Which means he never made it all the way through the portal. I watched him walk in-but he never walked out.

Not being a portal mechanic he hadn't driven back to the farm. It would have been a criminal waste of his time. But he'd sent his Department expert out there, was waiting even now to hear his report. But surely, surely, if there'd been some kind of catastrophic portal malfunction some alarm somewhere would have been triggered. If nothing else positive had emerged from the Wycliffe affair, Ottosland now boasted the best portal diagnostic and warning systems known to thaumaturgics.

It was the height of folly, but he couldn't help it. Abandoning his office with its cheerfully crackling fire and small round crystal that remained stubbornly silent, Sir Alec made his way back down to the monitoring station and went in search of Gerald, again. Passing through the main office he noted that Dalby was still here, in the cubbyhole considered his by virtue of him being-well, Frank Dalby. Mr. Dalby. Scourge of the new recruits. Aloofly distant Sir Alec's trusted right-hand man. But Frank, thank God, was nobody's fool. One look at his superior's face and he kept his nose well out of the way. If he was wanted he'd be called for, and that was good enough for him.

Baffled-and when the hell was the last time he'd been baffled-he stared at his Department's exclusively upgraded thaumic monitor. Twenty-six steadily burning little blue lights. Twenty-six living, breathing agents, scattered all around the globe. Look, there was Frank, upstairs with his mug of ghastly stewed tea and an asphyxiating cigarette. And look. There's me. But nowhere, nowhere, could he see Gerald Dunwoody. He wanted to swear. To stamp. To pound his fist in someone's face. All his uncivilized impulses, roaring to be set free.

When Felix Saltman's signal was lost the alarm had triggered seconds after his heart stopped beating. But no alarm had sounded for Agent Dunwoody. So either the monitor was malfunctioning-unlikely-or Gerald wasn't dead, he just wasn't registering on the etheretic plane.

But that would mean he's no longer in this world. And that simply isn't possible. Not even a wizard as powerful as Gerald Dunwoody can step between dimensions as though walking into another room.

Thwarted, he scowled his way back upstairs to his office. The phone started ringing just as he slammed the door.

"What?"

"Tokely, Sir Alec. Portal checks out. No malfunction."

He stared at the phone's receiver, disbelieving. "That can't be right. Check it again."

"Checked it three times, sir."

To argue further would be ridiculous. When it came to portal thaumaturgics, Tokely was the expert's expert. But-"Are you saying you found nothing unusual?"

"Didn't say that, sir. There is a slight blip. And of course we've got one incomplete journey. Can't say I've ever seen that happen before. Not without finding-well, you know. Remains."

"You're saying my agent simply vanished halfway to his destination?"

"Sorry, Sir Alec." Now Tokely sounded defensive. "I know how it looks, but that's my finding. You want a second opinion, call one in. You'll get the same answer."

"No, a second opinion's not necessary. Written report to me soonest, Tokely. My eyes only. This one's off the books, yes?"

"Whatever you say, sir."

He replaced the receiver, heart knocking hard again. So Gerald really had disappeared on his way to Grande Splotze, with no alarms triggered here or at the DoT. How was that possible? Who could begin to- No, surely not. Not even Ralph's nephew is stupid enough to try something like this. Is he? By God, if Monk Markham's behind this I'll- On the corner of his desk his crystal marble buzzed. Swamped sickeningly with relief, he snatched it up and hexed open a channel.

"Dunwoody? Dunwoody, where the hell are-"

"Um, actually, no, this isn't Gerald," said a thin, nervous voice. "This is Monk, Sir Alec. Monk Markham. I need to see you urgently. At home. Can you come?"

"Markham?" he said, incredulous. "How the devil did you get this-" And then he ground his teeth together. "Never mind. I'm on my way."

He was too angry to bid Frank a very late goodnight. Barely nodded at Chawtok, the agent on front desk duty. Swathed in coat and scarf and gloves and hat, he slammed out of the building and into his car and drove at reckless speed through the dark night streets, out to South-West Ott and Chatterly Crescent.

Monk Markham, the incorrigible reprobate, was waiting for him on his charming establishment's front doorstep. "I'm sorry, Sir Alec. I didn't know who else to call."

There was blood on Markham's face. Dried, but recent. His usually cheerful, slightly anarchic demeanor was absent. He was tense, his face pale, and there was something approaching dread in his wide eyes.

Raging temper receded, slightly "This had better be good, Mr. Markham."

Ralph's nephew swallowed. "Actually, sir, it's pretty bad. Please-come in. You won't believe me until you see it for yourself."

So he followed Ralph's nephew inside the old, comfortable house, through to the parlor where he found-surprise, surprise-not only the young troublemaker's precocious sister Emmerabiblia but Melissande Cadwallader and the bird.

And another Monk Markham, dead and stiffening on a couch.

"I'm sorry?" he said, looking at them one by one. "Is this some kind of ridiculous joke?"

"Do we look like we're laughing, sunshine?" said the bird. "Would you say this is my hysterically amused face?"

Ralph's appalling nephew wiped his hands down his front. "It's all right. I can explain," he muttered. Then he sighed. "Um-well, actually, I can't. Not really. But I can tell you what's happened, Sir Alec. And then-I hope-you can tell us what to do about it."

He listened to their story, growing colder by the minute. Some small, rational part of his mind was screaming, very rationally, This is not possible. There are laws of thaumaturgics. They can't be bent like this. And then he remembered with whom he was dealing and he felt like screaming again, not rationally at all.

"So you see, sir," said Ralph's regrettable nephew, when his insane tale was finished, "I really think we need to get Gerald back here. You know, from wherever you sent him. Because if ever there was a case for your best janitor to work on, I think this is it."

He was so angry he felt perfectly calm. "You constructed an interdimensional portal opener? By accident? And you failed to declare it?"

"He only used it the once," said Ralph's equally regrettable niece, firing up. "It's been in his sock drawer ever since. And it was the other Monk-" she pointed without looking, "-that one, who got his opener to work between worlds. And he only did that because his Gerald's gone insane and has to be stopped. So really it's lucky our Monk made his, isn't it, or he'd probably not understand how this other one works, would he? And then Gerald would have no way of getting through to the other world and stopping his mad self before he kills everyone. So-so you might remember that before you start being mean."

"Really?" he said. "That's your informed, experienced opinion is it, Miss Markham?"

As he'd intended, Miss Markham wilted.

"Sir Alec," said Miss Cadwallader, her chin lifted, her green eyes grim. "I appreciate you're upset but you need to focus on what's relevant. This might be a mess but for once Monk didn't make it. Not our Monk. He didn't bring this poor man here and he's not responsible for what's gone wrong in the other world. But now that we know what's happening there, I believe we are responsible for stopping it."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Are we?"

"Legally? No, of course not," she retorted. "But morally? Ethically? Now that we know people are suffering and dying? Absolutely. So please, recall Gerald so we can sit down and work out how to fix this before it's too late."

She was an eminently reasonable, sensible and decent young woman. They were all of them, at heart, decent young people-well, except for the bird-and while they might frequently drive him to raving distraction they weren't actively evil. Well, with the possible exception of the bird. But none of them seemed to have grasped the true import of these remarkable events. The shock of the other Monk Markham's death, no doubt. Not that the reason mattered. What mattered was that if one man could breach the boundary between worlds then who was to say there wasn't another coming close on his heels?

And if the next man turns out to be their Gerald Dunwoody... twisted by grimoire magic, his mind overturned by a lust for power...

"Given the circumstances," he said, knowing it would be a long time before he slept easily again, "I would agree that our only viable course of action is to recall Mr. Dunwoody from his current mission and apprise him of these startling events. Unfortunately-" He cleared his throat. "Mr. Dunwoody has disappeared. And at this particular moment I have no idea where he is."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

It was the teasing and flirtatious scent of perfume that woke him. Perfume? In Grande Splotze? In his bachelor guesthouse room in Grande Splotze? Surprised-and just the slightest bit alarmed, because during his training there'd been any number of pointed lectures about inappropriate personal dalliances while on janitorial assignment-Gerald kept his eyes closed and waited for recent memory to return.

I was in the car with Sir Alec. There was a farmhouse, somewhere in the middle of nowhere. And a portal. I got into the portal. Sir Alec was operating it. I got into the portal. I had an overnight bag. Sir Alec gave it to me. Something to do with a yellow cravat. I got into the portal.

Hmm. There was a theme developing here. He got into the portal and then- And then what happened? Did I reach Grande Splotze? Did I meet up with my contact? Perhaps my contact was a woman. Perhaps it's her perfume I can smell. Perhaps things got a bit cozy. Were they supposed to get cozy? I don't recall Sir Alec mentioning it. There was something about elk stew. But elk stew doesn't sound terribly cozy. Actually it sounds bloody awful.

Slowly and carefully, still not opening his eyes, he groped around under the blankets. No. Perfume or no perfume, he was definitely alone in the bed. That was a relief. He couldn't begin to imagine how he'd explain an inappropriate personal dalliance to Sir Alec. Not after all the other things he'd had to explain.

I got into the portal...

But did he get out again at the other end? Try as he might he could not summon the memory. Recollection ended with the secret Department portal in that remote, abandoned farmhouse and the dry, self-contained look on Sir Alec's never-well, almost never-communicative face.

I got into the portal...

Well, obviously he must've got out of it again because he was lying in a bed now, wasn't he? So the real question was, whose bed and where was it? And the only way he was going to find the answer to those questions was to stop delaying the inevitable and open his eyes.

"Hello, Gerald," said Bibbie Markham, lounging nearby in a silk-covered chair. She was wearing something startling and not altogether proper in red. No. Scarlet. "I was wondering how much longer you were going to keep up the charade."

"Bibbie?" he said blankly. "What are you doing here?" Dressed like that. In Grande Splotze. In my bachelor guesthouse room in Grande- And then he looked past Monk's unexpectedly alarming sister to the wallpaper behind her-muddy beige with mustard stripes-and realized- Wait a minute. That's my wallpaper. In my room in Monk's house. In Ott. So-I'm at home? How did that happen? And why is Bibbie waving that cigarette holder? She doesn't smoke. Does she? Something's not right here. I think I'm in the middle of a very strange dream.

"No, you're not," said Bibbie, cheerfully. With a tap of one elegantly manicured fingernail she ignited the cigarette in the gold-inlaid ivory holder. "You're wide awake, Gerald." And then she laughed. "How odd, having to call you Gerald. I might have to think up another name for you. Pity your parents didn't give you any spares."

What? What the devil was she talking about? Nonplussed, he stared a little closer at Monk's sister. She looked... subtly different. Like Bibbie, and yet not. A thin stream of cigarette smoke curled ceilingwards in front of her face. Her-her painted face.

Good lord. I must be dreaming. Bibbie's wearing makeup.

But how could that be possible? In Ottosland only socially inferior theatrical ladies and those fallen girls who regrettably sold their-their-charms-to unscrupulous gentlemen put paint and powder on their faces. A respectable girl who-who-what did they call it? Oh, yes. Tarting up. A respectable girl like Bibbie who tarted herself up would be subjected to the most astringent criticisms. From what he could understand, even tweed trousers were preferable. With her face painted like that, Markham or not Bibbie would be an instant social outcast. Her family would come down on her like the proverbial ton of bricks.

Reg disapproved of the restrictions, of course. Called them fuddy-duddy and anti-female. She'd worn her war paint every day when she was queen. Nothing wrong with it. Looking her best was the birthright of every woman and bugger the old sourpusses out to rain on the parade.

But Bibbie refused to listen to Reg's demand that she take the fight for female suffrage that next important step. At least, he thought she'd refused to listen. But here she was in his bedroom with powder on her cheeks and paint on her lips and something on her eyelids and lashes that made her blue eyes almost too beautiful to bear. Wearing scarlet.

Bloody hell. How long has it been since I got into that portal?

Bibbie was grinning now, and at least that hadn't changed. Her smile could probably power entire small countries. "Poor thing. You do look confused."

"Um-probably because I am," he said. With a glance down at his chest-good, he was wearing a nightshirt, except-Oh, lord, who put it on me?-he cautiously eased himself to sitting and rested his back against the knotty old bedhead. The chamber's curtains were closed, and his clock was missing from the bedside nightstand. "What time is it?"

Bibbie waved the cigarette holder. Smoke wafted through the air, the smell of burning tobacco unpleasantly mingling with her muskily floral perfume. "Oh, yes, well, time," she said, disparaging, and inhaled deeply on her unlikely cigarette. Tipping her head back, she proceeded to produce seven perfectly round smoke rings and then pierced all seven with a startling smoke arrow. "D'you know-Gerry-I think we've more important things to talk about than time."

She'd done something different to her hair, too. On first glance he'd thought she'd just twisted it up in a new style but now, as she turned her head to watch her smoke rings on the arrow dart about the room, he could see that she'd cut it. Cut off her long golden hair and-and-slicked it down with some kind of feminine pomade. And there was something else, too. Something... unwholesome... that had nothing to do with face paint and cigarettes. A sour tang in the ether.

But that can't be right. Bibbie would never get her thaumaturgical hands dirty. Not like that. Not Bibbie.

Dismayed, he stared at her. "Bibbie-enough nonsense, all right? I want to know what time it is-what day it is-and I want to know what's going on!"

She flicked him a cold glance. "You'd be wise not to take that tone with me, Gerry. I warn you, taking that tone will get you into trouble."

His jaw dropped open. "What? Emmerabiblia Markham, are you squiffed? Or running a desperately high fever? Or is that not exactly tobacco you're smoking? And anyway, since when do you smoke? And-and-wear makeup. And scarlet. And when did you cut off all your hair?" Fed up with the disadvantage of being in bed, like a child, he flung back his blankets and faced her on his bare feet. "Look, either I am dreaming or the world's been turned completely upside-"

With a blast of raw thaumic energy the bedroom door blew open and banged against the wall.

"Ha! So he's awake at last!" said the man framed in the doorway. "Excellent. Now we'll really have some fun!"

"D'you think so, Gerald?" said Bibbie, pouting. "Because so far he's not been any fun at all."

Dumbstruck, Gerald watched as Bibbie undulated out of her chair, sashayed across the bedroom floor and-and entwined herself around-around- Me! That's me! But-but-how can that be me? I'm me. Aren't I?

And then, with a second shock that punched right through his middle, he realized: No. That's not me. At least-not any more.

The man lounging in the doorway wore his face. They were the same height, the same weight. All right, the man in the doorway had a-a-gloss, a polish, that he absolutely lacked. Nevertheless, on the outside-except for the two good eyes-they were the same man.

But on the inside? Thaumaturgically? Oh, Saint Snodgrass...

The man-the other Gerald-had a potentia that choked the room. It reeked of death. Of murder. It stirred his blood with a visceral dread.

Heart thudding, he looked at the Bibbie before him, with her short hair and lipstick and the powder on her face. At the gold-and-ivory cigarette holder and the sheer scarlet silk dress clinging to those curves that day after day he made himself not notice. He looked at the man she'd called Gerald, whose familiar face hid a heart he couldn't recognize. Who wore the most extraordinary, outlandish scarlet and black full-length silk dressing-gown embroidered with gold dragons, and on his fingers exquisitely wrought and fabulously expensive onyx and ruby rings.

And whose brown eyes burned with a flame he'd not seen since the last time he faced mad King Lional of New Ottosland.

Lional... Lional... bloated with stolen potentias, his greedy mind teeming with the worst kind of incants ever devised and contained in the grimoires he'd kept by his bed, for handy reading.

Terrible memones woke, searing him. The man in the doorway stank of Pygram's Pestilences, unforgettable after nine days in that cave. He reeked of Grummen's Lexicon and other foul grimoire incants whose names he'd never learned because the texts Lional stole from Pomodoro Uffitzi had been confiscated without him ever laying eyes on them.

I had the chance to use those grimoires and I didn't. But he did. So if this isn't a dream-if he's real, and he's not me, and that's not my Bibbie, and this isn't my bedroom...

Sickened understanding crashed over him, so he had to sit on the bed.

Oh, bugger. So much for the theoretical part of theoretical thaumaturgical metaphysics and the postulated existence of parallel worlds.

When Sir Alec found out about this he was going to go spare. It was hard enough keeping one world safe from thaumaturgical villains. And as for Monk, well, he'd likely explode with excitement. Monk...

Oh, God. Don't tell me he's gone rotten too.

The thought was enough to make the room spin and his belly heave.

No. No. I don't-I won't-believe that. Not Monk. I have to have one friend left in this place.

The other Gerald was grinning. "I knew you'd work it out. No flies on us, Professor Dunwoody."

He felt like an idiot in his striped flannel nightshirt, but it couldn't be helped. All that mattered now was getting answers... and getting home.

"So I'm right? This is a parallel world? An alternative reality? You're some kind of copy of me?"

"No, Professor, it's the real reality," said the other Gerald, a snap in his voice. "Your world's the impostor. And so are you."

His double's anger lit up the room like sheet lightning. Right. Yes. So not to be making him cross, Dunwoody. "Sorry. Sorry," he said hastily. "Poor choice of words. So... how did you do it? How did you bring me here?"

His-his-counterpart-examined fingernails as beautifully manicured as Bibbie's. "Oh, I can do a lot of things, Professor," he boasted with airy self-congratulation. "Things you can only dream of."

He decided to take a chance. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. "Monk didn't help you?"

"Monk?" The other Gerald raised an eyebrow. And then he smiled. "Oh, Monk. Good old Monk. Yes. Our Mr. Markham's been wonderfully helpful."