Wizard squared

CHAPTER TWELVE

Bloody hell,” said Reg, peering down from Melissande’s shoulder at the figure collapsed on their doorstep. “I thought you were joking.”

Monk spared her a look. “About something like this?”

“Oh, for the love of Saint Snodgrass, don’t you two start,” said Bibbie, and shoved everyone aside. “Whoever he is, however he got here, he’s in trouble, can’t you see? Help me get him inside. MonkMonk — don’t just stand there, you idiot. Help.”

“The parlor’s probably the best place for now,” said Melissande. She sounded terribly self-contained, and looking at her face he couldn’t tell what she was thinking or feeling. “I’ll jolly up the fire.”

“Good idea,” he said. “Ah-Melissande-”

She waved aside his concern. “I’m fine. Bibbie’s right. We should get him inside before somebody sees him.”

As she and Reg retreated, he helped his sister haul-haul Me? Can I say me? Or is it not-me? I must be drunk. Or dreaming. Is this real? It can’t be real. Can it?

— him over the threshold and into the house. The man was a dead weight, stuporous and groaning. No luggage. No handy name tag. No anything to suggest who he was, where he’d come from or what the devil he was doing here in Ott. In Chatterly Crescent.

On my doorstep.

“Get the door,” Bibbie grunted, the man half-draped over her shoulder. “And double-hex it. No, better make that a triple. The last thing we need tonight is any more visitors.”

Blimey, had his little sister always been this bossy? Or were Reg and Melissande starting to rub off on her?

Great. That’s all I need… another bossy female in my life.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he muttered, and took care of the front door. Then he helped Bibbie get-get- not-me — all the way down the hall and into the parlor, where Melissande had indeed jollied up the fire and even managed to shove the arm chairs out of the way and heave the old sofa in front of the warmly dancing flames.

Reg was perched suggestively on the edge of the drinks trolley. “Really, now, under the circumstances, don’t you think I deserve a brandy?”

“I’ll bloody flambe you in the stuff if you don’t give over, Reg,” Bibbie said, close to snarling. “Come on, Melissande. Don’t just stand there, grab his ankles. We need to get him lying flat.”

With much huffing and puffing and muttered cursing they got-got-not-him-laid out on the sofa like a not-quite-dead corpse.

Reg flapped over from the drinks trolley to land on the sofa’s back. “Hmm,” she said, head tilted, considering their unexpected guest. “Hope you’ve got some shovels somewhere, Mr. Markham. Because from where I’m sitting it looks like curtains for you.”

Strategically retreating, Monk shoved his hands in his pockets. “That’s not me, Reg,” he snapped, feeling a violent shiver run through him. “Don’t call him me.”

She sniggered. “Well, if that’s not you, sunshine, he’s doing a bloody good imitation.”

“Where did you put that bottle of brandy, Monk?” Bibbie demanded, looking around. “He could probably do with a nip.”

“Oh, fine, yes,” said Reg, all her feathers fluffing. “Waste perfectly good brandy on a man with both feet in the grave all the way up to his armpits, why don’t you, but deny me the solace! After a shock like this, and me with all those years in my dish! Blimey! There’s no justice in the world.”

“Well, Reg, you’re right about that much,” Bibbie retorted. “Because if there was any justice in the world you’d have talked yourself into asphyxiation a few centuries back! Monk. Where’s that brandy?”

Bugger the brandy. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from the shoes on not-him’s feet. Shoes were good. Shoes were safe. Except-except I bought those shoes last year. From Mr. Chokati’s Famous Shoe Emporium. In the big sale. I know for a fact they’re upstairs in my closet. So what are they doing on this impostor’s feet?

“Never mind, Bibbie,” said Melissande, so quietly he could hardly hear her. “I’ll fetch the brandy.”

The brandy. Yes. He’d put the bottle down somewhere, hadn’t he? Mel would find it. She was good at things like that. Being organized. Being tidy. Efficient. He had to stay here and not think about shoes.

The man on the sofa, who wore dark trousers and a pale shirt and a slightly tired three-quarter length blue coat that looked horribly familiar- but I am not not not going to think about that- stirred and started muttering. Nothing intelligible, just nonsense words laced with pain. Monk felt another violent shiver run through him. That was his voice. That was the way he sounded when he was in pain. He kept staring at the shoes. It seemed safer that way.

Bibbie was crouched beside their completely unnecessary visitor, holding his hand in a firm but gentle grasp. “Hush,” she said softly. “It’s all right, Monk. You’re safe.”

Monk? Monk? Bibbie, what are you doing? You can’t call him that! He’s not Monk, I am.

As though she could hear his thoughts, his little sister turned and skewered him with a glare. “I don’t begin to know how this is possible but this man is you, Monk. He is. Look at him. Look at his face and tell me he’s not you.”

Oh, Saint Snodgrass and her forty-seven descendants. Feeling sick, feeling dizzy, he dragged his gaze away from the shoes he’d bought seven months ago and looked at the face of the man on the sofa. Made himself take a few steps towards him and look again.

Bloody hell. That’s me.

Although… now that he came to actually pay attention… it wasn’t exactly him. Not the him living this life, at any rate. The face of the man on the sofa was thinner. Oddly older. And it had lines in it… deep lines… that only suffering could carve. The Gerald they’d found in the cave, his face had been lined the same way after that mad bastard Lional had spent days playing with him-but eventually those lines had smoothed and then, praise Saint Snodgrass, they’d disappeared, leaving only occasional blank looks and patches of silence in their wake.

Whoever had been playing with this man-this not-him-they were still playing. But where? And how?

Melissande returned with the brandy and an empty glass. Bibbie poured a little into it, slipped an arm around the man’s-the other Monk’s-shoulders and helped him sit up a bit.

“Here,” she said, with a small, encouraging smile. “It’s all right. It’s just brandy.”

He heard a rattle of tail feathers and looked at Reg, still perched on the back of the sofa. The wretched bird was giving him a meaningful look. Then she looked at Melissande, head tipped to one side again. His heart banged like a drum.

Oh, lord. Mel.

She was so pale all her freckles stood out like fallen leaves on a snowfield. Even without a magnifying glass he thought he could count every last one of them. Not even in the middle of the Lional-crisis or the Wycliffe-kerfuffle had he seen her looking so shaken and unsure.

Gingerly he joined her and wrapped his fingers around hers. Her skin was icy. “Hey. You know that’s not me, right? This is me. I’m holding your hand.”

“I know,” she said, and slipped free of him. “But if he’s not you, Monk…”

Exactly. Then who is he?

Beside them, Reg snorted. “Well, if I didn’t know better, sunshine, I’d say he was your evil twin. But since I do know better I’m going to say you’re his.”

He didn’t even bother to glance at her. “Thank you, Reg. That’s terribly helpful.”

“I don’t know,” Reg added, huffy. “That poker-assed Sir Alec picked a fine time to whisk Gerald off in a cloud of secrecy, I must say. We could do with his nattering around about now.”

The man on the sofa flinched and jerked his head away. Brandy spilled down his chin and the front of his coat.

The coat Bibbie gave me three Solstices ago.

Saint Snodgrass’s bunions, this really was insane.

Bibbie held out an impatient hand, fingers snapping. Straight away Melissande took a plain, unfrilly hanky from her tweed trousers’ pocket and passed it over.

“There you are,” said Bibbie, dabbing the man dry. “All better. Can you talk sensibly now?”

“Not if he’s anything like our Monk Markham, he can’t,” said Reg. “Honestly, ducky. Do remember who you’re dealing with.”

“Melissande…”

“Please, Reg,” Mel said, her voice low and not quite steady. “You really aren’t helping.”

Reg chattered her beak. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I’m helping. If you’re flapping at me you’re not going into hysterics, are you? That’s called keeping up morale, that is.”

Mel turned to him. “Monk, he didn’t like it when Reg mentioned Gerald. How can he know Gerald? And why would mentioning his name upset him?”

“ Why?” said the man on the sofa, his eyes dragging open. “How can you even ask me that, Melissande? How can you-” He pressed trembling fingers to his chapped lips. “Oh. Sorry. I keep forgetting. I’m all over the place from the transition. And-and-” A terrible shudder racked him head to toe. “And then there’s the shadbolt.”

“ Shadbolt? ” said Bibbie, and leapt to her feet. “What shadbolt?” Closing her eyes she reached out with her potentia, then after a moment pulled back again. Her eyes were wide and brimful of shock. “I don’t understand. How can that even be poss-”

Alarmed, Monk abandoned Melissande and went to his little sister. “Bibbie, what is it? What did you fee!?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around her ribs. “I’m not sure.”

“Well, is he shadbolted or isn’t he?”

“I just said I don’t know,” she snapped. “Why don’t you look, Monk, instead of asking stupid questions. Have a poke around in his aura and-and tell me what you feel.”

What? Poke around in the etheretic wrapping of a man wearing his face? And his shoes? Not to mention his coat. But that was the last thing he wanted to do.

“Well?” said Bibbie. “What are you waiting for?”

“It’s all right, Bibs-and-bobs,” the man on the sofa whispered. “I knew this was going to be difficult. He just needs some time. You all do.”

Bibbie dropped the hanky. “Bibs-and-bobs? Only Monk calls me that. And he hasn’t called me that in years. How could you possibly — ”

“Because I know you,” said the man on the sofa. “I know all of you. Sort of.”

“Bibbie,” said Monk, jerking his head. “A word? You too, Mel. And you, Reg.”

“But Monk-”

“He’s not going anywhere, Bibbie,” he said sharply. “Please?”

Reg hopped onto Melissande’s shoulder, Bibbie reluctantly retreated from the sofa, and the four of them huddled like conspirators on the other side of the room. Their unexpected and mysterious guest closed his eyes, his right hand folded protectively over his coat pocket.

“Mel?” Monk said, keeping his voice down. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

She’d regained a little of her color, but still she was disturbingly unbossy. She nodded. “I’m fine. It’s just like-he-said… this is a shock.”

“I suppose we really are awake,” said Bibbie. Whatever she’d sensed, looking for the shadbolt, she had herself in hand again. “I mean, there’s no chance this is one of your stupid practical jokes, Monk? A dream-hex gone bonkers?”

“Cross my heart,” he said fervently, and swiped a finger twice across his chest. “No chance at all.”

“Fair enough,” said Bibbie, frowning. “But it could still be a hex, couldn’t it? Some kind of disguise incant, to make one person look like another? An alive person, I mean. Dead is easy.”

Monk chewed at his lip. “I doubt it. We’ve been trying to come up with one for over a year now and-what?” he said, when all three girls stared at him. “What?”

Bibbie was giving him her best gimlet glare. “You never said anything about working on that kind of project, Monk Markham. That kind of project’s a bit risky, isn’t it? Not to mention illegal.”

“Of course it’s risky,” he said, impatient. “But you can bet every government in the world has got someone like me working on it. And technically it’s not illegal if the government’s doing it. You know, as an anti-criminal preventive measure. Or something.”

Reg snorted. “Political hypocrisy. Got a lovely smell, hasn’t it?”

“Look, forget about this being any kind of doppler hex,” he said. “ And forget I mentioned I was working on one, would you? I’ve been sworn upside down and inside out to secrecy.”

Rolling her eyes, Bibbie sighed. “So in other words whoever this man is it’s unlikely he’s someone hexed to look like you.”

“Exactly. And anyway, a hex wouldn’t explain how he knows us,” said Melissande. “Or our nursery nicknames.”

He nodded. “Or how he’s wearing my coat and my shoes.”

“So him practically having a heart attack when I mentioned Gerald,” said Reg. “What do we think that was about?”

“You mentioned Sir Alec, too,” said Bibbie. “Maybe that’s what upset him. I mean, Reg, you practically have a brainstorm every time his name’s mentioned.” She snuck a quick look over her shoulder. “What if this is some dastardly plot against Monk, and Sir Alec’s a part of it?”

He blinked at her. “Dastardly plot? Bibbie, have you been reading Gerald’s awful cloak-and-dagger novels again?”

“It’s no secret you’ve got enemies,” she retorted. “So he could be one of them. Or-or-he could be some dreadful thaumaturgical experiment gone wrong! What if he’s been a prisoner somewhere in the Department of Thaumaturgy building-or maybe out at Nettleworth-and he’s escaped and come to us for help?”

Reg looked down her beak at her. “Forget the sensational novels, ducky. How much brandy have you had this evening?”

“Fine,” said Bibbie. “Then you explain him, Queen Smarty-pants.”

“Obviously none of us can explain him,” said Melissande. “The only person who can explain him is him. But first-” She folded her arms. “About this shadbolt he claims to have. Would someone care to explain what that is? Nothing so simple as an embarrassing skin condition, I suppose?”

“Sadly, no,” he said, and fought the urge to look at Bibbie. “It’s like a pair of thaumaturgical handcuffs, only it fits around your head. There are lots of different kinds, some more severe than others.”

“They bind a witch or wizard’s etheretic aura,” Bibbie added. “Shackle their potentia. Criminals often use them to stop themselves-or others-from talking if they get arrested and questioned.”

Melissande grimaced. “Sounds positively barbaric.”

“Um,” said Bibbie, staring at the carpet. “Yes. You could say that.”

“But useful,” added Reg. “And not just to the crims. With a little bit of tweaking you’d be surprised what information a shadbolt’ll get you out of the nasty little spy who’s been impersonating a diplomat.”

They stared at her.

“Oh, please,” she said. “You think being a queen in the olden days was easy? Try it sometime. You’ll be ordering shadbolts by the gross.”

“So, these shadbolts,” said Melissande, heroically ignoring her. “Why is it I’ve not heard of them?”

Monk shrugged. “They’re not common knowledge. Not beyond official circles-and the criminal classes, of course.”

“Really?” said Melissande, eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Bibbie seems pretty well-informed.”

“One of the drawbacks of being a Markham,” Bibbie told her. “I grew up hearing things I wasn’t meant to know.”

He managed a smile for her. “Only because you used to listen at keyholes.”

“And only then when your eavesdropper hex stopped working.”

“Blimey,” said Reg. “Talk about the criminal classes.”

Bibbie poked her tongue out. “And you of course would be speaking from personal experience.”

“So these shadbolts,” Melissande murmured, frowning, one finger pointedly raised to keep Reg quiet. Amazingly, it worked. “You can feel them?”

“Yes,” said Bibbie, nodding. “They leave a distinct imprint in the etheretic aura of whoever’s wearing one.”

“But you couldn’t sense one shackling him?”

“No,” said Bibbie, after the briefest pause.

Monk looked at her closely. All right, Bibs, my girl. What is it you’re not telling us? But before he could ask, Melissande said, “Are you saying he’s lying?”

“About wearing a shadbolt? I don’t see why he would.”

“No, no, why would he lie?” said Reg, and chattered her beak. “Because there’s nothing the least bit hinky about any of this at all.”

“She’s got a point,” Monk said. “Much as I hate to admit it. Bibbie-”

“No, Monk, I wasn’t mistaken,” his sister snapped. “I should think if anyone knows what a shadbolt feels like, it’s me.”

Behind her perfectly polished spectacles, Melissande’s green eyes were narrowed again in a look that boded no good. “And if that wasn’t a loaded comment then I’m a giraffe. Shut up, Reg. Bibbie-”

Bibbie touched Melissande’s arm lightly. “Not now, Mel. This isn’t the time. We’ve got far more important things to worry about.”

“Don’t call me Mel.”

Bugger. She really was cross. “Bibbie’s right, Melissande,” he said, strategically apologetic. “It’s a conversation for another time, when there’s only one of me in the room.”

“Fine,” said Melissande, and belligerently folded her arms. “But don’t imagine that conversation won’t be taking place.”

Gosh. To think he’d thought his heart couldn’t sink any lower. Melissande on the warpath. Just what we need. “Bibbie, when you looked for the shadbolt, what did you feel?”

To his dismay, Bibbie’s blue eyes flooded with tears. “I told you, I don’t know,” she said, her voice a broken little whisper. “I was imagining things. I had to be. It was a trick. He’s hexed. He must be. This can’t be real.”

“Hey, hey,” he said, sliding his arm around her shoulders. She was trembling. Bibbie. Shocked, he pulled her close. “It’s all right, Bibs. Come on, now. It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not all right, Monk,” she said, and wrenched herself out of his hold. “And do you know why? Because I felt you. I felt your potentia. And since that can’t be possible, I must be going mad!”

“No, you’re not, Bibbie,” said the man on the sofa. “You’re perfectly sane. You did feel his potentia. Because he’s me… and I’m him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Bibbie, glaring. “There’s only one Monk Markham and I’m standing beside him.”

The man on the sofa nodded painfully. “You’re almost right. There’s only one Monk Markham in every world. But you see… this isn’t my world, Bibbie. My world’s next door.”

“Next door?” said Melissande, breaking the heavy silence.

“In a manner of speaking,” said the man on the sofa. “At least, that’s the easiest way to explain it.”

Bibbie took a hesitant step towards him. “You’re not making this up?”

“Bibbie…” The man managed a smile. “When it comes to metaphysics when did I ever make things up?” His voice cracked on the last word, and his haunted, horribly familiar eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Bibs. It’s really you. I’d forgotten how you used to be. It’s been so long and-oh-damn- damn- ”

“Monk? Monk, what’s the matter?” cried Bibbie, and dashed to the sofa.

Dazed, Monk watched his sister hold the man-another Monk-against the shudders of pain running through him without relief. They seemed to go on and on forever. But at last, just when he thought he couldn’t stand it any more, the man on the sofa let out a sobbing sigh and relaxed.

“What was that?” Bibbie demanded, easing back to a crouch. “Monk, what’s been done to you?”

The Monk from next door wiped a shaking hand across his face. “It’s the shadbolt,” he muttered. “He doesn’t like it when I talk out of turn.”

“Who?” said Bibbie fiercely. “Who put the shadbolt on you, Monk? And what kind of shadbolt is it that can stay hidden like that?”

“A special one,” said the Monk from next door, then winced and gasped. “Please-don’t ask me to explain-it hurts too much-it hurts-”

“Sorry, sorry,” Bibbie whispered. “Look, obviously you need help. Tell us how we can help you.”

“You can get it off me,” said the Monk from next door. “ Please. Monk?”

“What? No,” said Monk, feeling sick. Feeling his other self’s desperate stare punch him in the gut. “I can’t. Are you bonkers, mate? No.”

The Monk from next door’s face had drained to a sickly, sweaty gray. It was scarred, too. He’d not noticed that before. A cut along the left cheekbone, the kind of mark left behind by a blow from a fist made of fingers heavy with rings. Seeing that scar, knowing that if he looked in a mirror he wouldn’t see it reflected back at him, he felt a dreadful premonition whip through his blood like roaring flames of ice.

He’s a me from somewhere else not far enough away-and wherever that is, it’s got big problems. And now he’s brought those problems with him. Here. To me.

Oh, bloody hell.

“Look,” he said tightly. “Mate. I’m sorry, but you’ve made a mistake. Go home. We can’t help you.”

Shocked, Bibbie turned to him. “ What? No-Monk-listen, we can’t just-”

“No, Bibbie, you listen!” he retorted. “Don’t you see this is wrong? He’s not meant to be here. Saint Snodgrass alone knows what damage he’s doing to our etheretic integrity. He could be putting our whole world at risk.”

“You don’t know that!” said Bibbie hotly “You could be wrong!”

“And what if I’m right?” he said. “Are you willing to take that risk? Bibbie, we don’t even know how he got here!”

The Monk from next door laughed, a rusty, unused sound. “Yes, you do, Monk. You bloody well do. You stare at the ceiling at night when you’re meant to be asleep, wondering. Thinking, Is it even possible? I bet it is. I bet I could… We both know you do, mate. You can’t lie to me.”

He nearly jumped out of his socks when Melissande took hold of his arm. “Monk, what is he talking about?”

“Mel…” It was hard, it was so hard, but he made himself look at her. Princess Melissande of New Ottosland, short and stocky and bossy and brave. Ethics like armor. A sense of justice like a sword. The woman he loved, but wasn’t sure he could marry.

Me and Gerald, eh? What a bloody pair.

“Monk,” said Melissande, insistent, and tightened her grasp. “Do you know how he got here or don’t you?”

He looked across at the man on the couch. Of course I know. Because he’s me, and I’m him, and there’s precious bloody little we won’t try once. Their eyes met, and he felt the most peculiar jolt: recognition and fear and a terrible sorrow.

He sighed. “You brought it with you?”

“I had to,” said the other Monk. “I have to go back.”

“Then show them,” he said, and sighed again, because it was too late for all of them now.

The Monk from next door reached into his pocket and took out a small, rough, insignificant-looking stone.

“Hey!” said Bibbie. “That’s your portable portal. The-the Mark B prototype. The one you accidentally turned into an interdimensionaloh.”

“Blimey bloody Charlie,” said Reg, disgusted, breaking the stunned silence. “Oy. Mr. Twin. Did you jigger that thing to do what I think it’s done? And if you did, sunshine, then how many more of you idiots are running loose, d’you think?”

Reprehensibly, unforgivably, Monk felt a pang of pure jealousy shoot through him.

Bugger. He really did it. Does that mean I could do it too?

And then he yelled in pain as Reg leaned sideways on Melissande’s shoulder and yanked hard on a beakful of his hair. “Forget it, you raving lunatic!” she shrieked, slightly muffled. “Are you out of your brandy-pickled mind?”

“I’m sorry,” said Melissande, icy as winter, letting go of his hand completely and stepping aside. Reg squawked a protest as she was nearly pulled off her shoulder-perch. “Just let me see if I’ve understood this correctly. This other Monk Markham-to all intents and purposes you, Monk-took what he- you — freely admitted was a dangerously unpredictable accidental invention, namely the interdimensional portal opener-and-and twiddled it until he- you — could get it to open a portal into-into- what, exactly?”

“A parallel world,” said Monk, in perfect unison with himself from next door.

The look in Melissande’s eyes was lethal. “I see. Well, now. Ah-Reg?”

“Yes, ducky?”

“Do you know what I think?”

Reg’s eyes were gleaming too. “I think I can hazard a guess.”

“I think that if ever there was a time a man deserved a good poking in his unmentionables then-”

“Hey!” he said, backing up. “Don’t look at me, Melissande. I didn’t do it. He did. Poke him.”

Melissande wasn’t beautiful when she was angry. She was angry when she was angry. Practically breathing fire. “You heard what he said, Monk! You’ve been bloody thinking it! It was only ever a matter of time!”

The man on the sofa-Monk from next door-gasped a little, then started laughing. “Oh, Saint Snodgrass,” he wheezed. “I have missed this so much.” And then, quite dreadfully, he started weeping.

“Stop it,” said Bibbie, close to tears again herself. “All of you, just stop it. We’re in real trouble here and all you can do is squabble. Shame on you. We’re going to help him and that’s all there is to it.”

“But Bibbie-”

“ Fine,” she shouted. “Then I will. Don’t you see, Monk? I have to. This man is my brother! ”

Silenced, he stared at her. “No, he’s not,” he said at last. “I am.”

“You both are, you blithering idiot. And I can no more turn him away than I could abandon you.”

“Bibbie’s right,” said Melissande, temper under control now, brisk and royal as only she could be. “We’ve got no choice. We have to help.”

“But we don’t even know what he’s doing here!”

And we don’t want to know, Mel. We really, really don’t. Trust me.

“Then why don’t we ask?” she said. “Nicely. Without shouting.”

The Monk from next door let the portable portal drop to his side, coughing weakly, then shook his head. “You can ask, Mel, but I can’t answer. Not with this bloody shadbolt in place. I’ll tell you everything, I promise, but only after Monk gets the wretched thing off me.”

Furious, resentful, he took a step closer to the sofa. “And how the hell am I supposed to remove an invisible shadbolt, genius?”

“Trust me,” said the Monk from next door. The misery in his eyes was awful. “It won’t be invisible to you.”

In other words he was going to have to go looking for it. He was going to have to paddle around in this man’s etheretic aura-in his own etheretic aura, as good as-searching for a shadbolt not even Bibbie could find.

Bloody hell, Gerald. Where are you when I need you?

“Monk,” said Melissande. “Do we really have a choice?”

For the first time since meeting her, he wished she’d shut up. “No.”

“Is there anything we can do to-”

“You can back off,” he said curtly. “Stand well away. And don’t any of you breathe so much as one word.”

“Right,” said Bibbie. “The floor is yours, Professor Markham.”

As she joined Melissande and Reg in moving to the furthest corner of the parlor, he dropped cross-legged to the carpet beside the sofa. Took a deep, deep breath and made himself look into the face of the Monk from next door.

What else was different, apart from the scar? They had the same lanky dark hair, in need of a cut. The same thinly-bridged nose that his mother liked to call aristocratic. The same quizzically-arched eyebrows. The same lopsided mouth. Their prominent cheekbones were identical. They shared a pointed chin. They had the same crooked eye-tooth, thanks to Aylesbury’s bad temper.

But our eyes… good God, our eyes…

The eyes he was looking into had looked into hell.

“I knew you’d help me,” his unwanted twin whispered. “Knew it was worth it. You’re the only one I can trust.”

He knew the answer but he asked the question anyway. “Is this going to hurt?”

His other self smiled. “It doesn’t matter, Monk. You have to.”

For one bad moment he thought his courage was going to fail, that he was going to let himself down, let the girls down. Let down this man who looked-almost-like him.

One last glance behind him, at Bibbie. At Melissande. At Reg. All three girls were gravely silent, urging him on. He loved them so much. How could he not do this?

Hesitant, feeling far shakier than he’d ever admit, he took the Monk from next door’s hand in his own. Waited to feel some strong shock of recognition. Waited to see if this would make him wake up. No such luck. The fingers in his- my fingers- were long and thin and cool. Strong fingers. Clever fingers. Fingers used to playing with thaumaturgical fire.

He closed his eyes and stared into the ether, into the aura he’d never once seen from the outside. Searched for the shadbolt hiding within it like a lethally-honed knife sleeping silent in its sheath.

Oh, he thought, wondering. Oh. Is that what I look like?

Monk Markham’s aura was royal blue shot through with gold. At least, the parts of it that weren’t distorted and twisted were royal blue and threads of gold. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the ruined bits, not yet, so instead he concentrated on the remnants of beauty still untouched.

Unlike Gerald, he’d known from childhood he was special. Born with metaphysical talents few others would ever know. But even though he’d been tested so many times and in so many different ways that he’d long since lost count, had stopped keeping track even, not once had he ever been shown himself like this.

Because they didn’t think it mattered? Or because they were afraid it might matter too much?

Growing up with Aylesbury, he’d promised himself he would never let magic go to his head. Thaumaturgical power was not the measure of a man. No matter what he invented, it could never be more important than being a decent human being. But since he’d never actually come right out and said that, perhaps it wasn’t surprising his family-and the Department of Thaumaturgy-would err on the side of caution.

And I do have a habit of ignoring the rules.

But that was different. That wasn’t about being better. It was only ever about the work.

The man on the sofa, the Monk from next door, stirred a little-and he remembered what it was he was meant to be doing.

An invisible shadbolt? Bloody hell. Who has the power to make a shadbolt invisible? It’s a major feat of thaumaturgics to put a normal one together.

To find the answer he had to look deeper into this Monk’s damaged aura. He had to forget about the beauty and confront the pain instead.

Do I really want to do this? No, I bloody well don’t.

Steeling himself, he inched his potentia deeper and closer to the dark, distorted patterns in the aura that suggested, like shadows on water, the presence of something dangerous beneath. He could see the patterns quite clearly. Thought it was odd that Bibbie couldn’t. She was one of the best witches of her generation.

He felt the other Monk flinch. Felt himself flinch with him. And then felt a teasing, taunting hint of something familiar. Or almost familiar. Something that should be familiar-and yet was somehow not right.

Gathering his potentia, he plunged his awareness into the heart of his unlikely twin’s aura, tearing it wider, baring it to his eyes. He saw the shadbolt in all its vicious, strangling glory, felt its thaumic signature… and heard himself cry out. Felt himself spiraling downwards, falling backwards, falling apart.

Because this was impossible. This had to be a mistake. He knew who’d made that shadbolt… and he knew he had to be wrong.

Gerald.