive response."

"And oh wait-let me guess," Reg said darkly. "The other half's agreed to join your Gerald's team in return for a share of the international spoils. Politics."

"Exactly," said the other Monk. "And he could win. He's powerful enough, and-and-"

"And you've been helping him?" said Monk, his voice tight. "A few new inventions? A nifty little thaumaturgical gadget here and there?"

The other Monk flinched. "I did try to stop him. We were friends." Another flinch. "I thought we were friends. I thought I could reach him. I never dreamed he'd-and once the shadbolt was on I couldn't get it off and every time I tried to argue with him-reason with him-" A terrible, ghastly travesty of a smile. "He really doesn't like it when people say no. This ultimatum, Monk-he'll never surrender. He really will plunge my whole world into war first."

Melissande felt herself go cold. I don't believe it. He can't be talking about Gerald. Gerald Dunwoody's the most moral man I know. Glancing at Reg, she saw that the bird was-amazingly-lost for words. Bibbie was trying hard to blink back tears. And Monk-her Monk-Oh, Saint Snodgrass. I never imagined I'd ever see him terrified.

"How long?" he said, staring intently at the other Monk crumpled on the sofa. "Before the UM nations who haven't gone rogue attack Ottosland?"

"They gave us a week," said the other Monk. "That was four days ago."

"Four days?" said Reg, feathers bristling. "And what have you been doing since then, sunshine? Lolling about getting manicures?"

"Reg!" Bibbie looked close to violence. "Shut your beak, you horrible bloody bird! You've got no right to-"

"I'm sorry," said the other Monk. "I worked as-" Abruptly his breathing turned to more coughing, and fresh blood-pink froth bubbled on his lips. "I worked as fast as I could," he said, once he'd caught his breath. "But I had to get my hands on the portable portal and figure out how to tweak it without him noticing and then I had to come up with a plausible reason why I needed to be left strictly undisturbed in the lab and-"

Monk dropped to a crouch beside the other Monk. Took hold of his shoulder and held on tight. "Don't. It's all right.Which nations are on your Gerald's side, d'you remember?"

The other Monk pressed his knuckles to his forehead, grimacing. Another cough. More blood on his lips. "Sorry-it hurts-"

Melissande leaned close. "Try, Monk. Please. I know it's hard, I know you're in pain, but if you want us to help you then you have to help us."

"I know," he grunted, nodding. "Believe me, Mel, I know. Jandria. They were first to join him."

She exchanged a jaundiced look with her Monk. Well, yes, of course bloody Jandria. Never a crisis brewing that they're not interested in heating up.

"Fine," she said, trying to sound encouraging despite the churning nausea. "Who else?"

"Oh ducky, forget the laundry list," said Reg. With another flapping of wings she launched herself off the arm of the sofa, landed on the other Monk's knees and stabbed him with her steeliest glare. "Let's just leap ahead to the punch line, shall we? To cut a depressing and abbreviated story even shorter-you came here to fetch our-my-Gerald to your world so he can snap his fingers and janitor away your troubles, didn't you?"

The other Monk frowned, muzzily. "Janitor? What? I don't-"

"Never you mind playing the dimwit!" Reg snapped. "Do you expect my Gerald to clean up your mess or don't you?"

Face screwed up with pain, the other Monk nodded. "I had to come. He's our only hope. Gerald's the only wizard I know who can stop Gerald. The only rogue thaumaturgist in either of our worlds."

"And that's another thing," said Reg, unyielding. "Why pick this world? Why pick my Gerald?"

"Sorry," said the other Monk, close to wheezing. "This world was the only one I could find."

"Then all I can say is you didn't look hard enough!" Reg retorted. "Perhaps if you had then-"

"Reg," Melissande said softly. "Please. Can't you see he's-"

"Of course I can bloody see!" said Reg, eyes blazing. "I can see he's got no more common sense than your Monk, madam! Because how, exactly, does he think my Gerald's going to help him? My Gerald's not corrupted himself with any of that manky grimoire magic and I'll tell you right now, ducky, he's not going to either." She glared down at the other Monk. "So your world's going to have to sort itself out, Mr. Markham from Next Door. Everybody knows charity begins at home. So you can just pop yourself back there and clean up your own mess."

Shocked, Melissande stared at her. "Reg-how can you say that? Gerald's in trouble, he-"

"His Gerald. Not mine," Reg snapped. "My Gerald would never soil himself with that muck. My Gerald didn't. And believe me, madam, whoever that is in his world wearing my Gerald's face? He stopped being Gerald months ago."

Monk cleared his throat. "She's right about that much. The Gerald who made that shadbolt-I don't know him. That Gerald Dunwoody's not my friend."

"Maybe he is and maybe he isn't," said Melissande. "But for all we know that Gerald is-is trapped inside those awful magics, just like this other Monk was trapped inside that shadbolt. And if that's true we have to help him!"

"Mel's right," said Bibbie. "He's still Gerald, just like this is still Monk."

"I know," Monk said reluctantly. "And as much as I hate to agree with myself, knowing what I know of our Gerald's abilities? If he really did decide to get creative the only wizard I know who could stop him is him. And that means-"

"Aren't you noddyheads listening?" Reg screeched. "I said no and I meant no! You are not getting my Gerald mixed up in this!"

Monk dragged his fingers through his hair. "Look, Reg, when you think about it he's already mixed up-"

"One more word out of you, Mr. Clever Clogs, and I'll do more than bloody poke you in your insignificant unmentionables!" said Reg. Her dark eyes were alight with a fury none of them had ever seen before. "I'll fly to your Uncle Ralph's poncy establishment and tell him what you've been up to lately. All of it, sunshine. Chapter and verse. By the time this little canary's finished singing you won't be able to show your face past your front door for ten years! That's if Uncle Ralph doesn't throw you in a dark cell-and trust me when I say I'd bloody cheer if he did!"

Bibbie leaped to her feet. "Oh, really? Is that so? Just who d'you think you're messing with, you washed-up old has-been? We're the Markhams, we are, ducky, and you don't want to mess with us! I'm warning you, Reg-you try hurting my brother and I'll have a go at lifting your hex and then I'll be the one cheering while you-"

"Bibbie," said Melissande, reaching out a hand. "Don't. Can't you see she's terrified?"

"Good!" Bibbie retorted. "And so she should be. I'm not a witch to be trifled with and-"

"Bibbie, shut up!" she said. "She's not scared of you. She's scared that if his Gerald could risk using those grimoires then so could our Gerald, which means-"

"He would not!" Bibbie said hotly. "How can you even suggest it? Our Gerald's too smart for that. He proved he's too smart for that by not using them the first time. His Gerald must've had a screw loose or something. Or maybe the other Reg drove him bonkers with all her nagging. But whatever the reason, I won't-"

"Bibbie," said Monk, quietly. "Melissande's right. Now do us all a favor and hush up. Reg-"

"Monk Markham, you're Gerald's best friend," said Reg, hopping from the other Monk's knees to the sofa-back as Bibbie turned away, flushed pink with affronted misery. "You know what he's like. Show him a lame dog and he won't care what it costs him to save it. Look how he was with that pillock Errol Haythwaite. Bent over backwards to see him proved innocent after every mean and nasty thing the plonker said and did to him. And now you want to-"

"No, Reg, I don't want to," said Monk. "Believe me, I don't. But it's not up to me. And it's not up to you, either. This is Gerald's decision. We don't have the right to make it for him."

Melissande looked at her. "We don't, Reg. You know we don't."

"Where is he?" said the other Monk, stirring. "Your Gerald? I need to see him. I need to-"

"He's not here," she said. "Sir Alec sent him on assignment. Do you know your world's Sir Alec?"

The other Monk shuddered. "Not well. And not for long. Melissande-" His beseeching eyes, cloudier now, fixed their gaze on her face. "Please. Get Gerald. Quickly. Time's running out. If we don't stop him-" He sat bolt upright, shuddering harder than ever. "Monk-"

"I'm here," Monk said, his voice rough. "It's all right, mate. I'm here."

Leaning forward, the other Monk grabbed his arm pulled him close, eyes alight with an almost fanatical glitter. "You felt him. In the shadbolt. You felt what he is now. He's not your friend. He'll kill everyone. He won't stop until the world's drowning in blood. Stop him. You and your Gerald, Monk. Promise me that. Promise."

"I don't know if I can," said Monk, sounding helpless. "I mean-you're me and you couldn't stop him. How am I supposed to stop him if you couldn't?"

Melissande felt her throat close hard. She'd never heard Monk so desperate. So despairing. She'd never seen such a look of distress on his face. And the other Monk's face-his face- "Reg!" she said alarmed. "Something's wrong-something's happening-Monk-"

The other Monk's eyes were flickering back and forth, madly, and he was shuddering so hard his teeth were chattering. No, this wasn't shuddering. He was having some kind of seizure. Monk was holding on tight, trying to steady him, but it wasn't doing any good. The other Monk shook and shook, teeth chattering, hair flopping, blood pouring from his nose like water from a tap left on full.

Bibbie went to pieces. "Monk, stop it! Monk, do something! Help him, call for an ambulance, Monk-"

"Shut up, you silly bint!" Reg shrieked, flapping into her face. "Pull yourself together! Is this any way for a witch to behave?"

"You shut up, Reg!" shouted Bibbie, and batted her aside. "That's my brother, you gobby old crow!"

And even though she was wrong, even though that wasn't her Monk-their Monk-in the most horrible and confusing way, yes. It was.

"Come on, mate-come on, mate-" her Monk was crooning. "We can fix this. Hang on, hang onto me. We'll get you some help. We'll-we can-"

Melissande, one hand pressed to her mouth, watched through hot tears as her Monk did his best. But his best wasn't enough. There was too much blood. Too much wrong. The other Monk shuddered again, one last huge convulsion, then sagged into stillness. Slowly, disbelievingly, her Monk lowered him to the sofa's cushions.

The other Monk's eyes opened, slowly, in his dreadful, dead-white and blood-daubed face. He saw her. Breathed out, softly. His bloodied lips curved in a smile.

"Melissande. I love you."

A moment later, he died.

Reg flapped from the drinks trolley back to the sofa. Looking down at the other Monk, she tipped her head to one side. "Bugger," she said heavily. "That's all we need."

Ignoring the wretched bird, Melissande dropped to her knees beside Monk. He was staring into the dead man's face as though caught in some hideous dream. "Monk... Monk?"

"It's my fault," he whispered. "The shadbolt-there wasn't time to be careful. I had to-and there was a trick in it-I did my best-but it was a bastard, Mel. I've never seen anything like it. I thought I could do it. I thought I could free him and save him but-" His voice broke. "I did my best."

She slid her arm around his shoulder, her eyes burning. "I know you did. And so did he. He knew it was a risk and he wanted to take it. Monk..."

Horribly he laughed, then shrugged her arm free. Shoved to his feet and stared down at the dead man. "So here's the thing, girls. Here's the big question. What just happened-was it murder... or suicide? Can any of you tell me? 'Cause I'm jiggered if I know."

Melissande. I love you. Aching, she risked a hand on her Monk's arm. "It was neither. Monk, you can't blame yourself." She gulped. "This was his Gerald's fault. There's no use dwelling. The question that needs answering now is what are we going to do about this?"

Sighing, he scrubbed his hands over his face then got up to perch on the edge of the sofa. The other Monk-the dead Monk-stared at the ceiling with blank, cloudy eyes. In the fireplace, flames danced and crackled.

Monk looked up. Met her stony gaze briefly, then turned to Bibbie. His sister stood still and slender and silent, fresh tears drying on her cheeks.

"We're going to call Sir Alec," he said grimly. "We're going to get Gerald back here. And then we're going to take care of the madman who's responsible for this."

Sir Alec took a deep breath and furiously throttled the fear. Tried to throttle it-but the fear fought back. The last time he'd been this frightened was during his final janitorial field assignment. The one that had taken him out of the field permanently and thrust him with mixed emotions behind a desk. Since then, fear had become something of a memory... but, by God, he was bloody frightened now. Oh, yes. That heart he tried so hard to pretend he didn't have was knock, knock, knocking against his broken-more-than-once ribs.

Bloody hell, Dunwoody. Where did you go?

Thanks to the bane of Ralph's life, his irrepressible and annoyingly irreplaceable nephew Monk Markham, Nettleworth's top secret tracking equipment was the best in the world. Barring certain atmospheric hiccups and the occasional idiosyncratic etheretic fluctuation, with the flip of a switch he could pinpoint the location-via thaumic signature-of every agent in his charge. Thanks to Monk Markham he knew where they all were tonight, every last one of them-save Gerald Dunwoody. Who wasn't in Grande Splotze. Who-if that cryptic message was to be trusted-had never so much as set foot in Grande Splotze.