"Mel?" said Ralph's nephew, a young man in love. "What's wrong?"

"I'm not sure," she said. "Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Sir Alec... nobody official knows you're here, do they?"

Ah. Very neatly, very deliberately, he clasped his hands on his bent knee. "No."

"Do they know Gerald's missing?"

"No."

"Do they know about the other Monk?"

"No."

"In other words, whatever you're planning to do isn't sanctioned."

He nodded. "Correct."

"And are you going to tell them? Your political masters?"

Political masters. Oh, how he disliked that term. "In my opinion this situation is too complicated for a politician to grasp. If we're going to act we must act quickly, decisively, with a minumum of interference."

"So, in other other words," she said, still so cool and watchful, "you want to go on keeping your secrets." She nodded at the lead-lined box and its contents. "Like that thing."

"Yes. That is, if you've no objection, Miss Cadwallader."

Her lips tightened. "Have you heard of the saying, Who watches the watchers?"

"We watch each other, Miss Cadwallader."

"Ha!" scoffed the bird. "Then why weren't you watching my Gerald?"

"Are you suggesting I should've anticipated the manner of Mr. Dunwoody's disappearance?"

"He didn't disappear, sunshine, he was kidnapped!" said the bird. "Right from under your sleeping nose!"

"Reg," said Miss Cadwallader, and nudged the chair with her knee. "Be fair."

The bird subsided. Interesting.

"Miss Cadwallader," he said, "is there a point you're trying to make? If so, please make it. Every minute we delay makes Mr. Markham's task more difficult."

"My point, Sir Alec," she retorted, "is that you should stop treating us like children and instead spell out exactly what you've got in mind."

"You tell him, ducky," the bird snapped, and chattered her beak. "Bloody government stooges. They're all alike and they never change."

Mr. Markham cleared his throat uncomfortably, hands shoved deep into his pockets. "Look. Sir Alec. I know when it comes to your dealings with us the road so far's been a bit bumpy. I know that one way or another we haven't always followed the rules. At least, not as they're written. But that doesn't make us the enemy. We might be unorthodox but I promise, you can trust us."

Sighing, he shook his head. "Mr. Markham, if I didn't know that already then instead of remaining here in your comfortable house you and your sister and your unorthodox friends would be under lock and key in an undisclosed location."

"Oh," said Ralph's nephew, blinking. "Right."

The bird cackled. "So now that you've put us all at ease, Sir Watch-Me-Throw-My-Weight-Around-Because-Intimidating-Civilians-Is-So-Much-Fun, why don't you cut to the chase and lay your dog-eared cards on this nice antique table?"

He looked at the bird and the bird looked back. Bright eyes, dull feathers, and deeds long behind her that would make these children weep.

Does she weep, I wonder, in the dark of night, with her memories?

"My cards," he said, and looked again at Ralph's frustrating, well-intentioned, oblivious nephew, "are indeed dog-eared. And my plan, such as it is, might well be regarded by some as insane."

"Yes, but will it get us Gerald back?" said the bird. "Because that's the only thing any of us give a rat's ass about, sunshine."

"I don't know," he said, after a long, considering pause. "All I can tell you is that I believe it's his only hope. Our only hope. And that if we don't do something-even something insane-every instinct informs me we will most certainly live to regret it."

Nearly half an hour later, with Sir Alec's insane plan explained and them all shifted from the library up to Gerald's bedroom, Melissande took Monk's arm and drew him aside. "Look," she said, her voice strategically low. "I realize I'm probably wasting my breath saying this but-you do understand there's no way he can force you into using that infernal device?"

With an effort he dragged his gaze away from the sheet-covered body on Gerald's bed. Tried to pretend that Sir Alec and Bibbie and Reg weren't standing a small stone's throw away. "I know. But how else can we find out what's happening in this world next door? Short of just barging through the portal, of course, and for once I'd prefer to look before I leap."

Her eyes were anxious. "But after you've looked you'll be leaping, won't you? Monk..."

"What? So now you're saying we should leave Gerald stranded there? Give him up for dead?"

"No," she said, flushing dark pink. "But-but Monk, what happened to being objective?"

"It's overrated."

"And what if something goes wrong while you're using that device? You heard Sir Alec. It's sent men mad in the past."

"Yeah, well, I'm mad already, aren't I? So I should be safe."

She shook his arm. "Monk, please. It's not just the device, it's the rest of it as well."

Wanting to kiss her, he patted her hand. "I'll be fine."

"You don't know that!"

True. "Maybe not, but here's what I do know. If I don't follow Sir Alec's plan a lot of people could die. Sure, it's going to be tricky, but-"

"Tricky's one word for it," she said grimly.

Sir Alec cleared his throat. "Mr. Markham. Time is a factor here."

Time was always a factor. When were they going to run into a nice, leisurely crisis? He stared again at the shrouded shape on Gerald's bed. "Are you all right?" Sir Alec had asked. And of course he'd said he was, because admitting weakness to that man would be the gravest of tactical errors.

Except I'm not all right. I watched myself-felt myself-die. It was probably my fault. I was pretty rough dismantling that shadbolt. But I can live with that if I rescue Gerald. I think.

"Mr. Markham..."

He glanced at the bedroom doorway, where Gerald's superior stood with Bibbie and Reg. "I know."

"Then stop piss-assing about, sunshine," said Reg, hunched on Bibbie's shoulder. "I'm losing so much beauty sleep waiting for you I'm going to have to put a bag over my head come morning."

Oh, Reg. He managed a sort of grin. "Yeah? Well, if you're looking, we keep them in the second-bottom kitchen drawer."

Fingers tugged on his arm. "Monk..."

He knew his Melissande pretty well by now. She was fighting fear and embarrassing, unroyal tears. Ignoring Reg's bubbling kettle impression, he brushed his knuckles against his young lady's cheek.

"Don't worry, Mel. I'm just going to rummage through what's left of the poor bugger's memories."

"And after that?" she demanded, unmollified. "Monk, please, at least don't let Sir Alec send you alone. You need us to come with you. There's safety in numbers."

Who cared if they had an audience? He kissed her chastely on the forehead and then, on impulse and far less chastely, on her severe, unhappy lips.

"No. It's far too dangerous for you to go. Hell, it's too dangerous for me to go-and I really wish I didn't have to. If you came with me and something went wrong-I can't afford to lose my focus. I have to get to Gerald."

"Mr. Markham!" Sir Alec snapped. "When I say time is a factor, do you imagine-"

"Sorry," he said, turning. "I'm ready."

"Come and stand with us, Mel," said Bibbie kindly. "You'll only be in the way if you hover."

His little sister never ceased to amaze him. First that shadbolt business, and now this. She cared a great deal for Gerald, and for him. She was afraid for both of them. But she was also excited and fascinated by the realm of thaumaturgic possibilities opening up before them. He was starting to wonder if she wasn't the maddest member of the Mad Markham clan. In a good way, of course.

"Bibs is right, Your Highness," he murmured. "Go on. I'll be all right."

Frightened and resentful and nearly killing herself not to show it, Melissande left him alone at the bed.With a last glance at Sir Alec, who nodded once, his expression forbidding, he put her-he put all of them-out of his mind, dragged the bedroom chair closer and dropped himself onto it.

The body was so... still.

His hand unsteady, he tugged off the covering sheet and let it fall to the carpet. His breathing wasn't steady either, and his heart was galloping like a speed-em-up hexed racehorse. It felt like any moment it was going to burst against his ribs.

Settle down, Markham. You're a genius, remember? This'll be a doddle. A walk in the park.

The dead Monk's face had taken on a bluish-gray pallor, and most of the heat had leached out of his flesh. He felt odd to the touch, like cool, uncooked bread dough. How could anyone ever mistake sleep for death? Even a man deeply stuporous, barely moving, didn't look like this. Empty. Uninhabited. The spirit flown away.

I'll look like this one day. Sooner than I was planning if this plan of Sir Alec's goes ass over ears.

The device-Sir Alec's object-was already threaded onto the fingers and thumb of his left hand. A beautiful plaiting of copper, bronze and gold, it linked them together and turned his hand into a starfish. The incants that had forged the device hummed quietly against his skin. They weren't out-and-out dark magic, not like the filthy hexes that had given birth to this Monk's shadbolt. No, this magic came from the potentia of an amazing wizard who'd chosen to use his extraordinary power for personal gain. Sir Alec refused to say who he was, or what had happened to him.

But I reckon Reg was right. I reckon he died because of this thing.

He took a deep, shaky breath and glanced again at Gerald's boss. "I'm ready."

Sir Alec nodded. "Take it slow and steady, Mr. Markham. If you rush you might well miss a crucial detail. And don't forget your recording incant."

Damn. He nearly had. Hastily he triggered his own tweaked version of the bog-standard hex and embedded it in the bad cloak-and-dagger novel on Gerald's nightstand. Whatever he said as a result of his reading the dead Monk's memories would overwrite the book's printed text, giving them a permanent record of any information retrieved.

He swallowed self-doubt. For someone like Sir Alec to chance his career, his reputation, maybe even his freedom, on such a dangerous, maverick plan... to trust him...

"All right," he said, his mouth cotton-dry. "Wish me luck."

Closing his eyes he held the device over the dead Monk's solar plexus and slowly lowered it until living and dead flesh came close to touching. A shock of thaumic power jolted through his fingers, then along the robust bones of his hand and wrist and arm. He heard himself gasp, air catching in his throat and chest. Felt the drumming of his blood along constricting veins and arteries. His eyes burned hot in their sockets, his skin goosebumped shivery and cold. His potentia twisted, protesting. What he was doing wasn't natural and every thaumaturgic instinct he possessed was rising in rebellion against it.

Sir Alec did say it wouldn't be easy.

Breathing harshly, sweating, he made a conscious effort to stop fighting the device. The moment he surrendered, his thundering heart steadied and he stopped gasping for air. Cracking open his eyelids, he saw that the plaited metal imprisoning his fingers now shone fiercely, like a sun. He couldn't feel any heat from the device, though. Maybe he'd feel it later-but he couldn't worry about that now. What had Sir Alec told him? Oh, yes. He had to empty his mind completely and allow the memories stirred up by the incanted metal to flow into him through the incanted metal and out again through his mouth. He mustn't react to them or fight them or try to examine them as they appeared. He was merely a conduit. A tool.

So what's new? These days every time I turn around somebody's trying to use me.

No, no, he had to stop thinking. This wouldn't work if he couldn't clear his mind. It might not work anyway-the other Monk had been dead for hours. For all they knew his memories had already escaped him like water seeping through a sieve. But Sir Alec said there was a chance-so he'd take the chance. He had to. He'd open his own mind and-and- A burst of light. A rush of heat. And he fell face-first into someone else's life.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

Monk. Monk? Monk, can you hear me?"

Groggily he opened his eyes and looked up at his sister. She was kneeling beside him, her face hovering above his, and he was-where was he? On the floor? Why was he on the floor? And whose floor was he on? God, nobody's embarrassing, he hoped. Was he dressed? Please, God, please, let me be dressed. And then it all came rushing back. The other Monk. Sir Alec's device. Sir Alec's crazy plan...

"Bibbie, what are you doing?" he demanded, trying to bat her away. "You're not supposed to be talking to me! The device won't work if you're-Bibbie?" He blinked. "You're crying. Why are you crying?"

"I am not crying," said his sister, and smeared her sleeve across her wet eyes. "Witches don't cry. I don't cry. I'm a Markham. Besides, it's unprofessional."

His head was aching viciously. Someone had hammered a railroad spike through one ear and out the other. "All right. Have it your way. Then why are you not crying? Seriously, Bibs, Sir Alec's going to have a fit if you don't let me-"

She pressed her fingers to his lips. "Shut up and listen, Monk. You've done it. The device worked. You've been talking non-stop for nearly an hour."

He had? Really? Oh. Well, that might explain why his throat felt like a gravel pit.

Except... "Are you sure? Because I don't seem to-" He frowned. "Did I say anything useful?"

"I think so," said Bibbie. "Monk, stop talking. You're not looking very good. You're all pasty. And a bit green around the edges."

He wasn't surprised to hear it. He was feeling green around the edges. A train was roaring along that damned railroad spike-and then there was the matter of his body's other shrill complaints.

"Here," said Melissande, abruptly appearing at his other side with a cup. "Drink this. Don't gulp."

Having tumbled off the bedroom chair, he used it to help him sit up. The room swooped around him and his mind swooped with it. He felt Bibbie grab his shoulder. "I'm fine. I'm fine."

She sniffed. "No, you're not. Now be quiet and drink."

Still dazed, he took the cup Mel handed him and swallowed a mouthful without looking first. Nearly spat it out again, gagging. "Warm milk? Bloody hell, woman! Are you trying to poison me?"