K. Mills - Wizard Undercover

He shot his mother a sly look. “Perhaps he’s a throwback on the Thackeray side.”

“Really!” his mother said, then glanced at the dining room door and sighed again. “Oh dear. I suppose I should go and mend fences with your impossible sister. You know, Monk, it’s very poor of you to encourage her. I’m not at all sure it was the right thing to do, letting her live with you in Uncle Throgmorton’s house. Not after saying she could start that little witching business with that princess of yours. A great many eyebrows were raised both times, and I’m still waiting for most of them to come down.”

“Now, now, Sofilia,” said his father, taking her elbow before she could launch into a proper tirade. “You’re going to need some help, mending that fence. Give us a few minutes, Monk. And if you’ve some time in the next few days, you should drop back round. I’ve developed a new etheretic combinant meter, and I’d like your assessment.”

Monk grinned. Wolfgang Markham, world-renowned thaumaturgist, was an easy man for a son to admire… but sometimes hard to live up to.

But not now. Now being his son is the easiest thing in the world.

“Of course, sir. I’m free the night after next, if that suits.”

“Good,” said his father, and stood. “Come along, Sofilia.”

As his parents withdrew, Monk looked at Uncle Ralph. “Honestly, sir, you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. The other lads and I don’t-”

“I know,” his uncle said heavily. “You’ve faults aplenty, but idle tongue-flapping’s not one of ’em. Don’t mind me, my boy. It’s been a long day.”

It was strange, really, being related to one of the most important government men in Ottosland. There was such a sharp line they had to draw, between their encounters at the Department, and then at family gatherings like this. Even stranger was being privy to things that by rights Ralph Markham should know, but didn’t, because him finding out would lead to terrible repercussions. Not an idle tongue-flapper?

Bloody hell, sir. You don’t know the half of it.

Uncle Ralph drummed his fingers on the tablecloth. “That friend of yours. Dunwoody. Seen him today, have you?”

Monk felt a frisson of unease stir the hairs on the back of his neck. “No, actually. Ah… why?”

Instead of answering, Uncle Ralph seemed to debate with himself. Then he pulled a face. “He’s undergone a classified and slightly dangerous procedure, Monk. It means he might not be feeling quite himself, so be sure to look in on him when you get home.”

His mouth sucked cinders-dry. Bloody hell. The grimoire extraction. That was today? Why the hell didn’t Gerald tell me? “Yes, sir.”

“I can see from the look on your face you know what I’m talking about,” Uncle Ralph added, resigned. “So you know what it means. If you’re not satisfied with Dunwoody’s appearance, raise the alarm. But discreetly. Understand?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Good lad,” said Uncle Ralph.

It was one of the most startling things he’d ever uttered.

Driving home with Bibbie, too preoccupied to pay much attention to her fuming complaints about overbearing, old-fashioned mothers, too numb to feel his usual terror at her recklessly extravagant driving, Monk gnawed at his bottom lip and wished he’d not eaten that third helping of roast beef.

Why hadn’t Gerald told him about the procedure? Was his silence another symptom of their ailing friendship? Doused in misery, as Bibbie rambled on he nodded in what he hoped were all the right places, offered an encouraging grunt every now and then, and felt his belly churn more and more nervously the closer they got to home.

Leaving his sister to garage the jalopy, he had her let him out by the gate. As he reached the bottom of the steps at the end of the path, he heard a familiar rustle of feathers.

“Evening, sunshine.”

Reg. She was perched on the big flowerpot by the front door, light from the window limning her long, sharp beak and making her eyes gleam.

“Evening,” he said, stopping. “What are you doing out here?”

Her tail feathers rattled. “Enjoying a little peace and quiet.”

There was something in her voice. “Oh. So… you know?”

“That our daft Mister Dunwoody spent the day having himself spring cleaned?” She sniffed. “Yes. I know.”

Monk folded his knees until he was sitting on the nearest step. “You think getting rid of those foul grimoire incants was daft?”

“No. That was smart. Going it alone was daft.”

He couldn’t argue with that. “Have you seen him?”

“I spoke to him. From the other side of his closed bedroom door. He’s not interested in company.” Reg chattered her beak. “I’ll try again in the morning.”

Yes. Reg had often been the only one who could talk sense into Gerald. He just had to trust that at least that much hadn’t changed.

“I’m worried, Reg. He’s not the same.”

In the darkness, a cynical snort. “Neither am I, sunshine. And neither are you. We’re all of us different now, aren’t we, Mister Markham? One way or another.”

He realised then that he wasn’t ready to answer that question, or to talk in any meaningful way about what had happened in the other Ottosland. About the Reg who’d died there, or the Monk who’d died here and the Gerald who’d killed them both. Those things were too enormous. Still too close. He needed more time.

“Is Gerald all right, d’you think?”

“No,” said Reg, looking down her beak at him. “But you don’t need me to tell you that.”

Groaning, Monk dropped his head in his hands. “Oh, Reg. What are we going to do?”

Another rattle of tail feathers, and then a flap and a thud as she landed on his shoulder. “Right now? You’re going to pour me a brandy. Then we’re both going to take our beauty sleeps. And come tomorrow? Well. We’ll see.”

He stood, his knees creaking. “Don’t mention this to Bibbie. Or Mel, for that matter.”

“Ha!” said Reg, and whacked him with her wing. “Do I look like I came down in the last shower of turnips?”

“No, Reg,” he said humbly.

“No,” she echoed. “Now gee up. My brandy glass isn’t about to fill itself, is it?”

“Ooooh, Ferdie,” said Mitzie, breathless. “Should we? I don’t think we should. What do you think?”

Grinning, Abel Bestwick slid his arm around the buxom kitchen maid’s willowy waist, then accidentally-on-purpose let his eager hand slip south to caress her delightfully plump behind. What did he think? He thought that if Sir Alec knew he was dipping his wick on Department time he’d find himself in very hot water. But seeing as how Sir Alec was several countries eastward, chances were his superior would never find out. And anyway, after living nearly four years as Ferdie Goosen, pantry-man in the Royal Palace of Splotze, he was owed whatever chances of wick-dipping wandered his way.

Sometimes it was a real bugger he’d been born half-Splotzin. And an even bigger bugger he looked all Splotzin through-and-through and thanks to his mother spoke Splotzin like a native.

“What do I think, Mitzie?” he murmured, nibbling at her ear. They were tucked out of sight in the palace kitchens’ vast drygoods pantry, surrounded by beans and sugar and flour and herbs and suchlike. “I think even lackeys like us deserve a noon break from our toils. And it just so happens I overheard the head groom mentioning he and the lads would be gone most of the day, taking the horses with them. So you and me, we can duck into an empty stable or up to the hay loft and-” He closed his fingers on her ample flesh. “Bounce.”

Mitzie squealed, her lavish eyelashes fluttering. “Ooooh, Ferdie. In broad daylight? Idn’t that playing dice blindfolded?”