Melissande held out her hands. They were shaking. She wanted to weep. "I'll take her."

Another silence fell. With trembling fingers she untied the ribbon around Reg's-the bird's-familiar beak. She-Reg-the bird nodded but didn't say anything. Good lord, she was so thin.

Gerald had one hand on Monk's head and the other on his left shoulder. Eyes closed, breathing deeply, he seemed to sink into a trance. Nothing. Nothing. Just silence. Still nothing.

And then a flash of bluish white light, like a lightning strike. Monk shouted in pain and dropped to the floor.

"Monk!" cried Bibbie, rushing to him.

Melissande held the bird.

"He'll be all right," Gerald said to Sir Alec, as Bibbie helped Monk to his feet. "Headaches for a few days. After we've jiggered his expander he should steer clear of thaumaturgics for a while. A week, at least."

"I'm sure we can arrange that," said Sir Alec. "Mr. Dunwoody-"

Gerald silenced him with a look. "You'll get your report. Just... not right now. If you don't mind."

"Tomorrow," said Sir Alec, nodding. "No later. We need this put to bed."

"Buried, you mean," said Gerald. "Like that poor bastard under the sheet."

Monk cleared his throat. "Gerald-"

"I'm fine," said Gerald. But looking at him, Melissande could see he wasn't. Oh, he wasn't. Monk wasn't either. And neither am I. "If you're ready," Gerald added, "let's get up to the attic and bloody finish this, shall we?"

"Yeah," said Monk, sighing. "Yeah. We can do that. Sir Alec?"

As Monk followed Gerald out of the bedroom, Sir Alec raised an eyebrow. "It might be best if you ladies... sit this one out. I'm sure these thaumaturgics won't take long. And then I'll be on my way."

For once, Bibbie didn't argue about being treated like a girl. Melissande nodded. "Yes. Of course. We'll be downstairs when you're done."

Sir Alec went after the boys, leaving silence in his wake. She stared at Bibbie, and Bibbie stared back. And then the bird in her arms... the bird who was Reg... and wasn't... feebly stirred and tried to rattle her tail.

"Blimey bloody Charlie," she croaked. "Madam, I'm starving. Where do you keep the minced beef around here?"

It took him and Monk not quite an hour to rejig the multi-dimensional etheretic wavelength expander and turn it into a wavelength inhibitor that, once activated, would prevent the opening of portals between their dimension and the next. Well. For the time being, anyway. For the short term, at least. Until Monk could look at inventing a larger and more permanent solution.

And he will. Because he's Monk Markham and that's what he does. It's his job.

With that done, Sir Alec suggested they adjourn to the kitchen and fortify themselves while he... explained a few things. Melissande, being Melissande, made tea and cooked them scrambled eggs.

Oh, God.

It took every scrap of will power he had to eat them. The bird sat on a cushion on a spare bit of kitchen bench. He managed not to look at her once.

"The problem is," Sir Alec said, in his quiet, nondescript way, "that as far as I can see, revealing what's happened here can only cause more trouble. Obviously the notion that you've turned metaphysical theory into fact is... significant. But the thaumaturgical, social and geopolitical consequences could be grave. Perhaps even catastrophic."

"In other words," said Melissande, eyes narrowed, "you want us to keep on keeping our mouths shut."

Monk snorted. "You realize you're hatching the greatest conspiracy of modern times?"

"Mr. Markham, I'd hazard it's the greatest conspiracy in history," Sir Alec retorted. "Make no bones about it: this is irregular in the extreme. But after careful consideration I don't see that we have another choice. At least, not for the time being. Besides..." He smiled his small, chilly smile. "You're going to be far too busy inventing new locks for interdimensional doors to be dallying with gossip."

"That's true," said Monk. With that bloody shadbolt gone, and tea and eggs inside him, he was looking a little better. But the fingerprints of their adventure were on him... and chances were they'd never quite leave.

We'll have to talk about it. We can't pretend it didn't happen. We can't pretend I wasn't about to kill him.

Only not today. And not tomorrow. That conversation would have to wait.

"But you know, Sir Alec," Monk added, pretending that everything was fine, just fine, nothing to see here, move along, "if I am going to keep the inhibitor running here in the meantime-"

"Don't worry, Mr. Markham," said Sir Alec. Not fooled, because he was never fooled, but prepared to pretend. For now. "You'll have enough thaumaturgic energy at your disposal... and no questions asked."

"Does that go for me, too?" said Bibbie, glancing up. "Only I'm working on this ethergenics thing and-"

Sir Alec sighed. "Yes, Miss Markham. I'll see what I can do." He looked at them one by one. "So... do I take it you're agreeing to my unorthodox proposal?"

Monk scrubbed a hand across his stubbled face. "Sure. Why not? I mean, what've we got to lose?"

Gerald looked at Sir Alec. For God's sake, don't tell them.

Sir Alec nodded. "Thank you. Please don't talk about these events beyond the confines of this house. Of course it would be better if you didn't discuss them at all-but I'm not entirely stupid. I'm prepared to take what I can get." Pushing his chair back, he stood. "And now I'll bid you good day. Mr. Dunwoody-kindly walk me to my car."

It was a pretty morning. Lots of sunshine. Butterflies in the garden and birds on the wing. Sir Alec, holding the driver's door open, looked him up and down with a jaundiced eye. "I'm not going to like what I read in your report, am I?"

"Sir Alec..." He sighed. "Come on. You're going to hate it."

But not as much as I will.

"You're taking a bloody big risk, keeping all this secret."

Sir Alec shrugged. "I'm not a stranger to secrets, Mr. Dunwoody." Then he hesitated, and cleared his throat. "I'm sorry about the bird. I know how fond you were of her. And I wonder if it was wise of you, to bring the other one back."

He pulled a face. "I guess we'll just have to wait and see, won't we?"

Abruptly, Sir Alec slapped the roof of his car. "A damned unfortunate mess all around, Mr. Dunwoody. You did well. Again. Take tomorrow off. But I'll want you in my office the day after, with that report. You and I have a lot to discuss. And then, of course, there's the matter of that grimoire magic."

Which sat inside him, black and waiting, like a wolf.

"I meant what I said, you know," he said, letting Sir Alec see behind his own mask. "I want the filthy bloody stuff gone."

In return, Sir Alec showed him nothing. "I know you meant it, Mr. Dunwoody. And we'll see what we can do." Halfway into the car he stopped, and looked back. "I'll send Mr. Dalby for the other Monk's body. No need for you to be involved."

He supposed he should say thank you, but he wasn't in the mood.

Uneasy, he watched Sir Alec drive out of sight, then turned to go back inside the house. The bird was behind him. She'd slipped out the open front door and was perched on the big flower pot at the top of the steps. Seeing him see her, and hesitate, she fluffed out her feathers. Tipped her head to one side, her familiar-her unknown-dark eyes sardonically gleaming.

"Hello, Gerald."

... if you've finished slobbering over my third-rate understudy...

"Hello."

The bird sighed. "So. Sunshine. What are we going to do?"

Sunshine. He pulled a face. "I don't know about you, but I thought I might get drunk."

"And then what? Blow your brains out?"

He stared at her. "What?"

"Well... those are your two basic choices, aren't they? Drop dead or keep walking." She stared without remorse. "So, Mr. Dunnywood? What's it going to be?"

Oh, God. I can't do this. I watched her burn alive. And now here she is, and that's her voice and her feathers and her beak and her eyes...

"Your Sir Alec," she said, and rattled her tail. "Bit of a sarky bugger, isn't he? I think you need to watch your step with him, my boy. I don't altogether trust that glint in his eyes."

"He's all right," he said, shrugging. "He's a good man. He's just... not very comfortable. And anyway... he's your Sir Alec now."

"Ha," she said. "I don't want him. I never asked for him, did I?"

"Yes, well, neither of us did, Reg," he said. "It just worked out that way."

Her head tipped again. "Reg?"

It's not the same. It's not the same. But it's not her fault, either.

"What?" With a soft sigh, he held out his arm. "You'd prefer Dulcetta?"

"Ha," she said again, and jumped, and made her way up to his shoulder. "So you like living dangerously. Nice to know some things don't change."

They went back inside, down the corridor to the kitchen, where Monk and Melissande and Bibbie sat with their tea. As they walked through the door, intent conversation ceased. His friends... his family... stared at him, anxious.

"Gerald," said Monk. Still his friend, despite everything. "Honestly. Are you all right?"

He pulled out two chairs, one for him and one for Reg. "Not really," he said at last, because he owed them the truth. "But I will be. I think I just need some time." Reg hopped from his shoulder to the back of the other chair. She looked at him, and he looked at her. His fingertip stroked the length of her wing. "Monk... Melissande... Bibbie..." He swallowed. "This is Reg."

Silence. And then Reg rattled her tail, eyes gleaming, and tipped her head to one side. "Well, well, well, duckies. Is this different, or what?"

Look out for the next book in the Rogue Agent series from Orbit.

acknowledgments.

My wonderful beta readers Mary Webber, Glenda Larke and Elaine Shipp The fabulous Orbit team, on both sides of the pond My agent, Ethan Ellenberg The booksellers The readers

extras

meet the author K.E. Mills is the pseudonym for Karen Miller. She was born in Vancouver, Canada, and moved to Australia with her family when she was two. She started writing stories while still in primary school, where she fell in love with speculative fiction after reading The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. Over the years she has held down a wide variety of jobs, including horse stud groom in Buckingham, England. She is working on several new novels. Find out more about the author at www.karenmiller.net.

introducing

If you enjoyed WIZARD SQUARED, look out for THE PRODIGAL MAGE.

Book One of the Fisherman's Children series by Karen Miller Many years have passed since the last Mage War. It has been a time of great change. But not all changes are for the best, and Asher's world is in peril once more.

The weather magic that keeps Lur safe is failing. Among the sorcerers, only Asher has the skill to mend the antique weather map that governs the seasons, keeping the land from being crushed by natural forces. Yet, when Asher risks his life to meddle with these dangerous magics, the crisis is merely delayed, not averted.

Asher's son Rafel inherited his father's talents, but he has been forbidden to use them. With Lur facing devastation, however, he may be its only hope.

PROLOGUE.

The first time Rafel told his father he wanted to travel beyond Barl's Mountains he was five, sailing towards six. When Da said no, Meister Tollin's expedition didn't need any little boys to help them, he cried... but not for long, because he had a new pony, Dancer, and Mama had promised to come watch him ride. And then, ages and ages later, the expedition came back-which was a surprise to everyone, since it was declared lost-and he was glad he hadn't gone with Meister Tollin and the others because while they were away exploring, four of the seven men sickened and died, wracked and gruesome for no good reason anyone could see. Not even Da, and Da knew everything.

Once all the fuss was died down, some folk cheering and some weeping, on account of the men who got buried so far away, Meister Tollin came to tell Da what had gone on while they were over Barl's Mountains. They met in the big ole palace where all the grown-up government things happened, where the royal family used to live once, back in the days when there was a royal family.

He knew all about them grand folk, 'cause Darran liked to tell stories. Da said Darran was a silly ole fart, and that was mostly true. He was old as old now, with an old man's musty, fusty smell. His hair was grown all silver and thin, and his eyes were nearly lost in spiderweb wrinkles. But that didn't matter, 'cause the stories he told about Lur's royal family were good ones. There was Prince Gar, Da's best friend from back then. Darran talked about him the most, and blew his nose a lot afterwards. There was the rest of the royal family: clever Princess Fane and beautiful Queen Dana and brave King Borne. It was sad how they died, tumbling over Salbert's Eyrie. Darran cried about that too, every time he remembered... but it didn't stop him telling the stories.