K. Mills - Wizard squared

A different New Ottosland, eighteen days after the Stuttley’s staff factory debacle…

Love at first sight.

M onk Markham, sprawled on a not-terribly-impressive carpet in a totally awkward and compromising position, looked up into a face that until now he’d only seen through the ambivalent lens of two different crystal balls.

The face belonged to Her Royal Highness Princess Melissande of New Ottosland.

“What the hell?” Her Highness demanded. “ You’re not Gerald!”

Just like that, no warning, no reprieve… the world was abruptly divided in two: the time Before this moment, and the time After it. And without anyone bothering to ask his permission, he suddenly wasn’t the same man and never would be again.

Princess Melissande’s face wasn’t beautiful, like his sister Bibbie’s. It was plain and round and pinkly embarrassed, with severe green eyes and a scattering of freckles and a framework of springy rust-reddish hair and a pair of prim spectacles sliding down its blunt nose. It was a face full of character-and determination-and courage.

The first time he’d seen it he hadn’t actually seen it, because it was hidden behind a voluminous veil. As for the second time, not only was it distorted by Dunwoody’s truly cheap and nasty crystal ball, it had been mostly crowded out by Dunwoody.

Gerald and a princess, sitting in a tree…

Except it wasn’t a tree, it was a fountain. And though it had been a bit tricky to tell, he was almost sure Her Highness had been what polite society called squiffed.

Mind you, given what Gerald’s been getting up to while my back’s turned, I’m in the mood to get bloody squiffed myself.

Never in a million years would he have said that kind and gentle and above all else ordinary Gerald Dunwoody could ever land himself in this kind of trouble.

But then I never would’ve said he could turn a cat into a lion, either. Third Grade wizards who used to be probationary government compliance officers-until they accidentally blew up a staff factory-can’t do Level Twelve transmogs. Everybody knows that.

Well. Everybody except Gerald, apparently.

And now some mad king’s trying to kill him or worse, he’s about to incite an international incident and I’ve got a used-to-be-human talking bird telling me what to do.

Having wearily flapped herself onto the nearby royal bed, she was telling him now.

“-lying about like a ratty old rug and find our boy Gerald before something else terrible happens to him!”

Ignoring Reg, he managed to smile at startled royalty. Waggled his fingers at her and hoped she couldn’t tell she’d tipped him ass over teakettle.

This is ridiculous. I don’t believe in love at first sight. It’s a side effect from the portal. Some kind of chemical imbalance in the brain. It’ll wear off. It has to. I’m far too busy to be in love.

It took him two tries before he could unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

“Hi there, Your Highness. Monk Markham. Remember me?”

Please. Please. Say you remember.

“Vaguely,” Her Highness snapped, haughtily repressive, and shuffled herself backwards. “How did you get here?”

He sat up. “Long story. Where’s Gerald? Because he’s not in his apartment.”

“I neither know nor care,” said the princess, frosty as mid-winter. “I consider myself gravely deceived in Gerald Dunwoody.”

“ Deceived?” Catapulted headlong into battle, her weariness forgotten, Reg chattered her beak. “You watch what you’re saying about that boy, madam, there’s not an ounce of deception in him! And not for want of my trying, either. A good wizard needs a dash of the devious but will he listen? No, he won’t.”

“Is that so?” The princess glared at Reg. “Then why did he hex my doors so I can’t get out of my apartment after he swore blind he’d help me?”

“How should I know?” said Reg. “I haven’t been here. But I’ll bet you a new hairdo it wasn’t Gerald. Or if it was he had a very good reason. Probably something to do with saving you from yourself. The ether knows you could do with it. Those trousers, girl! With that shirt? With any shirt?”

Monk looked at her. Really, Reg? Really? You think this is the time for a fashion critique? “Um-look-maybe we should be concentrating on-”

The women ignored him. “Of course it was Gerald. Who else could it be?” Her Highness retorted. “And what do you mean you haven’t been here? Where have you been? And what are you doing in my bedroom? With Markham? Answer me!”

So Reg answered, at length, all her acerbity given free rein. To pass the time as she pontificated he clambered to his feet and gave his portable portal a quick once-over, just to make sure it was still in working order. When Reg was finally done explaining, the princess rounded on him. Behind the prim spectacles her green eyes blazed with temper.

As if this is my fault. Well, it’s not. I’m just along for the ride.

Except maybe, sort of, it was his fault. Or partly his fault.

Because if I hadn’t shown Gerald that stupid Positions Vacant advertisement…

“Well, Mr. Markham?” the unexpected love of his life demanded, and used a handy chair to haul herself upright. “Don’t stare at me like an idiot. If Gerald is missing, then why is he missing? What the hell is going on around here?”

It took quite a long time to tell her, because Reg insisted on interrupting and making trenchant personal observations about the princess and one-upping her about how she was the former Queen of Lalapinda and so forth, which inevitably led to more acerbic exchanges and a certain amount of metaphorical hair-and-feather pulling. If he’d not been so worried about Gerald and exactly why there’d been such an enormous spike on the Department of Thaumaturgy’s etheretic monitors he would have found it rather amusing. Like vaudeville.

At least, it was like vaudeville until he got to the part about how King Lional was suspected of some very nasty goings-on and likely had something truly horrible planned for Gerald. It broke his heart to tell the princess that. Seeing her pain, feeling her shock, his pleasure at impressing her with how he’d casually invented the portable portal evaporated.

“Come on, ducky,” Reg said gruffly, breaking Her Highness’s stunned silence. “You don’t honestly expect us to believe you never once looked at Lional sideways, do you?”

Arms folded, head turned towards the window, the princessMelissande- shrugged.

Monk flicked Reg a reproving glance-which naturally the bloody bird ignored-then took a hesitant step towards the woman who’d turned his life inside out just by existing. “Don’t mind her, Melissande. I’m sure-”

“No,” said the princess. “Actually, the bird’s right. I just-I didn’t-I couldn’t- I mean, I never thought he’d actually hurt anyone… but-” Her voice caught. “It’s true I’ve always known he could be unkind. And I don’t recall inviting you to call me Melissande, Mr. Markham.”

The last bit was said snappishly. That was all right. He could live with snappish. He could live with anything but seeing that blinding misery in her eyes. “Sorry.”

She turned. “So. We’re in a pickle. Don’t suppose you’ve got any bright ideas about how we’re going to get out of it, do you?”

“Maybe,” he said. “But first things first. We can’t do anything while we’re stuck behind locked doors.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” said Reg. “Get out to the foyer and unlock them, Mr. Markham!”

But that was a whole lot easier said than done.

One touch to the apartment doors’ binding incant and he broke into a cold and sickly sweat. Snatching his hand back from the polished timber, he shook his head.