Witches Incorporated Part 7

Melissande scuttled backwards out from under the desk and hauled herself to her feet. "Why? What's happened? Has Great-uncle Throgmorton struck again? Or is this something to do with one of his wretched experiments?" She turned to Reg, staring accusingly. "I thought you said the house was still in one piece!"

"Eh?" said Reg, startled. "It is! Or it was first thing this morning. Whatever he's gone and done now, ducky, he did it after I left so don't you go giving me the mouldy eyeball."

She turned back to Bibbie. "So what's wrong? What's happened?"

Bibbie pulled a face. "He wouldn't tell me. All he'd say was that he wants to see us urgently in the Botanical Gardens. The Tropical Gla.s.shouse, to be exact."

"Oh, Saint Snodgra.s.s's bunions," said Melissande, and banged the office window shut. "You should've let me talk to him."

"You don't suppose it's Gerald, do you?" said Reg. Her voice wasn't quite steady. "You don't suppose something's happened to my Gerald?"

Melissande exchanged a nervous look with Bibbie then picked Reg up off the client chair and settled her onto one shoulder. "No. I don't suppose anything of the sort," she said firmly, collecting her reticule. "Monk's probably got another staffing crisis on his hands, that's all. Probably he wants to talk us into pretending to be housemaids."

"Yes, that'll be it," said Bibbie. "Something totally ridiculous like that. Bags I hit him first."

Another exchange of nervous looks, then Melissande cleared her throat. "Well, there's only one way to find out what he wants. Let's go!"

The world-famous Ottosland Botanical Gardens stood in the exact centre of the city, and at a quarter to eleven in the morning of a working weekday the squirrels outnumbered the people five to one. Melissande, Reg and Bibbie hurried along the neatly tended paths, between immaculate flower beds and meticulously nurtured trees, to the Tropical Gla.s.shouse on the Gardens' west lawn, directly across the street from the looming Department of Thaumaturgy building.

"Urrggh," said Melissande as they went inside. Four steps through the entrance and sweat was already trickling down her face. She didn't need a mirror to know her cheeks were swiftly turning beetroot. "Why does he want us to meet him in here? This place is worse than a steam bath, honestly!"

The overheated air contained within the Gla.s.shouse was heavy and wet, soaked in a melange of ripely exotic perfumes. An international cornucopia of tropical trees and flowers and vines and creepers flourished in profusion, brilliant greens, vivid scarlets, oranges and yellows, bright blues and shameless pinks, nature at its exhibitionist best.

Monk was waiting for them at the end of the tamed jungle's main path, anxiously pacing back and forth in front of a towering Lanruvian Palm. Dressed in a sober blue suit, his hair ruthlessly combed into submission and his permanently potion-stained fingers hidden in his pockets, he looked like a banker. All he needed was the bowler hat.

Melissande mopped her face with an inadequate hanky. A pity he's not a banker, really. He could've given us a loan. As usual her heart skipped a half-beat, seeing him, but she schooled her expression. This wasn't the time or place for being girlishly coy.

"Ha!" said Reg, her claws clutching tighter. "There he is." She took to her wings and hurtled ahead of them down the path. Melissande looked at Bibbie, sighed, and broke into a reluctant, unladylike jog to catch up.

Luckily it seemed they were alone in the Gla.s.shouse, because Reg-having reached Monk first-was making no effort to be discreet. "Well? Well?" she demanded loudly. "Is he all right? Has there been another international incident? Does he need rescuing again?"

Monk looked confused. "What? Who?"

"Who?" Outraged, wings flapping, Reg hovered in his face. "Who do you think, you thaumaturgical t.o.s.s.e.r? Gerald! Your best friend! Skinny fellow, brown hair, one silver eye, good with incants, works as a spy. Am I ringing any bells yet?"

"Reg, what are you going on about?" said Monk. "Gerald's fine. I told you that last night."

"Then what are we doing here, you raving nitwit?"

"Good question," said Melissande, joining them, and offering Reg an arm to perch on before she flapped herself into asphyxiation. Acutely aware that she must appear absolutely hideous-even Bibbie looked less than exquisite for once-she scowled at her young man. "I don't suppose you've got a good answer, have you?"

"He'd better," said Bibbie, folding her arms. "Because romping around this steam bath was not on my list of Things To Do This Morning and there must be at least a dozen places to hide a body in here. I'll just bet the tropics are full of flesh-eating beetles."

Monk took a hasty step back. "Okay. Look. I'm sorry to drag you out here like this but I had to speak to you."

"You were speaking to us, Monk," said Bibbie. "That funny contraption you were talking into is called the telephone."

Flinching, Monk darted a quick look around them. They were still alone. "This isn't a telephone kind of conversation, Bibbie! Telephone calls can be monitored!"

"Then why not use the crystal ball?" Bibbie demanded. "Why make us huff and puff all the way-"

"Because I couldn't trust that, either!"

Melissande transferred Reg from her arm to her shoulder. The urge to display girlish coyness was rapidly fading. "This is ridiculous. I thought Gerald was the one playing cloak-and-dagger games. Whatever you want to tell us, Monk, just spit it out so we can get back to the office. For all we know clients are lining up three deep in the corridor!"

"Heh," said Reg under her breath. "Chance'd be a fine thing. But she's got a point, sunshine," she added to Monk, at full disapproving volume. "Flap your lips or get on your bike, boy. We're busy women and we don't have all day."

Monk cast another anxiously furtive look around the Gla.s.shouse's moist interior, then stepped closer again. "I just need to know if you've noticed anything... peculiar... since last night."

"That rather depends on how you define 'peculiar,' doesn't it?" said Bibbie. "I mean-"

"Put a sock in it, ducky," said Reg, and fixed Monk with a beady glare. "All right, Mister Clever Clogs. I know that look, so out with it and no more messing about. What have you gone and done this time?"

A rising tide of embarra.s.sment flushed Monk's face pink. "Er... well..."

"Oh, Saint Snodgra.s.s preserve us," said Melissande, her stomach sinking. "You've invented something else, haven't you? And we accidentally ate it at dinner last night, didn't we? So any minute now we're going to-to-sneeze ourselves into an alternate reality, aren't we!"

"Close," said Monk apologetically, "but alas, no cigar."

Bibbie grabbed his right earlobe between thumb and forefinger and twisted. Monk yelped. "Just tell us what's happened, brother dear," she growled, "or you'll be sorry."

With some difficulty Monk wrested his earlobe free. "All right," he said, dropping his voice to a near-whisper and beckoning them even closer. "What's happened is I've managed to invent an interdimensional portal opener."

"Of course you have," Melissande breathed. "Isn't everybody these days?"

Monk winced. "I hope not. If they are the Department'll go spare."

Taking a deep breath, she reached for the iron forbearance that had stood her in such good stead back home. "And did you invent it on purpose or was it an accident?"

"An accident," said Monk, as though he were admitting to some terrible wizardly crime. Then he brightened. "But you know what they say." Lurking beneath his anxiety was a reprehensible flicker of glee. "Genius will out."

"So will blood," said Reg. "After I've punched you in the nose."

"Reg, you're a bird," he sighed. "You can't punch anyone."

"I'm talking theoretically," said Reg, leering. "It's called punching by proxy. Why do you think I keep these two bruisers around?"

"Can we please not get sidetracked?" said Bibbie, stamping one foot. "Monk-"

"Yes, yes, I know," he said. "Mel, do you remember the portable portal I invented?"

"Of course," she said impatiently. "But what's that got to do with anything?"

Monk shoved his hands back in his pockets. "Well, a couple of nights ago I was at home, in the library, having a good hard think about a Department project I'm not allowed to discuss, and I was kind of... fiddling with it. The portal, I mean. Running the baseline etheretic harmonics through my back brain while my front brain was focused on this other project, you know, kind of like doodling, and I sort of tweaked the portal's matrix. Not a lot. But just enough."

Melissande looked at him. He can't be serious. "I thought the Department made you surrender the portable portal," she said, amazed that she sounded so eminently reasonable. Politely disinterested, even. She wanted to hit him. Really make him yelp.

"They did," said Monk. "And I did. At least... I surrendered the final version, the one I used to get us to and from New Ottosland. And the prototype Mark A."

"Don't tell me, let me guess," said Reg, sweet as a song bird. "You kept the prototype Mark B all for your little self, didn't you, you gold-plated twaddle-brained gormless unsanctified git!"

Monk's expression turned mulish and his voice rose defensively. "Well, why shouldn't I? The portal was mine, wasn't it? I b.l.o.o.d.y well invented it! Why shouldn't I keep a copy of my own inventions?"

Bibbie took a step sideways, leaned on the trunk of the Lanruvian Palm and banged her forehead against its purple bark. "I'd like to point out," she announced to the world at large, "that any resemblance between me and the unmitigated moron on my left is purely coincidental and in no way implies that we are actually related!"

"Hey!" Monk protested. "You're supposed to be on my side!"

"And I would be if your side didn't give me a headache," retorted Bibbie. "I got read the riot act after New Ottosland too, remember, and I wasn't even involved! You kept me out of that little adventure just like I was a gel."

As Monk and Bibbie exchanged ferocious grimaces, Reg snickered. "Your superiors at the Department can't know you very well, Mister Markham, if they don't know you always work with parallel prototypes."

Monk immediately looked cagey. "I... might have forgotten to mention it."

"We can discuss your amnesia another time," said Melissande. "Right now let's stick to this crisis, shall we? Why should we care that you accidentally invented an interdimensional portal? It's not as if-" And then the penny dropped. "Oh, for the love of-don't tell me, let me guess. You used it, didn't you? You opened the portal to another dimension."

"Of course he did," said Bibbie with a scornful, inelegant snort. "Haven't you worked it out yet? My genius brother never met a door he wasn't willing to wrench so wide that it falls off its hinges!"

"Oh, look who's talking!" retorted Monk. "The girl who souped up Father's etheretic distillation modulator so all the clocks ran backwards and the cat lost its-"

"If we could please just focus!" said Melissande loudly. "Or I swear by all things metaphysical there will be a great deal of punching by proxy!"

"Something's come through, hasn't it?" said Bibbie, arms folded again. "That's what this panic is all about."

"I don't know," Monk muttered. He had the grace to look abashed. "Not for certain."

Reg rattled her tail feathers. "In other words, yes."

"What was it?" said Bibbie. "I mean, what dimension did the portal open onto, Monk? And what kind of things live in it? Are we talking microscopic creepy crawlies? Slimy tentacles? Alternate versions of ourselves? What?"

"Actually," said Monk, brightening again, "it turns out that I've made an important discovery. In fact it looks like I've debunked another popular misconception."

"Of course you have," said Bibbie, rolling her eyes. "And which one have you debunked this time?"

Monk was all lit up now, his thaumaturgical enthusiasm burning like a fever. "I've discovered that when you open a portal between dimensions it's not as simple as stepping from one to the other. It's not like-like going from the dining room to the parlour, say."

Bibbie frowned. "It's not? Are you sure? Because Hepplewight's Theorem distinctly postulates-"

"Oh, b.o.l.l.o.c.ks to old Hepplewight," Monk said airily, waving an excited hand. "What would that old fossil know? He's not had an original thought for twenty-seven years, not since he worked out how to splice a thaum and they made him a Grand Master on the strength of it. No, no, no, I'm telling you, Bibs, there's a kind of empty s.p.a.ce between the dimensions. A pa.s.sageway. A conduit. I managed to get a reading, not much, just a few seconds' worth. But it was enough to prove Hepplewight wrong."

Irritation forgotten, Bibbie's face lit up just like her mad brother's. "You didn't! Monk, that's fantastic! That's-that's phenomenal!"

"I know!" he said, grinning like a loon. "I could hardly believe it! If I could sneak the results into the Department I'd be able to work out exactly what that means but I don't dare risk it, I'll have to-"

Melissande, having heard more than enough, turned her head till she was nose-to-beak with Reg. "Shall I take the first swing, Your Majesty, or would you care for the honour?"

"You take it, ducky," said Reg, eyes gleaming. "I'll follow it up with a one-two jab to their skinny a.r.s.es!"

Monk and Bibbie stopped enthusing about his latest discovery and gave them another patented Markham peas-in-a-pod stare.

"Eh?" said Monk. "What? No-wait-"

"I don't want to wait," said Melissande, advancing on him with both sweaty hands clenched to fists. "I want to conduct myself in a thoroughly unladylike fashion and pummel you to a whimpering pulp, Monk Markham! I want seventeen generations of New Ottosland princesses to stand up in their graves and cheer as I abandon every last shred of royal tradition and knock you into the middle of next week! I want-"

"To calm down!" said Monk, retreating with both hands raised. "That's what you want to do, Mel. Just-just-calm down so we can-"

"Don't call me Mel!"

Monk's shoulder blades collided with a Botchaki Silk Tree. "Okay. All right. I get it. You're upset. I don't blame you. I'm upset too."

"Really? Because it looked to me like you were congratulating yourself. It looked to me like you were patting yourself on the back so hard it's a wonder you haven't dislocated your shoulder."

"Well, all right, fair enough, I'm excited about my new invention," he confessed, "but I am sorry it's causing this slight difficulty. And I swear I had no idea that there was anything living in the s.p.a.ces between dimensions. I mean, how could I? I had no idea there were s.p.a.ces between dimensions. I had no idea-"

"So you admit you're mucking about with things you don't understand?" Melissande demanded. "Just-just-plotzing about tra-la, tra-la, not having the first wretched clue of what might-"

"Plotzing? Plotzing? I'm not plotzing!" said Monk, offended. "You seem to be forgetting that I'm a research thaumaturgist, Mel-issande. This is what I do. I reveal hidden metaphysical truths, I chart uncharted mysteries, I-"

"Need your b.l.o.o.d.y head examined!" she shouted at him. "What's come through that door you opened?"

Monk shoved a finger between his shirt collar and his throat and wiggled it, hard. "Um... well... I'm not sure, exactly. I haven't seen it. As far as I can tell it's most likely invisible, due to the incompatibility of the comparative dimensional vibrations."

Melissande exchanged another look with Reg. "How delightful." Only her intimate acquaintance with homicidal maniacs and rampaging dragons kept her voice steady. "And where do you think our invisible friend might be right now?"

Monk swallowed convulsively. "Ah. Yes. Well, I'm not entirely sure... but I think you've got it."

CHAPTER SIX.

Once the shouting and squawking had died down, and Monk had picked himself up and brushed the leaf mould off his sober blue suit and rubbed the bits that Reg had poked with her beak, Melissande clapped her hands for order.

"All right," she said sharply. "If everyone can just calm down? Good. Now, Monk. Do you have any idea what it is you think we've got?"

"Well," said Monk, frowning, "after a lot of careful consideration and by a comprehensive process of elimination I'm pretty sure it's a concatetanic conglomeration of uber-parallel-dimensional antietheretic particles supercharged with extraneous thaumaturgical emissions on a scale of seventeen to the eleventh power, cubed."

Melissande blinked at him. "I see," she said, after a pause. "Ah-let me put that another way. Would you have any idea what it was if you weren't a thaumaturgical genius working in a secret government Research and Development facility?"

"Of course," said Monk, as though surprised she'd even ask. "It's a sprite."

"A sprite?" Bibbie's eyes lit up yet again. The wretched girl really was as bad as her equally wretched brother. "Really, Monk? You're positive? Because according to Herbert and Lowe-"

"Sprites are just another postulation of theoretical thaumaturgical metaphysics," said Monk eagerly. "I know, I know. But now I'm not so sure!"