Wizard Undercover

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Down in Hartwig’s underground kitchens, Melissande found a level of busyness to make an anthill look lazy. Kitchen maids and pot boys and under-cooks and spit turners and an assortment of culinary dogsbodies scurried under the lash of the highly strung-but apparently sober-head Cook’s sharp tongue. The lamplit air was rich with the mouth-watering aromas of roasting meats, frying meats, baking pies, stewing fruit, boiling sugar syrup and cakes cooling on racks. Knives scythed against sharpeners, pots and pans rattled, oven doors slammed. Someone dropped a plate. Shouts mingled with the smashing. Someone else cut themselves, and curses curdled the thick air.

Unnoticed at the foot of the staircase linking kitchen complex to palace, Melissande took in the mayhem with appalled admiration. Hartwig’s kitchens made Rupert’s look like child’s play. Even Lional, whose appetite for fine food and entertaining had been far from modest, never achieved a choreographed pandemonium like this.

A pot boy staggered by her, burdened with dirty saucepans. She stopped him with a smile and a raised hand.

“Essa?” he said, fox-red curls lank with steam and grease, eyes wide with surprise at the sight of a well-dressed lady.

Essa. That was Splotzin. Of course the child didn’t speak Ottish. And she hadn’t even a smattering of his tongue. What was essa? Yes?

“Mitzie?” she said hopefully, and pointed to the outer kitchen where a couple of maids were frantically working. Then she pointed to herself. “Mitzie.”

The boy was young but not ignorant. He grinned. “Mitzie, essa.” A jerk of his chin suggested that she stand where she was, then he staggered away.

Eager to avoid a confrontation with the near-hysterical cook, Melissande shuffled into a conveniently shadowed corner and waited.

“Psst. Miss! Miss? Were you wanting me?”

She turned, and saw a kitchen maid’s astonished face peering round a nearby whitewashed archway. “Are you Mitzie?”

Nodding, the incredulous maid stepped into view. She was a plumply pretty lass, her plain blue dress swathed in a juice-stained white apron, with a limp white cap on her curls and her cheeks pink from the hot ovens.

With another cautious look in the loud cook’s direction, Melissande darted to the archway. “Mitzie, I’m Princess Melissande of New Ottosland. I was wondering if you had a moment to talk, but-” Another look at the kitchens. A few of the bustling staff had noticed her, but were too busy to stop and point and stare. If that changed… “Perhaps this isn’t a good time.”

Mitzie’s mouth dropped open. “You’re Gladys’s princess?”

Oh, thank Saint Snodgrass. “I am. Gladys told me all about you, Mitzie. I just wanted to see if you were-Mitzie? Mitzie! What’s the matter?”

The kitchen maid’s cheeks had blushed a deeper pink, and she seemed on the point of tears. “Oh, Miss! Are you come to help me with Ferdie?”

Help her with- Oh, lord. Heart racing, Melissande took the girl’s arm. Abel Bestwick’s alive? “Mitzie? Are you saying you know where Ferdie is?”

With an anguished glance at the head cook, who had his back to them for the moment, Mitzie pressed a finger to her lips, then daringly took hold of Melissande’s sleeve.

“Will you come, Miss?” she whispered, almost tugging. “Please?”

Melissande nodded. “Of course.”

She hurried after the maid, who whisked through the kitchen labyrinth like a field mouse going to ground. They scuttled past rows of benches, bake ovens, spit ovens, an enormous pantry, the buttery, the cold larder and the wet larder and the hanging room ripe with game.

“Up here, Miss. To the servants’ wing. Mind your step,” said Mitzie, and after ducking between two halves of a heavy leather curtain they toiled up a narrow, winding staircase, higher and higher, up to the miserly maids’ rooms beneath the palace’s lofty roof.

“Ferdie’s in here, Miss,” said Mitzie, stopping at a door painted a dingy dark green. It was the last room in the narrow corridor leading off the staircase landing. A small, grimy window leaked grudging light onto the uneven timber floor. “I leave a lamp lit. Oh, Miss, I know it’s wrong of me, but I been hiding him. I had to. He’s my Ferdie. And oh, Miss, he idn’t a bad man, he’s only in trouble.”

Melissande, still panting after the staircase, pressed her palm to the girl’s flushed cheek, then took the small brass key that was fumbled into her grasp. “Bless you, Mitzie. You were right to tell me. And as for hiding him, well, you’ll likely never know what a good thing you’ve done.”

“Miss, I can’t stay,” the maid said, her eyes anxious. “They’ll be shouting for me in the kitchens.”

And the last thing either of them needed was a Mitzie hunt, raising a ruckus and making inconvenient discoveries. “You go. I’ll talk to Ferdie. And Mitzie?”

“Yes, Miss?”

“Don’t you worry,” Melissande said, patting the girl’s arm. “We’ll sort this out. You’ll not get in trouble, I give you my word.”

Mitzie’s dimples were as pretty as Bibbie’s. “Thank you, Miss. I’ll find you later, if that’s all right.”

“Yes, yes. Now go!”

The dingy green door swung open with a soft creak. Melissande slipped into the room beyond and pushed the door until she heard its latch quietly click. Then, clutching the key, she turned and looked around. A small room, holding only a single bed, a chest of drawers, an elderly wardrobe and one rickety wooden chair. It was pushed next to the bed, a dim oil lamp burning on it.

Close to tip-toe, she crossed to the bed and touched her fingers to the bare shoulder of the man asleep beneath its blanket. “Ferdie. Can you hear me?”

With a muffled oath the man startled awake, twisting away from her. His breath caught, a sound of sharp pain. The lamplight fell over his face, revealing cheeks stubbled and sunken, eyes bright with lingering fever. A plain face. Unremarkable. A Sir Alec kind of face, that wasn’t noticed in a crowd.

“Who the devil are you?” he demanded hoarsely. “And how the hell did you find me?”

“Mitzie.” Ignoring his curse, she sat on the edge of the bed. “As for me, I’m Melissande Cadwallader. And you are Abel Bestwick. Sir Alec’s man in Splotze.”

Sir Alec’s man in Splotze choked. “What?”

Oh dear. Was he going to be difficult? “Look, Mister Bestwick, we don’t have much time. I know who you are, I know why you’re here, and I know about the message you got through to Sir Alec. He’s sent in another janitor. Gerald Dunwoody. D’you know him?”

With a pained effort, Bestwick shoved and wriggled until he was sitting up against his pillow. The blanket fell to his waist, revealing faded bruises and a bloodstained bandage wrapped around his skinny ribs.

“No,” he said, his eyes hard with suspicion. “And I’ve never heard of you.”

“Well, actually, you might’ve,” she said. “I’m also known as Princess Melissande of New Ottosland.”

“I’ve heard of New Ottosland,” Bestwick said grudgingly.

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” she muttered. “Will you at least admit you know Sir Alec? Medium height, brown hair, grey eyes, a disturbing habit of chilly sarcasm? Does that ring a bell?”

A cautious nod.

“And Monk Markham? Don’t you dare tell me you’ve never heard of him!”

Another cautious nod. “Who hasn’t?”

“Well, it’s a start,” she said, cross with relief. “Mister Bestwick-Abel-I do appreciate this is confusing. And that you’re under strict instructions not to reveal your true identity. But I think we’re a bit past that now, don’t you?”

Mutely, he stared at her.

“Abel, please, you must believe me!” she said, trying not to sound desperate. “I’m not secretly working for the Jandrians or the Lanruvians or whoever the enemy is this week. I’m on your side! Gerald and I and Monk Markham’s sister are trying to finish what you started and stop whoever’s out to ruin the Splotze-Borovnik wedding. We’ve already foiled one attempt that we’re sure of. There might’ve been more, but-”

Abel Bestwick was shaking his head. “I must be dreaming. Delirious. This can’t be real. Sir Alec would never send women into the field.”

Oh, yes. He was going to be difficult. “We’re not in the field, Abel,” she said, cajoling. “Bibbie and I aren’t janitors. At the most you could call us honorary agents.”

“Honorary agents,” Abel Bestwick murmured. “Right. I wonder if this means I’m dying?”

She could slap some sense into him, but then he might really die and she was in enough trouble already. “Look, Abel, we don’t have time for this. You’ll simply have to trust that we do have experience and we really have come to help. Please, please, won’t you believe me?”

“I must be mad,” Bestwick said. “All right. You’re an honorary agent. Now what?”

Oh, Saint Snodgrass be praised. “Well, for one thing, can you tell me who’s behind the plot? We thought it was the Lanruvians, but-”

“It’s Harenstein,” said Abel Bestwick.

“Oh, no,” she said, stupidly. “That can’t be right. Harenstein? Norbert, you mean? But-Erminium says Norbert’s been an answer to her prayers. He brought Ratafia and Ludwig together in the first place. And he was nearly killed at the bridge. No, no, Abel, you’re wrong. It can’t be Norbert.”

“I don’t know if the marquis is involved,” said Bestwick.

“But two of his men are. I overheard them plotting in the stables. I saw them.”

Mitzie’s tiny room was warm, but Melissande felt herself starting to shiver. “Dermit and Volker? Is that who you mean?”

Bestwick’s face darkened. “Yes. Them. One of the bastards stabbed me. Him with the scar.”

“Is your wound bad?” she said, because that was the proper thing to ask. But she could hardly see Abel Bestwick’s bloodstained bandage for the tears crowding her eyes.

Poor Erminium. Poor Ratafia. And Ludwig. And Twiggy. Poor everyone, when the truth comes out.

“Hey. Miss Cadwallader, or whoever you are,” said Bestwick. “D’you mind? Cry later.”

Blinking hard, she glared at him. “You’re bloody rude!”

“I’m bloody perforated,” he retorted. “I nearly died. If it hadn’t been for Mitzie…” His plain, angry face softened. “Look. Where’s-what’s his name, again? Dunwoody?”

“Yes. Gerald.”

“If he’s a janitor, why isn’t he here?”

“He doesn’t know I’m here,” she said, and slid off the edge of Bestwick’s mattress. “Nobody knows, Abel. Everyone thinks you are dead. As for Gerald, he’s convinced tonight’s fireworks have been sabotaged. If so, he and Bibbie are going to unsabotage them.”

Somehow.

“Why not call them off?” said Bestwick, frowning. “Better yet, postpone the wedding?”

She gave him a look. “I’ll give you three guesses, Mister Bestwick.”

Abel Bestwick sagged. “Right. Politics. I wasn’t thinking.”

Her eyes were dry again. Now she was far too angry to cry. All the lies. All the heartache. Someone’s going to pay. “I have to go, Abel. I have to find Gerald, and tell him what you’ve told me.”

“Tell Sir Alec while you’re at it.”

“I wish I could,” she said. “Only the etheretics aren’t co-operating. No crystal ball, no portal. And even the fastest airship is too slow. We’re on our own, I’m afraid.”

Bestwick grimaced. “Don’t worry. You get used to it.”

He sounded bitter, and she supposed she couldn’t blame him. An undercover janitor’s life looked anything but glamorous.

“You’ve had a bad time of it,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

He grunted. “Thanks. Now you should go, while I-”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Abel!” she said in her best no-nonsense voice, pressing him back to the narrow bed. “You’re staying here.”

“But-”

“But nothing,” she snapped. “You’re in no condition for janitoring, and you know it. Now, I’m warning you, don’t you dare step foot outside this room! There’s no need to worry. I’ll take care of everything. And if the worst happens, and you’re discovered, tell whoever’s found you that you’re under my protection. Her Royal Highness, Princess Melissande of New Ottosland, remember? Tell them Crown Prince Hartwig and I are particular friends.” When Bestwick’s eyes widened she added crossly, “Not that kind of particular, thank you. But I’ve known Twiggy for donkey’s years. Mention both of us and you should be all right. If you’re discovered. But let’s hope you’re not.”

“Yes, let’s,” said Abel Bestwick, giving in, and rolled his tired, pain-filled eyes.

She left Sir Alec’s other janitor locked in Mitzie’s room. Made her way back down the long spiral staircase, through the heavy leather curtain and into the kitchens, caught Mitzie’s eye and dropped the little brass key on the floor, in passing. Then she returned to the Entrance Hall, where she took a moment to catch her breath amid the shining suits of armour.

Saint Snodgrass preserve her. What should she do now? Tell Hartwig? Lord, no. He likely wouldn’t believe her. Or worse, he would, and he’d confront Norbert, and all hell would break loose. No. Her only choice was to find Gerald. She nearly laughed out loud.

Find Gerald? Down at the Canal? When the Canal’s overflowing with tourists? How am I s’posed to do that? Stand on a rubbish bin and wave my arms until he sees me?

Well, yes. If she had to. If that was what it took. What a mercy she’d not changed out of her second-best day dress and comfortable shoes.

Heart racing, once again despicably close to tears, she took a deep breath, then another, and then headed down to the Canal.

Not hand in hand, but nearly, Gerald walked with Bibbie along the noisily festive streets of Grande Splotze, at long last close to reaching the Canal. Splotze’s capital was more crowded than ever, the air fairly humming with excited anticipation for the fireworks, and the wedding, and the dawn of a new day for Splotze and Borovnik.

“Blimey,” said Bibbie, her voice almost lost in the babble and din. “If we walk any slower we’ll be going backwards. I’ve never seen so many different nationalities in the same place at the same time.”

“It’s a sight, isn’t it?” he agreed. “Careful. Mind your step.”

Bibbie neatly avoided tripping into the smelly gutter. Bumped shoulders with a man from Graff, prettily apologised, then laughed.

“Lord, Algernon. What a crush!”

Yes. So many people. Too many. Imagining the panic and chaos if the fireworks went wrong, if he failed to prevent disaster, he shuddered. And then he jumped, as Bibbie took his arm.

“Stop that, Mister Rowbotham. Everything’s going to be fine.”

He looked down at her, and felt his heart leap. Breaking every promise he’d made to Monk, to himself, he’d kissed her. Abandoned cautious pragmatism… and opened the floodgates to love.

And I’m not sorry. In fact, as soon as I can I’m going to kiss her again.

“Algernon?” Bibbie gave his arm a little shake. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said, and smiled, despite the danger. “Hold tight, Miss Slack. I’m done with dawdling. We’re going to pick up the pace.”

Using his potentia to nudge laggardly pedestrians out of their way, he hurried them across the last main thoroughfare and down several winding side streets until they reached the Canal promenade.

“Oh!” said Bibbie, delighted by the clowns and the jugglers and the cheeky dancing monkeys. “What a pity we don’t have time to play.”

He bent his head to her. “Maybe tomorrow. Let’s get past today first.”

“All right,” said Bibbie. “But before we do anything else, can we stop for a drink and something to eat?”

“Are your ribs playing knucklebones again?”

“They’re considering it,” she said. “Please, Algernon? We’ve got time.”

They had a little time, yes. And truth be told, he was hungry too. So they chose a food stall with the shortest queue, and bought cups of fresh cherry juice and fat spiced sausages, their skins split and dribbling juices. Then they cheated their way to a patch of grass on the Canal green and sat in the gradually waning afternoon sunshine to enjoy their hasty meal. To be safe, even though the tourists around them were caught up in the excitement of their own lives, Gerald blurred himself and Bibbie so they couldn’t be overhead.

“Clever,” said Bibbie, noticing. “And tricky. Learn that one in the Department, did you?”

No. He’d made it up just then. I want something, I get it. As simple as that. Except it wasn’t meant to be so simple. That was how the other Gerald had thought. That was grimoire magic’s slippery slope. And was he even now starting that insidious slide?

Bibbie was waiting for him to answer. “Must’ve done,” he said, and pointed. “Look. Doesn’t that monkey there remind you of Errol Haythwaite?”

Giggling, she poked him. “Now, now, Mister Rowbotham. Poor little monkey. It’s not nice to make fun.”

“It isn’t? Then please accept my apologies, Miss Slack.”

She grinned. He grinned. They drank their cherry juice and ate their sausages and pretended they were two regular people without a care in the world.

Meal finished, licking grease from her fingers, Bibbie looked at him sidelong. “Algernon, you’re not really furious with Melissande, are you?”

Bloody Melissande. “I was. Maybe I still am. A bit. She crossed the line, Gladys. She agreed I was in charge here, and then-” He ate some more sausage. “She agreed I was in charge.”

“Yes, I know, but she’s Melissande,” said Bibbie. “You can’t really be surprised.”

No. Not really. “Sir Alec’s going to go spare.”

Bibbie shrugged. “Maybe. I think it depends on how everything turns out.”

Trust Bibbie to make him confront the unpalatable truth. This impromptu picnic was nothing but a mirage. He wasn’t Algernon Rowbotham on an outing with his young lady. He was a janitor with a job to do.

And Bibbie shouldn’t be here.

“But I am here, Gerald,” she said sharply. “And I’m not going away.”

How did she do that? How did she always know?

A fleeting, dimpled smile. “Monk’s not the only one who can read you like hieroglyphics.”

“Bibbie-”

She covered his hand with hers. Her touch was warm. Exciting. Comforting. Perilous. If he closed his eyes he’d see her true face, not the made-up brown eyes and dark hair of demure Gladys Slack.

“There’s something I need to tell you, Gerald,” she said quietly. No smiles now, no teasing. “I know what’s happened. To you. The grimoire magic and your potentia. I’m not entirely sure when, but I’m guessing it was in Abel Bestwick’s lodging.”

His mouth was dry, his heart sickly pounding. “You can’t know that.”

“Of course I can,” she said. “I’m Emmerabiblia Markham. And just so you know? I’m not afraid of you.”

He had to look away. “Perhaps you should be.”

“Gerald…” She sighed, her fingers tightening around his. “Listen to me. You aren’t him. He was a monster… and you’re the man I love.”

It couldn’t be right, to feel this happy. Not when the fate of two countries and countless lives hung in the balance, depending on him. Not when he could hear that other Gerald’s grimoire magic whispering in his blood.

Bibbie leaned in and kissed him, the merest butterfly brushing of her lips against his. “We need to get down to the Canal front. It’s time to inspect those fireworks pontoons.”

Yes. It was. But, as it turned out, that was going to be a great deal more easily said than done.

“Blimey,” said Bibbie, as they stood before the crowded Canal wall and stared across the water at the twenty pontoons tethered ready for the night’s event. “I wish you’d been right the first time, Algernon. I don’t think we’re going to get this done with a pilfered rowboat.”

“Even if there was a rowboat to pilfer,” he agreed. “And there’s not.”

The Canal had been entirely emptied of water craft. There wasn’t even a royal barge, because these were the wedding fireworks and after the last gloriously burning ember winked out, the wedding party would be returning to the palace for the reception, crab puffs to be conspicuously absent, then the marriage ceremony, then the treaty signing, and last of all the fifteen-course State Dinner.

Bibbie was frowning. “Gosh. I can feel the wardings from here. Can’t you?”

He certainly could. It seemed Hartwig was taking no chances with these fireworks, relying on someone sterner than Radley Blayling to keep them safe from Splotze’s erratic and exasperating etheretic field. But were they also stern enough to keep them safe from something worse?

“I can’t feel anything else, though,” Bibbie murmured. “Nothing rotten. No tampering.”

And neither could he. It was almost as though that sickening sense of danger he’d felt in the palace had been no more substantial than a dream.

“Mind you,” she added, “I didn’t feel the hexes at the Hanging Bridge until it was too late.” She shivered. “Whoever’s behind this is awfully good, Algernon.”

He nodded. “I know. But we’re better.”

We have to be. Because if we’re not…

Two sections of the Canal front had been cordoned off from the general public, with floating platforms put in place for a uniquely intimate view of the fireworks. One section was for the wedding party and its important guests, and the other was set aside for the lucky minions and lackeys who’d been deemed worthy of a front row seat.

Gerald patted his coat pocket. “Here’s an idea. We’ve got our passes, and without a rowboat I think that floating platform is the nearest we’re going to get to those bloody pontoons. If I’m right and something happens, sitting right down the front gives us our best chance of foiling the plot.”

But the palace guard they showed their passes to wouldn’t let them through the cordon. Far too early. Come back at sunset. Crown Prince’s orders. Go away.

Gerald was tempted to compel him, but Bibbie hustled him off before he could succumb.

“It was a good idea in theory,” she said. “But I think we’d cause a stir, sitting there all by ourselves for the next two-and-a-bit hours. It’s best if we blend in. Isn’t it?”

He was getting impatient. Letting fear over-ride good judgement. If Frank Dalby was here, there’d be some withering scorn.

“You’re right,” he said. “But we’ll keep wandering around the promenade. If there’s a change in the ether, if any grimoire thaumaturgics start stirring, here is the most likely place we’ll feel them.”

This was a mistake, Melissande thought, fetching up against a Canal promenade lamp post to catch her breath. What was I thinking? I’m never going to find Gerald and Bibbie in this wretched crowd.

Tourists and dancing dogs and jugglers and food stalls and ridiculous people on stilts. What sane adult staggered about the place on stilts? She must’ve been out of her mind. She should’ve stayed in the palace and waited for Gerald and Bibbie to come back. Or dragged Abel Bestwick out of Mitzie’s room and taken him to see Hartwig and bugger the politics. What was a little spying between not-currently-enemies when lives were at stake?

Harenstein? This is all Harenstein’s fault? How did I not see it? How did Gerald not see it? He’s the janitor here. It’s supposed to be his job!

It was getting late. According to Mister Ibblie’s polite list of instructions, anyone fortunate enough to be included with the wedding party should be dressed and ready to depart the palace at dusk. That meant she should go back now, because of the crowds and having to bathe and dress up for the night. And if Bibbie wasn’t waiting for her in their guest suite she’d have to dress herself, which would be interesting. She might need to kidnap a passing maid.

Saint Snodgrass preserve me. I never asked for this. When I get home, Sir Alec and I are going to have words.

“Look,” said Bibbie, pointing, as the gathered crowd on the promenade began chanting and cheering. “There’s the wedding party. Doesn’t Ratafia look sweet? Oh, and there’s Melissande. In purple. Hmm.” She frowned. “Which means she dressed herself. What a pity. Maybe that’s why she looks like she’s swallowed a hedgehog. But she did know not to expect us back, didn’t she?”

Gerald nodded. “I thought so.”

“Then maybe Ratafia’s still not speaking to her. Or maybe Erminium is.”

“Maybe,” he said, but he wasn’t really paying attention. They were standing on the Canal green edge closest to the cordoned-off royal enclosures. The promenade was lamplit now, dusk velvety and star-studded. Moths flirted with the glowing gaslights. Everywhere he looked he saw Grande Splotze’s townsfolk and visitors, laughing and cheering and clapping and innocent.

“Oh, at last,” said Bibbie. “They’re letting the minions into their pen. Come on, Algernon, quickly. Before we’re left stuck up the back. Although perhaps it won’t matter, since everything’s so quiet.”

Yes. The ether was quiet, more or less. Still twisted. Uniquely Splotzeish. But not tainted or tortured, ready to erupt in killing and maiming grimoire magic.

So why do I feel so jittery?

“Algernon?” Bibbie tugged at his sleeve. “Let’s go.”

There was a band playing on the Canal green. Too big for the gazebo, it had swallowed up half the grass and was serenading the crowd with cheerful music, lots of horns and trumpets, merry tunes to tap the toes. He wanted to clap his hands and melt those trumpets. He wanted to snap every violin string with a thought.

“Algernon.”

He took a step back. Looked at Bibbie. “No, Gladys. I can’t.”

“Why not?”

How could he explain his sudden sense of dread? There weren’t any words that made sense. But then he didn’t make sense, did he? That was what being rogue meant.

Bibbie’s expression changed. “I don’t feel anything. What do you feel?”

“Afraid,” he said. “I can’t go down there, Bibbie. And I can’t stay out here, with the crowd. Too many people. I can’t see. I can’t think. I need space, I need-”

The Grande Splotze observation tower.

“Up there?” said Bibbie, following his gaze. “Gerald, are you sure?”

He took her hand and pulled her with him, reckless with his potentia as he bullied tourist after tourist out of their way.

The observation tower was closed to the public, its gate secured with chain and lock. A wave of his hand blurred him and Bibbie from detection. A single word swung the gate wide.

“Ah… Gerald…” said Bibbie, stepping over the discarded security chain. “Perhaps you’d better-”

He snapped his fingers twice, and the gate clanged closed and warded behind them.

“Right,” said Bibbie, half-laughing. “Very efficient.”

“I’m sorry, there are quite a lot of stairs,” he said, looking up. “Four hundred and twenty-three, if you’re counting. I know-” he added, as she groaned. “It’s a bugger, but there you are.”

The cheerful band music helped them keep time as they climbed. The jostling crowd below made a sound like the ocean, no words up here, only a susurration of voices. They reached the top of the tower, panting, and gasped for air beneath the darkening sky and the distant stars.

Bibbie moved to the viewing platform’s warded edge and looked down at the Canal, crowded with fireworks pontoons. Then she looked back over her shoulder, her eyes bright with courage.

“Right, then, Mister Dunwoody. What now?”