K. Mills - Wizard Undercover

Though it made him feel a traitor to their friendship, he couldn’t settle with the notion of Gerald and his sister getting… involved. Not only because his best friend was one of Sir Alec’s secretive, dangerous janitors, but because after their ghastly adventures in that other Ottosland, he was more convinced than ever that if Bibbie and Gerald did act on their feelings, she would only end up hurt.

Because the Gerald who came back isn’t the same Gerald who went.

Aylesbury was favouring Bibbie with a scathing stare. “Come now, Mother. Emmerabiblia’s never going to convince someone to marry her while she’s footling about with that ridiculous hobby of hers.”

Pink with indignation, Bibbie glared. “Witches Incorporated is not a hobby! We are a legitimate business enterprise, and-”

“Don’t, Bibs,” Monk said, treading lightly on her foot. “He’s trying to get a rise out of you.”

“It’s true,” Aylesbury retorted. “The rest of the family might be too soft-headed to protest her nonsense but I don’t suffer from the same complaint! You must know, Emmerabiblia, that you and that misguided, ragtag bit of royalty you’ve teamed up with are turning the Markham name into a laughing stock.”

Monk winced as Bibbie sucked in a furious breath. Oh, lord. She was going to lose her temper and reveal the truth about Witches Inc.’s interesting little arrangement with Sir Alec’s secret government department. But before he could intervene, Uncle Ralph leaned a little sideways and clapped Aylesbury hard on his velvet-clad shoulder.

“Now, now, nephew, come along,” he said, in a heartily patronising tone calculated to raise Aylesbury’s hackles. “Don’t be so stuffy. These are modern times we’re living in, eh? Gels like to have a bit of fun, doncha know? And I think the Markham reputation can withstand a bit of girlish romping.” He chuckled. “But speaking of weddings, what d’you all make of this fuss over Splotze and Borovnik’s upcoming nuptials?”

Typically mercurial, Bibbie abandoned temper. “Melissande was invited to attend,” she said sounding pleased and proud. “The wedding and the royal tour.” She flicked a mordant glance at Aylesbury. “Which only goes to show that she isn’t ragtag.”

“Really, Emmerabiblia? How very prestigious,” said their mother, brightening. “Perhaps you could wangle your way into her retinue.”

Rousing from his reverie, their father smoothed back his unruly salt-and-pepper hair. “What are you on about, Sofilia? You don’t approve of royalty.”

“Really, Wolfgang, do try not to be dense,” said their mother, with an impatient tsk. “For all their faults, royalty can occasionally prove useful. There’ll be scads of unspoken-for young men gadding about this wedding. Who knows what kind of eligible personage our unwed and rapidly aging daughter might meet?”

“ I know, Mother,” said Bibbie, with a glittering smile. “Not a one, because Melissande’s declined the invitation. Something about the Crown Prince of Splotze and his wandering hands.”

“Oh,” said their mother, disappointed. “Well. That’s terribly unobliging of her, I must say. As your friend she should be prepared for some trifling inconvenience if it means you could meet the right man. Monk, you’re dallying with the young woman, aren’t you? What are you doing to see that she changes her mind about attending this wedding?”

Monk trod on Bibbie’s foot again, more emphatically, and favoured their mother with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Mama, but when it comes to persuadability Melissande is quite a lot like you. Once she’s made up her mind, there’s no changing it.”

“Well, I call that sadly lily-livered!” their mother retorted. “For your poor sister’s sake, Monk, I demand that you try!”

There was no point arguing. “Yes, all right. But I’m not making any promises.” And now it was time to change the subject. He looked at Uncle Ralph. “I must admit I haven’t been paying a lot of attention to the Splotze-Borovnik fuss, sir. I’m still working on that big project for-” Just in time he remembered Aylesbury, who was employed by Ottosland’s largest international trading company and didn’t possess the right kind of government clearances. “That’s to say, I’ve been busy. D’you honestly think something as simple as a wedding can patch up more than two hundred years of disputes and skirmishes and the occasional all-out war?”

“I can’t say,” said Uncle Ralph, after a considering moment. “But at least it’ll give them something different to skirmish over. Weddings? From my experience they’re little more than an excuse to settle old feuds and start new ones.”

“Uncle Ralph, are you saying there’s going to be trouble?” Bibbie said, pushing her emptied dinner plate away. “Because with Melissande not going to Splotze, and New Ottosland not wanting to risk various trading concessions, now it’ll be King Rupert flying the flag at the wedding and it would be awful if something happened. He’s the only brother Mel’s got left and she’s terribly fond of him.”

“There!” said their mother, signalling Cheevers to start clearing the table for the dessert course. “That is precisely what I’m talking about. Your friend’s brother. King Rupert. What is he if not a perfectly good unmarried monarch cluttering up the landscape? If this Princess Melissande was really your friend, Emmerabiblia, she’d introduce you to him. Monk, why haven’t you arranged it?”

“Mama…” He sighed deeply, ruefully resigned. “Probably she would, if I asked, but even if I did, as a rule kings don’t marry commoners.”

“Commoners? With the blood of Thackerays and Markhams coursing through her veins, Monk, your sister is anything but common!”

“I know,” he said patiently, because at times like this their mother required careful handling. “Only, Mama, you can’t be serious. I mean, if Bibs married Rupert she’d have to go and live in New Ottosland.”

“And get all excited about butterflies,” Bibbie added, wrinkling her nose. “Because according to Mel, that habit’s stuck. So I think I’ll pass on Rupert, thanks all the same.”

“And you know, Sofilia,” Uncle Ralph added, “she’s not likely to find the right sort of chap at this bloody Splotze-Borovnik affair. It’ll be crawling with foreigners of dubious lineage. Last thing this family needs is Emmerabiblia making sheep’s eyes at someone unsuitable from Graff or Harenstein or Blonkken.”

Being careful to keep his expression safely amused at indignant Bibbie’s expense, Monk looked at their important, powerful uncle and wondered. For all his joviality, there was a shadow in his eyes. So either something was bothering him about the Splotze-Borovnik wedding

… or else some other cloud was looming on the thaumaturgical horizon.

But what could it be? I’ve heard no rumblings. And if something was up, Gerald would’ve told me.

At least, he’d like to think so. Only things between him and Gerald hadn’t been entirely comfortable since their return from the other Ottosland. They were keeping mismatched work hours, and when their paths did cross, in the kitchen or on the stairs of his inherited town house, it never seemed to be the right time for a fraught conversation. And anyway, he had no idea what to say.

I know you tried to kill me, mate, but no hard feelings. You weren’t yourself. And incidentally, how’s that grimoire magic working out for you? Had any more overwhelming homicidal urges lately?

No. No, he couldn’t say that. Trouble was, it seemed he couldn’t say anything that didn’t run the risk of revealing a harsh truth: that every time he looked at his best friend, just for a split second he remembered that hideous killing hex, the cruelty in Gerald’s face, the pain and the disbelief and the horror of impending death… and was afraid.