Melissande's eyes were watery and her nose was pink, sure signs that she'd been weeping too. He decided not to mention it.

"Stop moaning," she said, her chin tilted. "And anyway, it's got whiskey in it."

He took another tiny mouthful, grimaced, then swallowed. "Thank you. I think," he muttered. Sharp pain continued to pound through his temples. He looked down at his left hand, where the device sat quietly on his fingers, no sign of brightness or any thaumic activity at all. "All right. So if it worked does that mean I can take this bloody thing off now?"

Bibbie glanced around. "Sir Alec?"

"Give it to me," said Sir Alec, coming forward with the lead-lined box.

Monk looked at Uncle Ralph's friend closely. No, he hasn't been crying. Well, of course he hasn't. He's Sir Alec. But something I said gave him a bloody nasty shock. He handed the cup back to Melissande, then unthreaded his fingers and passed over the device. To his unsettled surprise he felt a shock of loss, surrendering it.

"Here," said Melissande, pushing the cup back at him. "Finish your milk."

Grudgingly sipping, he watched Sir Alec return the device to its lead-lined container, hex the small box impenetrably closed then slip it back into its felt bag. Finally, that done, Sir Alec put the thing on Gerald's dresser and gave him a small nod.

"Good work, Mr. Markham."

A compliment? From Sir Alec? We must be in worse trouble than I thought. "Thank you, sir."

"There," said Melissande, plucking the emptied cup from his fingers. "At least you've got a bit of color in your face now. How are you feeling?"

"I told you. I'm fine." But that wasn't quite true. The pain in his head had only eased, it wasn't defeated. Likewise his other rowdy aches and pains. And he had a horrible, lurking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He might not remember what he'd learned through that device, but even so...

I don't need Sir Alec's face to tell me none of it was good.

The bedroom's curtains had been opened. The window, too. Fresh cool air and barely-past-dawn light washed into the chamber. Puzzled, he looked around. Someone was missing...

"Wait a minute. Where's Reg?"

"Stretching her wings," said Melissande after a moment. She exchanged inscrutable glances with Sir Alec. "Some of the things you said. I'm afraid they were a bit... harrowing."

He frowned. "Oh. I'm sorry to hear that."

"You really don't remember any of it?" said Bibbie, sounding uncertain-and displeased. "But that's not right. I thought-" She turned to Sir Alec. "You said he'd-does this mean it didn't work? Or did something go wrong? You gave him the right instructions, didn't you? How is he supposed to do any of this if-"

Sir Alec raised a hand. "Patience, Miss Markham," he said quietly. "It can take a little time. Using the device is a confusing experience."

Using the chair again Monk clambered to his feet, grunting. He'd had more than enough of sitting on the floor. From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of the other Monk. Somebody thoughtful had recovered his corpse with the sheet.

And now somebody else-whose name rhymes with Sir Alec-is going to have to take him away. See him decently buried because we can't risk taking him back to his own world. Will that mean I'll have to make visits to the graveyard? No. No, I don't think so. Even for me, that's too macabre.

Resolutely turning his back on the sheet-covered body-my body, but I really, really don't want to think about that-he folded his arms and looked at Sir Alec instead. "Look, I don't mean to be rude but it's my brain that's buzzing, and not in a good way. And the rest of me feels like the football at the end of the game. So for once can you please give me a simple answer to a simple question? How long before what I just did pays us dividends? Because right now I'm a blank slate, Sir Alec. I don't remember a bloody thing."

Sir Alec sighed. "Mr. Markham, there is no simple answer. The device is idiosyncratic. All I can tell you with any degree of certainty is that it worked. You did retrieve memories from the late Monk Markham and they will manifest themselves in due course. But stamping your feet like a two-year-old in a tantrum isn't going to make that happen any faster."

"That's uncalled for!" said Melissande hotly. "He's not having a tantrum, he's expressing a perfectly legitimate concern. You saw what he went through, using your precious device. If it turns out he's suffered for nothing, Sir Alec, I'll-I'll-be very displeased."

"And so will Reg," added Bibbie. "And trust me, you do not want that. Because she's got a long beak and you've got unmentionables."

Sir Alec stared at the girls in silence, clearly regretting his decision to involve them... and possibly the fact they'd ever met.

"Oh, come on, girls," he said, taking reluctant pity on Gerald's beleagured boss. "It's not his fault."

Scowling, Bibbie opened her mouth to argue that-but instead stopped scowling and smiled. "We're idiots, all of us. You don't need to remember, Monk. You recorded the whole thing." She reached for the book on Gerald's nightstand. "See? All you have to do is-"

"No!" said Sir Alec. "Miss Markham, don't-"

Ignoring him, Bibbie tossed the hexed book. "Here, Monk. Instant memories!"

He reached for it. Fumbled it. The book thudded to the carpet, the impact knocking it wide open. He bent down to pick it up... and his eye caught a random line of hexed writing.

And then he said, "Trust me, I have everything under control. You've got nothing to worry about, Monk. The world will never have to fear a Lional of New Ottosland again."

He blinked, startled, as a bright light seemed to explode before his eyes. And then his breath caught, and his heart slammed, and sweat started pouring down his spine.

Oh, bugger. Oh, bloody hell. I remember.

A firestorm of images swirling sparks and flame inside his skull. Sights and sounds and memories that weren't his... and yet were.

Horrified desperation. No, Gerald-don't do this. It's wrong. You know it's wrong. Please, mate. Let me help you. It's not too late, we can-The death of hope. Betrayal and torture. It's a shame, Monk. You mustn't think I'm not sorry. But I can't do this without you and we both know that's not the kind of help you meant. Searing pain as the shadbolt took hold. Disbelief and defeat and a sister lost to the dark. You're so stubborn, Monk, I could slap you. Why didn't you say yes? What Gerald can do? It's marvelous. I'm having so much fun. If you'd only said yes we could've had fun together. Pity and horror. My God, Gerald, oh my God, what have you done? Heartbreak at yet another casual cruelty. Mel, Mel, I'm so sorry. I'd help you if I could. Defiance, so fleeting. Forget it, Gerald. You can't ask me to do that. I won't-I won't-Pain beyond bearing. Craven capitulation. But at its battered, beating heart-a seed of revolt. I'll stop you, mate. I don't know how, but I will. I owe it to the Gerald you used to be. The Gerald you killed.

Other memories, tumbling. Bursts and snatches of the other life he'd never lived. Chaotic. Disordered. A nightmare patchwork quilt. Fading now, fading quickly, the thaumic power was dwindling. His tongue raced to keep up. The other Gerald's crazy dreams. His wicked hopes. His terrible plan. And then one final, heartbroken thought.

He'll help me. I know he will. Or I don't know myself.

Monk felt the hexed book slip from his nerveless fingers. Heard its papery bounce on the carpet, and Melissande's alarmed cry. The dead man wearing his face lay so still upon the bed. No-one would guess, looking at him, what terrible things he'd seen and done.

A shocking pain jolted through him as his knees hit the floor.

It was Sir Alec who crouched beside him. Sir Alec who took hold of him and lent him some strength. "Steady now, Mr. Markham," he said sharply. "We've no time for histrionics."

The hand painfully gripping his shoulder gave more comfort than he could ever have expected. And Sir Alec's clipped voice and cool gray eyes helped too, far more than warm soft womanly sympathy. Or tears. They would've undone him.

"I'm all right," he said, after a short struggle. "Sorry. It just-it was-it hit me a bit-I wasn't expecting that."

"No," said Sir Alec, removing his hand and standing. "It does come as a shock."

Something in the way he said it, some odd note in his voice... Ha. I thought so. He's used the device too. "I'm all right," he said again, looking at Melissande. She was holding the hexed book gingerly, as though it might bite. Or explode. "But Sir Alec's right. We have to get cracking on this, now, we have to-"

"No, Monk, don't listen to him," said Bibbie, shoving Sir Alec aside without hesitation. "We can't rush this. We can't even be sure you can cobble together a shadbolt that will fool the other Gerald. Not if he's as awful and powerful as-as you said the other Monk remembered. And-and what about his portal opener? I know you've both got the same thaumic signature, but what if you can't make it work? What if-"

"Bibs..." Sighing, he hung his head for a moment, then let her pull him to his feet. Briefly touched his forehead to hers. "Don't. Of course we have to rush this. The fate of two worlds depends on us rushing. That other Gerald could come looking for me-his me-any tick of the clock."

She smoothed his collar with trembling fingers. "Well, yes, maybe, but-"

"And if he's not where he's meant to be-if I'm not there, being him?" He captured her fingers with his. "Bibs, there'll be no hope of stopping the mad bastard. He'll find a way to make our Gerald finish that bloody machine and once it's finished-once it's working-well. That'll be it. We can kiss each other goodbye. Because if he succeeds there's no wizard anywhere strong enough to stop the kind of power he'll have at his fingertips."

Pulling away from him, Bibbie turned on Sir Alec. "So you're just going to stand there, are you, and say nothing? You're going to let him do this? It's not enough that you've probably sent Gerald to his death, now you want to send my brother after him? Well, I suppose that'd solve a few problems for you, wouldn't it? No more embarrassingly powerful Gerald Dunwoody and no more inconveniently brilliant Monk Markham. That'd save you a lot of money in headache pills, wouldn't it?"

Sir Alec's lips tightened, just for a moment. "Miss Markham-"

Monk cleared his throat. "Excuse me? She's my sister, Sir Alec. Let me talk to her."

"Talk quickly, Mr. Markham," Sir Alec snapped. "Or I'll have no choice but to seek out Lord Attaby and apprise him of everything-which isn't something either of us wants, is it?"

No, it bloody wasn't. As Sir Alec took the hexed book from Melissande and started leafing through it, he tugged Bibbie over to the old mahogany wardrobe. That left Mel stranded-so she occupied herself by putting the bedroom chair back where it belonged, beside the window. Her expression was forbiddingly self-contained.

"I know what you're going to say, Monk, and I don't care," Bibbie muttered, her expression mutinous. "Not after what I just heard. Sir Alec's lost his marbles if he thinks you can handle this on your own. This is the kind of thaumaturgic catastrophe that needs all the help it can get. He just wants to keep it quiet to save his own skin."

Not since she was a baby had he seen her so upset. "Come on, Bibs-that's not true and you know it," he said gently. "Sir Alec's right. If we can handle this situation discreetly we should. We must. My God, can you imagine the uproar in parliament if what's happened here got out? And it wouldn't stay a secret, either. News like this would spread around the world. And mass panic would only make it easier for the other Gerald to come in here and take over."

"Maybe, but you don't know that's what he's planning, Monk," Bibbie objected. "The-the other you didn't even know his Gerald was going to kidnap our Gerald."

"No," he said, after a moment. "But if he'd had the time, he would've figured it out." He managed a small, painful smile. "He was pretty smart, you know. Okay, not as smart as me but-"

"Oh, Monk," said Bibbie, and slapped his chest. Suddenly her eyes were full of tears. "Monk... you died."

"No, no, no, Bibs," he said, and held her tight. "He died. And that's not the same thing."

She pulled back. "You don't believe that."

He didn't have time to work out what he did or didn't believe. "Bibs, please," he said, catching hold of her small, cold hands. "It may only be a theory but we have to assume it's fact. If we don't he could win. I can't let that happen."

"But Monk-" Blinking back her tears she tugged her hands free of his grasp. "You're not a spy, you're a theoretical thaumaturgist. You aren't trained for this."

"Trust me, Bibs, I know." Then he pointed to the body on the bed. "But the moment he crossed from his world into ours, that was it. None of us stood a chance of not getting involved."

She looked at him with enormous eyes. "No. I don't accept that. Let Sir Alec send one of his janitors. This is their business, not yours."

"Oh, Bibs..." He tucked a strand of her glorious golden hair behind her ear. "I wish I could. I wish it was that easy. But even if I could doppler hex one of Sir Alec's people into me, I can't doppler my thaumic signature and the rest of it, can I? I'm the only Monk Markham we've got. That other Gerald will accept no substitutes."

Her face crumpling, his little sister flung her arms around his neck and burst into tears. "Promise me you'll come back, Monk," she sobbed. "Because if you don't come back that means I'm stuck with Aylesbury and if I'm stuck with Aylesbury I won't care if that horrible other Gerald takes over the world! I might even help him just to end the pain!"

"Oh, Bibbie," he said, voice breaking, and held her tight again. From the corner of his eye he caught Melissande staring at them, vulnerable in a way he wasn't used to seeing. As for Sir Alec, he was frowning. He nodded. I know, I know. Gently he disentangled himself. "Here's an idea, Bibs. Why don't you and Mel go see where Reg's got to? Do something irritating so she can scold you. That always cheers her up."

Sniffing, almost laughing, Bibbie gave him a half-hearted slap. "Cheeky bugger."

"I do my best." He shifted around. "Melissande..."

Like magic, her Royal Highness returned. "Don't worry, Monk," she said, formidably composed. "We'll hold the fort here. And if things don't go the way we want them to, over there, well-that other Gerald Dunwoody will be in for a nasty surprise. Forewarned is forearmed, after all. I can promise you, we'll be waiting for him."

He felt his heart thud. Bloody hell. I love her. "I know you will, Mel."

The bedroom door closed behind the girls, and it was just him and Sir Alec and the body on the bed. Sir Alec put the hexed book on the dresser, beside the hexed box, his movements restrained and deliberate. Whatever he was feeling he was keeping it to himself.

"So, Mr. Markham," he said. "We reach the point of no return. You understand the risks of what we're about to attempt?"

His mouth was dry. He swallowed. "If you mean do I realize I could fry my brain like an egg, then yes. I understand."

Sir Alec crossed the carpet to the bed then clasped his hands in front of him like a meek civil servant. "You can still decline.We both know I'm in no position to insist."

No, Sir Alec really wasn't. His position, to put it mildly, was professionally precarious. And how did it feel, knowing his future rested in the hands of a wizard young enough to be his son, who'd never been one for slavishly following the rules?

Bloody awful, I'll bet.

"I don't know how to do this," he said, wishing he could sit down. Wishing he couldn't feel a tremble in his knees. "I don't think it's ever been done. Has it?"

Sir Alec raised an eyebrow. "No, it hasn't. Or rather, to the best of my knowledge it hasn't. And if it has, then it's certainly never been documented. Not that I've seen. But I'm sure we'll work it out, Mr. Markham. Rumor has it you're a genius-and how often does rumor lie?"

Bloody hell, he was a sarky bastard. How did Gerald stand it? "Are you sure it doesn't matter that the shadbolt's on a-a corpse?"

A breath, a whisper, of a mordant chuckle. "Sure? Not at all. But I'm moderately optimistic. After all, Mr. Markham, it is a fresh corpse. Well. Fresh-ish. Not decomposing, at any rate-so that's all to the good."

He'd like to kiss whoever had recovered the dead Monk with the sheet-even if it had been Sir Alec. It was a very thoughtful gesture. He never wanted to look at that empty face again. "And you're sure there's enough left of the shadbolt to transfer?"

Another soft snort of dry amusement. "No."

Saint Snodgrass save him, he was starting to feel sick. "But you have transferred a shadbolt before?"

"I have," Sir Alec said, after a long hesitation. "From one living subject to another. And if I had the choice I wouldn't do it again."

"And what if even a rumored genius like me can't cobble together what's missing well enough to fool the other Gerald?"

"In that case, Mr. Markham, your little vacation will most likely take an interesting turn."

Well, that was encouraging. "So-this incant you've got shoved down-" Hesitating, he reconsidered his choice of words. "Up your sleeve. The one that lets a wizard disguise his own thaumic signature as somebody else's. Is that-y'know-legal?"

Sir Alec held his gaze steadily. "Your point, Mr. Markham?"

"Blimey," he breathed, awestruck. "Sir Alec, you're a fraud. You're no more a rah-rah team player than I am. Does Uncle Ralph know the truth about you?"

"Your uncle, Mr. Markham, knows precisely what he needs to know."

He grimaced. "In other words, my uncle's a bloody good politician."

"And a good man," said Sir Alec coolly. "Who cares deeply for his country and will do what he deems necessary to see it kept safe." A small, wintry smile. "As will I. And you. Which, to my astonishment, places all three of us on the same team."

"Apparently," he said. "Just let me get my smelling salts, would you?"

Another cold smile. "Sarcasm I can live without, Mr. Markham. Now I suggest that we start with you learning the dubious incant I have shoved-where was it again? Oh, yes. Up my sleeve." He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. "Close enough."

He took the incant and read it quickly. Deceptively simple, it had to be one of the most dangerous pieces of wizardry he'd ever come across. Blimey. Compared to this my bloody portal opener's a kiddy's toy. He glanced up.

"Right. Got it. Now what?"

Sir Alec gave him what Reg liked to call anold-fashioned look, crossed to the wardrobe and took out two of Gerald's shirts. "Now, Mr. Markham, we see if rumor is, in fact, fact." Choosing at random, he turned one shirt from white cotton into green, then tossed him both garments. "Match that."

Feeling faintly ridiculous, Monk closed his eyes and sank himself into the ether. Sir Alec's thaumic signature was piquant, like a freshly cut lime. Strong. Even intimidating. Interestingly it reminded him of Gerald's. Not in power, of course, because nobody was as powerful as Gerald. But in its complexity and subtle shadings there was a definite resemblance.