"Mel, where's Monk gone? Do you know? And Reg? Is Reg all right? He said she was around, but-"

"Please don't," she whispered. "You mustn't ask me any questions. I'm not allowed to talk to anyone but them."

Tears had started leaking from her green, haunted eyes. Her nose was running too. They'd broken her to pieces.

"Sorry, sorry," he said quickly. "All right. I won't."

Any moment now he'd start weeping himself.

He did this? How could he do this? Is this all because of the grimoires, or was it in him all along? Oh, God. Is it in me? Am I capable of this?

In rejection, in revulsion, he summoned his power out of sleep. Stepped back from weeping, egg-soaked Melissande and undid what cruel, scarlet Bibbie had done. Even as the incant wiped away the rotten muck, cleaned her hair and face and spectacles and apron, sweetened her to roses and blanched the stink from the air, he felt a shiver in her shadbolt. A warped and darkened version of his own potentia had made the disgusting thing and now power called to power. A reflection in a mirror.

"Well, Professor, aren't you gallant," said the other Gerald behind him. "Never mind. I'll soon cure you of that. Still, I suppose it had to be done. That stench-I was about to lose my appetite."

With a last, reassuring glance at Melissande, he turned. "Glad to be of service, Gerald."

The other Gerald smiled, his arm tucked close around Bibbie. "That's good to hear, Professor. Just the attitude I'm looking for. Now, shall we be seated so the uppity wench can serve us? I like to breakfast in the kitchen. It's so cozy and unpretentious."

Could he eat, after this? He suspected not, but he'd have to try. For one thing he was going to need all his strength... and for another he just knew that to refuse this Gerald's hospitality would be a very big mistake. So he took his place at the table, opposite this world's dreadful Gerald and Bibs, and looked at his plate so he'd not have to look at them.

Oh, God. What do I do now? How do I get out of this?

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

He'd thought that in the final analysis, dining with Lional would prove to be the worst culinary experience of his life-but apparently he was being far too optimistic.

Breakfasting with himself was a hundred times worse.

Melissande was so frightened, serving them, that she spilled coffee on the table. The other Gerald's shadbolt punished her, driving her to the floor where she trembled with pain.

"For pity's sake, Gerald!" he protested. "What's the matter with you? It's only coffee. You're not even splashed! Let her go!"

The other Gerald considered him. "You're being gallant again, Professor. How bloody tedious!" Then his eyes opened wide. "God, don't tell me you and your Melissande are canoodling back in your world?"

He stared. "What? No. We're friends. Good friends. But even if we weren't I'd never do this to her. I'd never do this to anyone. Now let her go."

The other Gerald sighed. "Oh, all right. Just this once. Enough." Melissande slumped, gasping. Sitting back in his chair, he reached for Bibbie and linked his fingers with hers. "As for thinking you'd not slap a naughty wrist, Professor, well, don't be so sure. You and I might've taken different paths back in New Ottosland but as I've already said, we're still the same man. Whatever I can do, believe me... you can do it too."

Released from punishment and clambered back to her feet, Melissande set about cleaning up the mess from the dropped coffee pot and the tiny trickle on the table. Gerald watched her closely, his stomach churning. He could still feel her pain, fading tremors in the ether. Then he locked gazes with his counterpart and shook his head.

"You're wrong, Gerald. I'm not the same as you. I never touched those grimoires. We're two different men now."

His counterpart shrugged, unperturbed. "We'll see. Now hurry up and finish eating. We've got things to do and places to go."

Ignoring his unquiet belly, he ate. Conversation languished. He had questions but he knew this Gerald wouldn't answer them, so there was no point asking and he lacked the intestinal fortitude for idle, carefree chitchat. Besides, the other Gerald and his Bibbie were so busy canoodling he doubted they'd have heard him even if he tried. And talking to Melissande was out of the question. At least it was in front of them.

The dreadful meal ended, eventually. As Melissande started to clear the table of plates and cutlery, the other Gerald gave Bibbie one last, lascivious look then stood. "Right. Run along upstairs, my dove, and make yourself beautiful. You know it's important to dazzle the locals."

Bibbie blew him a kiss and sauntered out of the kitchen.

"And as for you, Professor-"

"I'm going to help Melissande with the dishes," he said. "You can come and fetch me when it's time to go wherever it is we're going."

The other Gerald looked at him in stony silence, then abruptly smiled. "Fine. Suit yourself. Have a cozy chat. But she's not going to tell you anything that could possibly hurt me."

"I never thought for a moment she would."

Standing, the other Gerald laughed. "Liar. Oh-and if you were thinking about making a run for it? I wouldn't. The house is quite secure, Professor." The kitchen door closed gently behind him.

Secure? What did that mean? He reached out, cautiously testing the ether, and winced. Oh. Right. He'd been too distracted before to feel it, but a tangle of incants bound the old house in Chatterly Crescent like lights strung on a Solstice tree. How odd, feeling his own potentia in the hexes, knowing he hadn't created them. They were vicious. If he was idiot enough to try leaving the premises without the right thaumic password he'd be ripped to bloody shreds the moment his fingers touched window or door.

Very slick. Very nasty. Score one for Gerald.

"You're a fool to push," said Melissande, running hot water into the sink. "People are like bugs to him now. He squashes them without thinking."

He fetched a fresh tea towel from the drawer and threaded it through his hands. "He won't squash me. He needs me for something."

Melissande started washing the dishes. "What?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. He won't tell me."

"Well, I can tell you this much... whatever it is, it won't be good." She put the first clean plate into the dish rack. "So he's kidnapped you from an alternative reality, has he?"

Of course she'd worked it out. She was one of the three smartest women he knew. "'Fraid so," he said, taking the plate and drying it. "I just wish I knew how. You don't suppose-" He hesitated. "Would Monk have helped him? Your Monk, I mean."

"I expect so," said Melissande, watching him return the clean plate to its rightful place. "You know, that's really quite off-putting. You've never set foot in this kitchen, yet you know where the tea towels are and where the plates live. I wonder if life could get any more peculiar?"

"I'm sorry," he said, seeing the pain in her set face. "What you've been through-what you're going through-" He shook his head. "I'm sorry."

"Why? None of this is your fault," she said, trying to sound indifferent. "It's just the way things turned out. For us, anyway."

She set two more plates in the rack then handed him a third. Drying it, watching her, he thought she was going to ask him something. But then her lips firmed and she gave a tiny shake of her head, as though she were having a silent conversation with herself.

"What?" he said, holding the dried plate and tea towel. "Go on. Ask. It's all right."

The look she gave him was full of fear and sarcasm. "Really? How would you know?"

The imprisoning shadbolt was sunk deep in her etheretic aura. Given her limited potentia it was a far more powerful binding than was necessary. Much crueler. He could feel it waiting for her to trip up, say the wrong thing or wear the wrong expression, so it could tighten its grip on her and make her pay.

Shamed, he turned away. "Sorry. You're right." He put the plate in the cupboard. "I don't know anything."

She didn't contradict him. Instead she made short work of the dirty cutlery then reached for the bacon pan. But halfway through scrubbing she stopped, her spectacles foggy. "Your world," she said, her voice low. "Is it better than this one?"

"Yes," he said, when he could speak past the lump in his throat. "Much."

"You and me... after New Ottosland-we stayed in touch?"

He nodded. "We certainly did."

"And am I happy there? In your world?"

The note of hope in her voice nearly broke him. How can I tell her without making things worse? But then how can I lie? She deserves the truth. "Very. At least, you are when you're not worrying about the agency or rousing on Monk for being reckless or scolding Reg for-"

"No, don't mind me," she said, one hand raised and dripping suds, even as tears rolled down her thin cheeks. "I'm glad for me. Honestly. Your me. I'm glad for you, that things are good in your world." On a deep breath she got back to scrubbing. "I hope you make it home again, Gerald. I hope-" Another deep breath. "I hope she knows how lucky she is."

"Melissande..." he said, aching. "If there's any way I can help you, I will. If I can get that bloody shadbolt off you, I will. I'll-"

She shoved the scrubbed pan at him. "That's sweet, really. It's easy to forget you used to be a kind and decent man."

He didn't know what to say to that, so he took the pan and tea-toweled it dry.

"There's nothing you can do for me, Gerald," she said calmly. "I mean, I'm sure you could get rid of this shadbolt but he'd only replace it with something worse. And then he'd make you very sorry that you interfered. Don't interfere with him, Gerald. Don't get in his way. Nothing good happens to anyone who gets in his way."

"But-" He stared at her. "I can't help him, Melissande. Not if what he wants me to do means people will get hurt."

She snorted. "Trust me, Gerald, if he shadbolts you then you'll not have a choice. D'you honestly think Monk wants to help him? He's shadbolted just like me."

Oh, lord. Monk. "Where is he, Melissande? And where's Reg?"

"I don't know," she said, scrubbing at the last pan. "I haven't seen either of them for nearly six months."

Feeling sick, he took the cleaned egg pan from her. "He said they were alive. Do you think he was lying?"

"About Monk?" She shook her head. "No. He needs Monk for his thaumaturgics. As for Reg, who knows? I mean, she's Reg. He loves that stupid bird. Or he used to. But the last time I saw her she was still trying to change his mind, and these days Gerald doesn't like being challenged. He's got a new motto, you see. Be reasonable and do it my way."

"Oh." Heart sinking, he put the egg pan away with the other pots. "Melissande... how bad is it out there?" He nodded at the window, at the unknown world beyond it. "What can I expect to find?"

She pulled the sink's plug then fetched another tea towel. "Misery," she said, starting on the cutlery. "Fear. Our Gerald's got all of Ottosland gripped tight in his fist. And the only way you'll get him to let go of it is by cutting off his hand." Her eyes glittered. "Or better yet, his head."

He swallowed. "You hate him."

"Of course I do," she said. "And so would you, if you were me."

Yes, he probably would.

"I hate Emmerabiblia, too," she added. "Even if she is Monk's sister. Sly little trollop." Her mouth pinched. "In your world, are you and she-"

"No," he said, and had to clear his throat. "But I like her. In my world she's-ah-well. She's different. In my world you like her, too. In fact-"

"Stop," she said, turning away. "Don't tell me any more about your world. I can hardly stand my life as it is."

Oh, lord. "I'm sorry."

"And stop apologizing," she snapped. "This isn't your fault. Like you said, you aren't him."

I really bloody hope not. "Look-getting back to him," he said diffidently. "What about the government? Surely he didn't just... stroll in and take it over?"

"Actually?" She shrugged. "That's exactly what he did. Very nicely at first. He only wanted to help. He solved a few sticky problems and everyone was thrilled. Solved a few more, and still everyone was thrilled. And then he started... butting in. So people started having second thoughts, but by then it was too late. And when you're the only rogue wizard in the world, Gerald, and you've got more thaumaturgical firepower at your fingertips than a hundred regular wizards rolled into one, and no conscience at all, well-I'm afraid you can do pretty much what you like."

He felt as confused now as when he'd first opened his eyes in the bedroom that wasn't really his bedroom. "But-but-what about the United Magical Nations? Surely someone's reported him. I mean, those grimoires Lional stole from Uffitzi, they're on the proscribed list. They're illegal. There are sanctions for using them. Surely someone must've-"

Sighing, Melissande put down the tea towel and the forks she was drying. "Gerald..." She took her hands in his. "You're not listening. He's made himself untouchable."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't believe that. Nobody's untouchable. Somebody somewhere is fighting him. They have to be. Surely you've heard something, a whisper, a-a rumor even, of-"

She let go of him and stepped back, shaking her head. "You really don't grasp the enormity of what's happened here, do you? Gerald, I've not left this house for seven months. Aside from him and Bibbie, you're the only person I've spoken to since I was shadbolted and prisoned beneath this roof. For all I know there is no more government and Central Ott's nothing but a smoking ruin."

"Oh, but-surely there has to be a government," he protested. "I mean, every country has a government, Melissande. You know. Lords and ministers and bureaucrats and pen-pushers. We're bloody overrun with them back home. A country can't function without a government. You know that better than anyone. You used to be a prime minister."

"For a brother who got rid of his government, remember?" she retorted. "I wouldn't be at all surprised if Gerald's not taken a page out of Lional's instruction manual and done the same thing." Frowning, she reached for the dried cutlery and began putting it away. "Gerald... about Lional... your Lional, I mean..."

Oh, lord. "I'm sorry," he said. "But he died."

She nodded, closed the cutlery drawer then picked up the tea towel. "Here, too. Gerald killed him." She looked at him. "Did you...?"

"I'm sorry. I tried not to. I did. But..."

"I know," she said, shrugging. "I don't blame you. He'd gone quite mad."

It was her dull resignation that broke his heart. "Look, Melissande-I can't believe there's no hope of fixing things here. What about Kallarap? I know Shugat's not big on getting involved in anything not Kallarapi but under the circusmtances you'd think-"

"Rupert asked," she said, grimacing. "More than once. It was no use. And I made him promise that no matter what happened he wouldn't try helping me on his own. There's nothing he can do, anyway. He's not a wizard and New Ottosland's weak. Gerald..." Stepping closer, she rested her hand on his arm. "It's awful you've been dragged here, into our mess. And if there's the slightest chance of you escaping back to your own world, you should take it. Reg was right. The magic in those grimoires ruined you. In a way it killed you. So don't be a hero. You can't save us. Nobody can. But it would make living this nightmare more bearable if I knew you were home safe. If I knew that somewhere I had a life worth living."

"Oh, Mel," he whispered, and pulled her to him in a desperate hug. "How can I do that? I can't leave you here alone with-"

The kitchen door crashed open. "Oh, stop groping that silly cow, Professor, and come on!" snarled the other Gerald. "Thanks to Bibbie, who insists on doing her makeup by hand, God alone knows why, we're running late. And I'm expecting a very important call this morning. I swear, if I miss it because she can't make up her mind about bloody lipstick..."

Still holding on to Melissande, he kissed her cheek. "Don't give up hope just yet," he said softly. "I know things look bleak but... please, don't give up."

"Professor," said the other Gerald. He sounded dangerous now.

He let her go and turned. "Yes. All right. I'm coming."

"You'd be wise not to try me, you know," said the other Gerald, slamming the kitchen door shut behind them and stalking off along the corridor. "My plans have reached a critical phase and waiting puts me in a very bad mood. So don't make me testy. Because while it might not suit me to hurt you I can always hurt her. Cross me and I will. My word as a wizard." A scathing backwards glance. "Do you believe me, Professor? Say you believe me."

Oh, lord. "Yes, Gerald. I believe you."

"Good," said the other Gerald, and picked up his pace.