CHAPTER NINETEEN.

Crouched on the library floor trying to read book spines, Bibbie sighed. "Melissande, you're staring."

Melissande winced. Rats. And there's me thinking I was being so surreptitious. "Sorry."

"If you want to know something, ask," said Bibbie, sitting back on her heels. "I mean, I might say none of your business but that's not the same as biting your head off."

"True." She pressed her finger against the last book checked so she didn't lose her place. "All right. So here's the thing. I was wondering if you-that's to say, I've been feeling somewhat-you see, there's this-"

"Yes, Mel, Monk cares for you," Bibbie said kindly. "And no, I'm sorry, I've no idea why he's not made a formal declaration. All I can tell you is, well, don't give up hope. He's never once looked at anyone the way he looks at you. He's just slow on the uptake. He is a man, after all."

Suddenly ashamed, she stared at the old library carpet. "You must think I'm awful," she murmured. "Worried about my silly feelings while Gerald's missing and there's a dead Monk upstairs and-" She bit her lip, shatteringly close to an inappropriate emotional outburst. "It's just-I can't bear to think about any of that. About how we might never see Gerald again."

Bibbie's blue eyes narrowed. "Don't you dare, Mel. Of course we'll see him again."

"Bibbie..." She cleared her throat. "About Gerald. Do you-"

"Quite a lot, actually," said Bibbie. Her chin trembled. "But you mustn't tell him I said so. He's got this ridiculous notion he can't be happy because he's a rogue wizard. And a janitor. That he's too dangerous for me to love. All nonsense, of course, but there's no point in me trying to convince him. I just have to wait for him to work it out on his own."

"Wait for how long?" she said, after a moment.

"Well-as long as it takes, of course," said Bibbie, surprised. "What a silly question."

Yes. Of course. Very silly.

"Ah hah!" said Bibbie, and pulled a book from the shelf. "Here we go. Shadbolts Through The Ages. Technically it's a restricted text but I'll say this for Great-Uncle Throgmorton-he didn't give a toss about silly rules." She tossed it onto the library's deep, wingback reading chair. "I'm sure there's at least one more, so come on, Mel. Keep searching. Sir Alec could come back any tick of the clock and I want to be ready for him. I don't think I could stand one more of his withering looks." She pulled a face. "I'm a girl, not an amoeba, but I don't think he's noticed."

She had to smile. "Don't be so sure. I mean, he's middle-aged, Bibs. Not blind."

"Oh, you," said Bibbie, shifting to the next bookcase. "You're as bad as Reg, you are."

"Now, now," she said, still smiling. "I'm sure there's no need to get nasty, Emmerabiblia."

Bibbie pouted. "Spoilsport."

"Well, you know. I try my best."

A cheerful fire crackled in the library's small fireplace, throwing warm light and dancing shadows. Its four walls were lined ceiling to carpet with bookcases, and the bookcases were crammed tight with books. It was her favorite room in Monk's house. Most of the collection he'd inherited from his rule-breaking great-uncle Throgmorton, a noted thaumaturgical bibliophile. His own books he'd jammed in around the edges, which was making the search for shadbolt texts something of a challenge.

The library door opened as she moved on to the next row, and Monk came in carrying a tray with a teapot, and four mugs. Reg flapped in behind him and landed on the back of the nearest chair.

"Did you remember biscuits?" said Bibbie, turning.

"No," said Monk, and scowled at Reg. "Why didn't you remind me?"

The bird rolled her eyes. "Because, sunshine, and I quote: 'Offer me one more piece of advice about how to make a bloody cup of tea, Reg, and I swear I'll transmog you into a boot.'"

"Never mind," said Bibbie. "I'll fetch some."

"Not without me, you won't," said Reg. "You always pick the ones I don't like."

She and Bibbie left the library, bickering. Monk held out the tray. "The red mug. Milk and three sugars."

Taking her tea, Melissande perched on the edge of the wingback chair. "Tell me the truth, Monk. Do you really think we can get Gerald back?"

He put the tray on the library's low table, then shoved his hands in his pockets. "If he is where we think he is... I think there's a chance."

She felt her stomach lurch. "Only a chance?"

"Mel..." Ignoring his own mug of tea, Monk rubbed a hand over his tired face. "If he is where we think he is-" He shook his head. "It's very bad."

"I understand that, but-he'll have me, won't he? I mean, the other me. And he'll have the other Bibbie. And Reg. He won't be alone."

"Mel, you heard the other Monk as well as I did," he said, looking at her with eyes full of not-quite-stifled fear. "The other you, the other Bibbie... something's not right there. We can't assume he's got anyone to help him."

Fingers wrapped tight around the red mug, she took a sip of tea. The heavy porcelain chattered against her teeth. I heard him say he loved me. "Then that's more reason to help. You are going after him, aren't you?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I hope so."

"You don't-" She leaped up, heedless of the tea splashing her shirt. "Monk, we can't leave him there!"

"D'you think I want to?" he demanded. "D'you think I can bear thinking we might? But Mel, we're not even certain that he is in the other Monk's world. And even if he is, I don't know if going after him is possible."

"What? Of course it's possible. You've got the other Monk's portal opener, haven't you? You could go to his world right now, if you wanted. So what are you waiting for? Open the door!"

"Mel..." Monk folded his arms as though his chest was hurting him. "I can't. Sir Alec said-"

"Oh, bugger Sir Alec!" she retorted. "What does he know?"

Monk pulled a face. "A darn sight more than he's letting on, I'm guessing. Melissande-"

"Don't you Melissande me, Monk Markham. Gerald's your best friend and he saved my country. We can't abandon him, Monk. We can't."

"Now, now, ducky," said Reg, flying into the room ahead of Bibbie, who had biscuits. "Untwist your knickers." Settling herself on the reading chair's high back she looked down her beak, so irritatingly condescending. "Nobody's abandoning anybody. Not while I'm around."

"Hear, hear," said Bibbie, dumping the plate of biscuits beside the tea tray. "What are you guffing on about now, Monk?"

Frustrated, Monk turned away and stamped over to the fireplace. "I'm not guffing, Bibbie, I'm-I'm trying to be objective. I'm trying to look at this mess with cold, hard eyes. And like it or not, all of you, this is what I see-just because we want to rescue Gerald doesn't mean we can.We could do the right thing for the right reason and end up making things worse. And if you think it doesn't bloody well kill me to-"

Melissande took a breath, ready to challenge him, but Bibbie beat her to it. "Of course it does, but that's not the point, is it? What you're saying is balderdash. Since when do you get cold feet, Monk Markham? We are Witches Incorporated and we can do anything we set our minds to." Eyes glittering, she tilted her chin defiantly. "So drink your tea, eat a biscuit, then do as Sir Alec asked you and brush up on shadbolts. We're going to be ready for that sarky bugger when he gets back."

Impressed, Melissande watched Monk's tense shoulders slump. Sighing heavily, he turned. Even in the warming firelight he looked pale. "Fine. But when he does get back, Bibbie, we're going to do exactly what he says. Because what we've stumbled into-been dragged into-it's bigger than anything we've come up against before. This isn't only about our Gerald."

Melissande looked at him. "What-you think the other Gerald has plans to come and visit us?"

She'd surprised him. If she weren't so sad and tired she'd be a bit insulted.

"I wasn't sure if you'd thought that far ahead," he admitted. "I think it's possible. Don't you?"

"Yes. What does Sir Alec think?"

"We didn't discuss it. But I'll bet he thinks it's possible too," said Monk, his own tea forgotten. "Which complicates everything. Because if we charge into this half-cocked, if we make the wrong choices? Not only could we end up getting Gerald killed, we could cause the destruction of that world and this one."

Nobody spoke for a while. Even the flames in the fireplace sounded subdued.

Melissande looked at Bibbie. "I hate to say it, Bibs, but he's right. Not about not rescuing Gerald-but we do need to take this one step at a time." She picked up Shadbolts Through The Ages from the seat of the reading chair and held it out to him. "Come on. You can start with this."

"Good idea," said Reg, and rattled her tail feathers. "Plop your ass down here, Mr. Markham. I'll read over your shoulder and explain all the big thaumaturgical words."

Despite the tension, everyone laughed. Well, everyone except Reg. "Thanks, Your Majesty," said Monk, crossing to the chair. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Trust me, sunshine," said Reg, sniffing. "Neither do I."

Melissande felt herself shiver as Monk's fingers brushed hers, taking the book. He gave her a small smile, resigned and affectionate. Smiling back, she hoped he couldn't tell how hard and fast her heart was beating.

He will end up going. I can feel it in my bones. Oh, lord. Oh, Saint Snodgrass. Please, please... bring them back.

He kept the object in a hexed and lead-lined box in a secret storage pit at the bottom of his East Ott garden. Seventeen years ago, when he'd found the appalling thing, this had been his father's garden. This had been his father's house. But that hadn't mattered. Prompted by an odd premonition, he'd built the hidey-hole two years before that, and never once did his father suspect it was there. His father had been a useful wizard, but no match for the obfuscation incants he'd learned from the Department. In the long years since his finding and hiding of the object, Father remained blissfully ignorant of the object's existence.

How bitterly did he wish he'd been granted the same respite.

Being an only child, in due course the property had come to him. As well as sorrow, he'd felt relief. Unlike his father he lived a solitary life. With no regular parade of visitors the hidey-hole was almost certainly safe from discovery.

Because he was a janitor, traveling the world's less savory places, over the years, from time to time, other things had been stored at the bottom of the garden... but none approached the malevolence of the object in the box. To this day-especially on this day-he did not regret his failure to report what he'd found, nor his decision not to surrender it to the man who, in that time, had headed his Department. Harfield Gravesend had been a good man, a trustworthy man, and competent enough in his unimaginative way. But Gravesend had been too quick to trust his political superiors. Too bullishly convinced that the government was and would ever be an instrument of good. Whereas Alec Oldman was born a cynical child, and subsequent experience had only honed his wry suspicions.

Besides. Some things were so tempting they should never see the light of day.

The obfuscation hexes around the old hidey-hole melted like mist at his command. Kneeling on the damp grass, his fingers chilled by the rising dew, he unhexed the hole's lid and eased it open. Immediately he felt the tingle of incants binding the lead-lined box within. And even though they shrouded the thaumic signature of the object, still in his imagination he could feel its sinister touch. Twice, he'd used it, and had nightmares for days after. Remembering those dreams, which returned now and then, usually after a particularly vexing case, a prickle of sweat broke out on his skin. If he did indeed ask Monk Markham to use the object he'd be condemning the young wizard to a lifetime of dismay.

Which hardly seemed fair. Ralph's nephew wasn't one of his agents. And this time he'd not willingly become involved in grim affairs. This time his only crime was being friends with Gerald Dunwoody.

Which only goes to prove the old saw right: there is no good deed that finds itself unpunished.

With a tiny shiver of distaste he reached into the hidey-hole and withdrew the heavily hexed and lead-lined box housing the object. Thrust it into the thick felt bag he'd fetched from indoors, re-sealed the otherwise empty hidey-hole and returned to the car with his burden. Threatened by dawn, the world's rim was growing light. Soon now there'd be traffic, and an expectation that he could be found behind his desk in his office at Nettleworth. Knowing that expectations were about to be confounded-and that more problems would arise because of it-he drove with unwise speed back to the Markham madhouse, where Ralph's nephew and niece and two unlikely royal women were waiting. Where a dead man who should not exist lay stiffening with rigor on the bed of a man who also, some believed, should not exist.

Was he doing the right thing? He had no idea. But, like his hiding of the object, he was doing the only thing he could live with. And for better or worse, that was the best he could do.

Monk and the ladies greeted his return with wary courtesy. Cautious, untrusting, belligerent and afraid. They showed him into the old house's library where a fire burned with inappropriate cheer, and a scattering of books about shadbolts suggested that at last Ralph's intractable nephew was learning to do as he was told.

The other Monk's portal opener sat on a low table, outwardly innocent, wholly repellent. He withdrew the object in its lead-lined box from the thick felt bag and put it on the same low table. Then he unhexed the box and flipped back the lid, revealing the object's existence for the first time in years.

"Blimey," said Monk Markham, peering down at it. "That thing's got a kick to it."

He nodded. "It has."

Stepping back, Markham's sister shivered. "I don't like it, Sir Alec."

He flicked a glance at her. "Nor should you, Miss Markham. This is a thaumaturgical abomination. Created by a man afflicted by... interesting ideas."

As Monk Markham winced, the appalling bird tipped her head to one side. "Oh yes? In that case, sunshine, what's it doing in our library?"

He'd often wondered just how much Mr. Dunwoody and his friends knew about the former Queen of Lalapinda. He had to believe-very little. For if they'd known what he knew they would hardly be so relaxed in her company. If he weren't convinced she'd been hexed into comparative harmlessness he'd not be relaxed either.

Miss Cadwallader, as she so quaintly insisted she now be called, stood stiffly behind the wingback chair on which the bird perched. "I appreciate that in your profession, Sir Alec, a certain amount of circumspection is required. But really, given our current dilemma, I hardly think it's appropriate."

"In other words, ducky, get on with it," said the bird. "In case you haven't noticed, the sun's about to rise."

And that was true. With nowhere to sit he dropped to one knee beside the low table, and the box. "This device," he said, tapping its lead-lined container, "is the only one of its kind. At least, as far as I know. I've never come across another and it's my devout hope I never will." He swept his gaze around their faces, slowly, and let them see what that meant. "Until this moment I was the only one who knew of its existence. The wizard who created it is long dead and while he lived he kept it a secret. In revealing it to you four now I imperil not only my own career and quite possibly my life, but yours as well."

"Without asking?" said Miss Markham, frowning. "Thanks for nothing, Sir Alec."

He nodded. "You're welcome."

"So this long dead wizard you nicked it from," said the bird. "Killed him, did you?"

"Is that relevant?"

Her disconcertingly human eyes gleamed. "No. But it's interesting."

"It's ancient history," he said flatly, and looked again at Ralph's inconveniently brilliant nephew. "Mr. Markham. There is a short time after death during which echoes of the deceased's experiences remain imprinted on his or her etheretic aura. This device will allow you to read them."

"Bloody hell!" said the bird. "No wonder you kept that thing under wraps. In the wrong hands it could do a bit of mischief."

He gave her a thin smile. "Precisely."

Monk Markham and his sister were staring at the object with oddly-alike expressions: shock mixed with a cautious and regrettable admiring excitement. The term "cut from the same cloth" might have been coined just for them.

Ralph, Ralph. Does your brother know about his children?

Miss Cadwallader folded her arms. "You want to read our visitor, don't you?"

"Not... exactly," he said. "I want Mr. Markham to read him."

"Me? Why me?" said Ralph's nephew, startled.

He shrugged. "Because much of the information gained through this device is, for want of a better word, intuitive. And given that you and he are the same man in many respects, it seems likely you've a better chance of connecting with his memories. Especially since he's been dead for some time."

"Fine," said Miss Cadwallader. "Say our Monk connects. What do you intend to do with the information?"

"Whatever I must in order to avert disaster," he replied, with another thin smile. "That is, after all, my job."

Melissande Cadwallader was a perspicacious young woman, with a spirit forged in fires the heat of which thankfully few would ever know. She stared at him in silence, her green gaze measured and cold. One by one the others, even the bird, turned to look at her.