Monk knew when he was beaten. "Fine," he muttered. "But if you stub your toe, Bibbie, don't come crying to me afterwards."

"Look, I'm sure it's very sad this agent died," said Melissande, as the Markhams exchanged incendiary glares. "And I hope he didn't have a family that's grieving for him. But, Gerald, his death doesn't actually prove what you're saying, does it?"

He shook his head. "Unfortunately not. And the incant Rottlezinder used to cover his tracks was comprehensive. All it left behind was a great big smoking hole in the ground. If there was evidence connecting him and Errol, it went up in flames along with everything else. And no. Crawford didn't have a family. Just... us."

It felt odd saying that. Those two words suddenly seemed to put him on the other side of a line. Them and us. You and us. He didn't like it. It made him feel horribly... alone.

"Hey," said Monk, noticing. "There's more than one kind of us in the world, mate. Don't you go forgetting that."

Sometimes it was quite alarming, how well Monk could tell what he was thinking.

"I know," he said, dredging up a smile. "Would I be telling you lot any of this if I didn't?"

"Why's your Department involved anyway?" said Monk, fingers drumming again. "It's a domestic matter, isn't it? Shouldn't Mordy's old outfit be handling the investigation?"

"Ah," said Gerald, wincing. "That's a bit of a sore spot actually. They looked at the first incident and ruled out any hanky-panky. Turned the case over to the Transport Department's safety committee. But Sir Alec had a feeling so he reached out to an old chum who kept him apprised, and when Rottlezinder's name came up he grabbed the case with both hands. Of course now the other mob's screaming blue murder, accusing us of breaching jurisdiction."

"Well, they would, wouldn't they?" said Monk, derisive. "All that egg on their faces. Stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. As if jurisdiction matters when lives are at stake."

"Yeah, well, try telling them that."

"So," said Monk. "Rottlezinder's the saboteur, Errol's the brains behind the scheme, and you're at Wycliffe's to find the evidence to prove it. Is that it?"

"That's the theory," he agreed.

Monk nodded slowly. "Well, it's a reasonable working hypothesis, I suppose. If you accept Errol's that far gone. But Gerald-why did Sir Alec pick you for the Wycliffe job? No offence, mate, but you're so wet behind the ears you're practically dripping. And given one agent's been murdered already, wouldn't they want an experienced man behind the wheel?"

He shrugged. "Sir Alec couldn't get anyone else into Wycliffe's at such short notice. There weren't any vacancies for a First or Second Grader in the R&D lab. But Ambrose goes through Third Graders like shaving cream because the work's so b.l.o.o.d.y stultifying... and Errol makes our lives h.e.l.l."

"Poor Gerald," said Bibbie, scowling, and reached over to pat him on the arm. "Having to take orders from the likes of Errol Haythwaite when you can run rings around him as a wizard."

"Oh, it's not so bad," he said. "And it's not as if being treated like something you'd sc.r.a.pe off your shoe is a novel experience. Actually, being a Third Grader is coming in quite handy. I mean, it's true I don't get to work on any important projects but I do get to poke my nose in pretty well everywhere, even if it's only to play canary in the coal mine and clean up after the important work gets done. And that gives me plenty of scope for snooping. It's like being a housemaid. n.o.body notices the poor b.u.g.g.e.r stuck cleaning out the test tubes."

Despite all his concerns, Monk unleashed another of his anarchic grins. "Errol can't be too happy about it. Having you peering over his shoulder must be getting right up his sinuses."

He remembered the look on Errol's face after the failure of the Mark VI's experimental engine. Remembered the way Errol had gripped his arm, so furious. "You could say that."

"Hmm," said Monk, thoughtful. "Maybe that's another reason why Sir Alec sent you in there. To rattle Errol."

"Why would Sir Alec think that strategy could work?" said Melissande.

"Because what he doesn't know about people isn't worth knowing," said Monk. "And he'll use anything or anyone to get what he wants. I'll bet he knows Errol used to like using Gerald as a verbal dartboard. And that Errol was furious about losing his precious custom-designed First Grade staff when Stuttley's went up. I'll bet he's betting that if Gerald can throw Errol far enough off-stride he might make a mistake."

"If he's in cahoots with this Haf Rottlezinder," said Reg. "That's not been proven. Your precious Sir Alec doesn't even know where that bounder's stashed himself."

"No, but we'll find him," said Gerald. "We have to. The Department of Transport's keeping things low-key, not blabbing to the press, but it seems the sabotage is working. People are going back to airships for domestic and international travel. Who knows? A few more 'accidents' and the public might lose all confidence in the portal network. It could easily collapse."

"Which means Wycliffe's would be saved," said Melissande. "Which brings us back to who benefits?"

"And there's no denying that's Errol," said Bibbie. "It all fits."

They looked at each other as the clock on the mantel ticked slowly towards midnight and the logs in the fireplace collapsed into glowing coals.

"It's a bit awful, really, isn't it?" said Melissande eventually. "Because really, what would help you to catch this Errol Haythwaite-or whoever's responsible-is another portal accident."

Gerald nodded glumly. "I hate to say it, but... yes."

"Except Monk's right," she added. "Catching your quarry's not important. Not compared to the public's safety. The Department of Transport should shut down the portal network until you find whoever's behind this. What if there is another attack? What if people just aren't hurt next time? What if they die?"

As if he hadn't already thought of that. But what was it Sir Alec had said to him, back in New Ottosland?

In war there are always innocent casualties. It's regrettable but unavoidable. The sooner you come to terms with that the better.

"The other agents Sir Alec's got working on this are very good," he said. "We'll find Rottlezinder before anyone else gets hurt."

Melissande snorted. "You mean you hope you will. But hope isn't good enough, Gerald. Hope doesn't save lives. Actions save lives. And lack of action costs them."

She stared at him, so accusing, and he stared back. Crowding Monk's parlour, the ghosts of those ninety-seven New Ottoslanders who'd perished because of Lional. Because of him.

Stabbed with guilt, he shoved out of his armchair. "Look. I'm as worried as you are that more innocent people might get caught up in this. But we need Rottlezinder and Errol-or whoever he's working with-to think they're safe. And we can't afford to start a panic."

"Who said anything about starting a panic?" she retorted. "You say it's for an equipment review. That won't worry people, it'll rea.s.sure them."

"Perhaps, but it would also be disruptive, causing a great deal of distress and delay... and almost certainly would send our villains back into the shadows to wait until the fuss died down so they could strike again."

"Which means what, exactly? You're going to do nothing?" she demanded, leaping up to face him. "Gerald, that's-that's wrong."

"We're not doing nothing."

"Then what are you doing?"

"Things I can't talk about," he said, hara.s.sed. "You'll just have to trust me, Melissande. We're doing our very best to keep the public safe and catch whoever's responsible."

Melissande's chin lifted again. Behind the prim gla.s.ses her eyes were glittering. "And what if your best's not good enough, Gerald?"

Oh, lord. I know that look. "Melissande, you can't repeat a word of what I've said tonight. I've risked everything telling you this. I know it's hard but you have to sit on it."

"She will," said Reg. "She's got her knickers twisted right now but they'll untwist when she's had a moment to think this through."

"Don't you dare put words in my mouth!" snapped Melissande.

Tipping her head to one side, Reg chattered her beak. "What, so you are going to talk out of turn? See Gerald sent to prison? Help these villains get away with their dastardly plan?"

"Mel," said Monk, very quietly, and reached for her hand. "You're right. It's a risk. But it has to be taken."

"And you're happy about taking it?" she asked, her voice unsteady.

"No," said Monk, his gaze intent on her. As though they were the only two people in the world. "But we don't have a choice. And let's be fair... we're the ones who pressured Gerald into telling us this stuff. He didn't want to. We used our friendship as a lever. Are you going to beat him over the head with it too?"

"Monk's right, Mel," Bibbie said in a small voice. "We can't get Gerald into trouble. It wouldn't be fair."

Melissande's lips trembled, just for a moment. Then she sat down again hard. "I liked it better when we were chasing stupid interdimensional sprites and blowing up sponge cakes," she said, her voice unsteady again. "I think after this is over we should stick with frippery."

Gerald perched on the edge of the armchair. "Can you see now why I don't want you three anywhere near Wycliffe's? If Sir Alec's right and Errol is somehow involved with this portal business, things could get very ugly very fast. And I'd never forgive myself if any of you got hurt. You need to tell Permelia Wycliffe that you can't find her biscuit thief and get the h.e.l.l out of that place while the getting's still good."

"No," said Melissande, and folded her arms, her momentary vulnerability squashed flat as a pancake. "We are Witches Incorporated. Once we take on a job we see it through to the bitter end. If we walk out on Permelia Wycliffe now all the good we achieved by unmasking that ridiculous Millicent Grimwade will be wasted. We might as well shut up shop and-and get married. We won't be in your way, I promise. And who knows? There's a chance we could help you and your precious Sir Alec save the day."

d.a.m.n. He turned to Monk. "Come on. You have to help me here. This is your young lady we're talking about."

Monk grimaced. "Trust me, mate. If I try and stick a spoke in her wheel she won't be my young lady any more."

"Well-well-what about Bibbie? She's your sister, your own flesh and blood! Are you going to let her put her life at risk? Or is it more important for you to cover your tracks over-what was it? Your whoopsie with the Mushtarkan diplomat's cousin?"

"Hey!" Monk protested. "That's not fair!"

"And Bibbie's not at Wycliffe's," Melissande added. "She's holding the fort back at the agency."

"But even if I was undercover at Wycliffe's," said Bibbie, pink with crossness, "I wouldn't leave either. What do you take me for, Gerald? Some lisping, chicken-hearted, lily-livered gel?"

"And what about your future?" he retorted. "I'm a.s.suming you want one!"

Melissande rolled her eyes. "Oh, do stop trying to frighten us, Gerald. It won't work. If you want to be useful, concentrate on rattling Errol Haythwaite and finding this dreadful Rottlezinder person."

Sighing, he looked at conspicuously silent Reg. "What? You don't have anything to add?"

"No," she said, staring down her beak at him. "You're still digging your own grave perfectly well without my a.s.sistance, Gerald."

He felt his jaw clench. "Right. Fine. That's very helpful. Thank you."

Melissande stood again. "Excellent. And now that's settled we'll be on our way. It's despicably late and we've got an early start."

She headed for the closed parlour door, Bibbie on her heels, coat dangling from one hand. Monk jumped up. "I'll see you out," he said, and s.n.a.t.c.hed Melissande's coat from its hook.

"Fine," Gerald called after them. "Good. This is wonderful, girls. I'm glad we got this all straightened out."

Instead of following her colleagues, Reg flapped from the sofa to the arm of the chair. "Well," she said, considering him with a bright eye. "I did say it was going to be interesting, didn't I?"

Groaning, he slid into the chair properly and dropped his head into his hands. "Oh, Reg. I don't mind interesting. It's impossible I'm having a problem with." He lifted his head again. "You look well. Are you well?"

She sniffed. "Much you care if I'm well or not, Gerald Dunwoody."

"Oh, Reg..."

"I'm fine," she said gruffly. "But you're looking peaked. Don't let that plonker Errol Haythwaite boss you about. Or that government stooge, Sir Alec. And don't worry about madam. I'll make sure she keeps her mouth shut."

"Thanks, Reg," he said, subdued. "I'd really appreciate it." He hesitated then added, "I meant what I said in the garden, you know. I miss you. A lot."

Monk stuck his head back in through the open parlour doorway. "Reg, they're going."

"I miss you too, sunshine," said Reg, and flapped out of the room.

After she was gone, Gerald sat back in the chair and closed his eyes, his head pounding.

Oh, lord. Oh, Saint Snodgra.s.s. Sir Alec is going to kill me.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

I think it's time you stopped sulking, madam," said Reg, with a rattle of tail feathers. "You can't tell me you don't understand about difficult choices. Every princess knows all about those. Well. Every princess worth her tiara, anyway."

Melissande looked up from her horribly early breakfast of hard-boiled egg and glowered. "I am not sulking."

"All right, then. Moping... with a snooty look on your face," said Reg. "Same thing."

She sprinkled more salt on her egg. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Look," said Reg, hopping down from the bedpost onto the bed, and strutting back and forth like a teacher in front of her cla.s.s. "What did you think was going to happen when Gerald agreed to work for that Sir Alec? Did you think he was going to be romping through alpen fields picking daisies? He's in a dirty business now, ducky. He's going to get grimy."

"Fine," she snapped. "If he wants to get grimy that's his choice. But now there's a chance his grime is going to rub off on me!"

Reg stopped strutting and fixed her with an angrily gleaming eye. "Like your grime rubbed off on him, do you mean? Back in New Ottosland?"

"That was different," she muttered. "I didn't know Lional was a raving lunatic."

"Yes, well, I think we'll leave what you did and didn't know about Lional for another argument," said Reg. "Let's stick to this one for now, shall we?"

Shocked, Melissande stared at her. "I don't-what are you-I resent that insinuation, Reg!"

"Yes, I'm sure you do," said Reg, looking down her beak. "Now as I was saying, it's time you pulled yourself together, madam. Gerald risked everything by telling us why he's at Wycliffe's. And since it has nothing whatsoever to do with why we're at Wycliffe's we are going to leave him alone to get on with things. We're still owed half our retainer, remember?"

"I don't understand why you're defending him," she complained, ignoring that. "I thought you weren't even talking to Gerald."

"Ha!" said Reg. "Didn't you know? I'm ambidextrous. I can be itching to kick his a.r.s.e and yours at the same time."

Abandoning her other egg, Melissande got off the bed and stalked over to the window. Gazing across the rooftops, she caught sight of something floating through the sky, flashing silver in the light of the rising sun. A Wycliffe airship.

Floating not on the air but on a river of innocent blood.

She turned. "I'm not just worried about me, you know. About how I'll feel if there's another portal incident and more people get hurt or-or even die. What about Gerald?"

"Gerald's a big boy," Reg said quietly. "He knew what he was getting into when he jumped in the boat and started rowing with that Sir Alec. There's no such thing as a perfect solution, ducky. There's the best you can do at any given moment on any given day and that's all. Besides, we don't know what else that Sir Alec knows. If we go wading into the middle of this now, throwing our weight about just because we're royalty and we think we were born knowing better than everyone else, we could make things worse, not improve them. Is that what you want?"