by K. E. Mills
“What went wrong is some fool of a government inspector fell asleep on the job,” said Reg, scornful. “Portal travel might be convenient but it’s only been around for five minutes. Mucking about with that kind of metaphysics is no romp in the park. What else?”
Melissande turned another page. “Not much. Lots of nattering about this upcoming symposium. The usual blowhards blustering in Letters to the Editor. Oh, and the Potentate of Aframbigi’s lodged a formal complaint about his sanctions.”
“Never mind him,” said Reg. “He’ll need a sight more help than the likes of us can provide, the silly old fogey. Try the social pages. With any luck one of our Miss Markham’s old school chums has lost an expensive bracelet and needs us to—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, turning to the back section of the paper. “Why would one of Bibbie’s friends need us? Any graduate of Madam Olliphant’s would be perfectly capable of—oh no!”
“What?” said Reg, and flapped from her ram skull to the arm of the client chair. “What’s wrong?”
Mortified, Melissande stared at the photograph in the paper’s breathlessly overwritten social section. “What do you think?”
“I think that bustle was a big mistake,” said Reg, peering at the offending picture. “You’ve got more than enough bum to be going on with, madam. No need to go enhancing it.”
Melissande gritted her teeth. “Yes, so you said at the time, Reg. But—”
“Her Royal Highness Princess Melissande of New Ottosland,” Reg said aloud, reading the photograph’s caption, “only sister to the King of New Ottosland and co-proprietor of Witches Inc., the capital’s newest thaumaturgical agency, escorted by Monk Markham, Esquire, younger son of celebrated thaumaturgist Wolfgang Markham, attending a performance of “The Shepherd’s Revenge” at the Opera House. What’s wrong with that? That’s free advertising, that is. Even if most of you that isn’t bustle is hidden behind that Markham boy.” She chuckled. “Although he does scrub up quite nicely, doesn’t he?”
Yes, he did, very nicely, but that wasn’t the point. “I could’ve sworn I managed to fritz that wretched man’s camera!” Melissande fretted. “He’s always lurking around public events hoping to photograph me. Next time I’ll get Monk to fritz his camera. Better yet I’ll get Monk to fritz him.”
“Oh, no you won’t, madam!” said Reg. “Not when he’s giving us free advertising, you won’t!”
She threw the paper on the floor and shoved out of the armchair. “I don’t care about the free advertising. I care about Rupert seeing this and thinking I’m exploiting him for my personal gain! He’s been so wonderful about what happened at Madam Olliphant’s, and me starting up the agency even though it’s got the potential to embarrass him. They’re still wittering about it back home, you know, all those fuddy-duddy aristocrats. Lord Billingsley and the rest. I’m flying in the face of Tradition, Reg, and they’re not impressed. But Rupert’s standing firm. The last thing I want is for him to think I’m taking him for granted. Using him.”
“If you think he thinks that, ducky,” said Reg, surprisingly gentle, “you’re daft. That brother of yours adores you. In his short-sighted eyes you can do no wrong.”
Which was precisely the problem. Rupert’s loyalty was limitless, so she had to place the limits for him. Otherwise he could get himself into trouble. She’d have to write him a letter, and bother the expense of postage home. If his feelings were hurt he’d never tell her. He’d just brood and look sad…
Oh, Rupes. I’m sorry. Maybe coming to Ottosland was a mistake after all.
“Mister Cripps will be at his shop by now,” she said abruptly, glancing at the tinnily ticking clock on the wall. “I’m going out to buy that ink. In the unlikely event a client should turn up while I’m gone don’t do anything, just let them fill out the enquiry card and pop it through the door-slot and I’ll deal with it when I get back.”
Reg immediately looked outraged. “Do you mind? I’m perfectly capable of—”
“Pretending to be an etheretic answering machine, getting into an argument with a client and sending them away in a huff?” she interrupted. “Yes, Reg, I know. Last week’s demonstration was flawless. You could give tutorials. Which is why I’m saying don’t do anything.”
And on that trenchant note she picked up her slightly faded velvet reticule and swept out of the office, banging the door firmly closed in Reg’s offended face.
It took her not quite three-quarters of an hour to walk to Mister Cripps’s Office Supply Emporium, which was nowhere near as grand as its title suggested, make a purchase of his cheapest black ink, convince him she was perfectly capable of carrying the tin back to her office unassisted, and do so.
Reg, determined to remain offended, pretended to be asleep on her ram skull. Knowing perfectly well the dreadful bird was just aching to be appeased, Melissande pointedly ignored her. After setting up her test tube, conductive tubing, large beaker and etheretic condenser on Bibbie’s desk, since Monk’s sister wasn’t there to object, she started the process of tamper-proofing the first batch of ink.
Task completed, she returned to the client armchair with a book about the impact of cosmic rays on the etheretic field, which she’d borrowed from Monk. Her practical skills might leave a lot to be desired but there was no reason why she couldn’t be a theoretical expert. And who knew? Maybe if she read enough of his books some of his genius would rub off. A forlorn thought, most likely…
But there’s no law against dreaming.
Twenty minutes later the percolating ink on Bibbie’s desk hissed then evaporated in a belching of noxious orange smoke.
Melissande stared at it. “What? How did that happen?”
Reg sniggered.
“Huh,” she said, still ignoring the bird, and started the tamper-proofing process again with a fresh lot of ink.
Fifteen minutes after that, just as she staggered to the end of chapter five, the ink fizzed, turned bright yellow and condensed into a scum of froth around the lips of both test tube and beaker.
She let Monk’s book drop into her lap. “Oh, please. I know it’s Mister Cripps’s cheapest ink but this is ridiculous.” Muttering under her breath, she cleaned the test tube and beaker again, replaced the conductive tubing, triple-checked the etheretic condenser, poured her third batch of ink—good job she hadn’t succumbed to the temptation of a more expensive brand—and settled back into the armchair.
Seven laborious minutes into chapter six, the third batch of ink erupted into bubbles. Incredulous, Melissande looked up, saw the ink morph in a flash from black to emerald and made a frantic dive for test tube and beaker.
Too late. With a last despairing fizzle the ink expired in a cloud of damp green mist. She sneezed, then broke a cardinal rule and threw Monk’s book to the floor.
“Oh—oh, buttocks!”
The cry roused Reg from her pretend doze on the ram skull. “Language, madam.”
“Language yourself,” she retorted, tugging off her glasses so she could clean the green mankiness off them. “You’ve said much worse, I’ve heard you.” Having ruined the tail of her blouse, she shoved the glasses back on and turned. “Buttocks, buttocks, buttocks, so there.”
Instead of scolding, Reg stared into the distance, a reminiscent gleam in her dark eyes. “I had buttocks once,” she said dreamily. With a ruffle of feathers she hopped from the ram skull to the open window, because the drifting green mist smelled like a men’s locker room whose cleaners had gone on a workers’ picnic. “They were lovely. All tight and firm and round like a fresh young peach.” Another remembering sigh, and then a considering glance at Melissande’s trouser-clad behind. “I could show you some exercises if you like.”
“I really wouldn’t,” she said, teeth gritted.
“Well, you should,” said Reg. “Tight buttocks can take a girl a lot further than you’d think.”
She closed her eyes. Count to ten, count to ten, get to ten and keep on counting… “Look,”
she said, snatching up her glass potion stirrer and waving it for emphasis, “why don’t you make yourself useful for once and help me work out what’s gone wrong with the stupid stuff this time.” Gingerly she poked the rod into the beaker and stirred the teaspoon-worth of green sludge at the bottom; the end of the rod promptly melted.
“Whoops,” said Reg, with another snigger.
“Oh bu—ugger it!” she shouted, one wary eye on Reg, and stamped about the tiny office to relieve her feelings. Thanks to the wretched bird she was aware of a slight but definite wobbling sensation in regions she had no intention of mentioning ever again. “It just doesn’t make sense,” she fumed, still stamping. “I followed the incant exactly. Every time!”
“Then you must’ve misremembered it,” said Reg.
“Nonsense. I’ve tamper-proofed so much ink in the last two years I could do it in my sleep.”
Reg tut-tutted. “Then I blame that Madame Rinky Tinky and her cut-rate under-the-counter flim-flam of a correspondence witching course. That’s who taught you the technique, isn’t it?”
Melissande groaned. So much for Reg’s newfound restraint. I should’ve known it was too good to last. “There’s nothing wrong with studying metaphysics by mail. Gerald studied metaphysics by mail and look where he is now—a super special secret agent in a government Department that’s so hush-hush they’re not allowed to tell themselves they exist!”
“True,” Reg conceded, then looked pointedly down her beak. “But Gerald had me.”
Slumping against the filing cabinet, she glared at the test tube and beaker. “It’s got to be the ink. I’m going straight back to see Mister Cripps and give him a piece of my mind. He’s got no business selling substandard ink to unsuspecting customers. It may be his most economical brand but that’s no excuse for—”
“Now, now,” said Reg. “Only a bad worker blames her tools.” Staring at the residual mess in the test tube and beaker, she shook her head. “Deary deary dear. You really have cocked it up this time, haven’t you? Good lord, madam, what were you thinking? Gerald never—” And then she squawked as a pointed finger was jabbed between her eyes.
“I swear, Reg,” breathed Melissande, “on my honour as a princess, finish that sentence and I will shove your beak where the sun doth not shine!”
Reg sniffed. “You know what your problem is, don’t you, ducky? You can’t take a little constructive criticism, that’s your problem. You may be Her Royal Highness Princess Melissande in disguise but you don’t have the authority to shove my beak anywhere. And even if you weren’t in disguise and you owned up to being an HRH instead of prancing about calling yourself Miss Cadwallader and you did have that kind of authority, I’m a queen and therefore outrank you.”
“Once upon a time you were a queen, Reg,” she snapped. “Now you’re just a bird of no fixed parentage. And disguise or no disguise, if you think I’m going to be dictated to by an ambulatory feather duster with delusions of grandeur you can bloody well think again!”
From outside the open window a coolly amused voice said, “Now now, girls. How about a little decorum?”
CHAPTER FIVE
With a startled squawk Reg fell off the windowsill to land beak-first on the elderly cabbage-rose carpet. With an equally startled cry of “Reg!” Melissande leapt forward and scooped her up to make sure she was all right.
“Izz by deak brogen?” mumbled Reg, eyes rolling. “Id veels brogen!”
“No, no, it’s not broken,” she soothed, straightening Reg’s mussed feathers and sitting her gently on the seat of the client armchair. Then she whipped around and glared at the face in the window. “Bibbie! For the love of Saint Snodgrass, what are you doing? If anyone catches you levitating yourself we could lose—”
“Oh, relax,” said Bibbie, waving one hand. “I hexed a dustbin lid, not me.”
“Well don’t. Now get down! Or get inside! Quick, hurry, before someone notices!”
Monk’s appalling sister grinned, folded her arms along the windowsill and rested her elegant chin on her wrists. “Come on, Mel. Don’t be a spoilsport.”
“I am not a spoilsport, I’m trying to save our hides. If the landladies walk in and see you hovering out there they’ll have conniptions. You know what they said about Peculiar Goings On. We’re already up to our fifth official warning and we’ve only been here three and a half months. One more incident and we’ll be out in the street!”
Bibbie sighed. “Mel, relax. Our landladies aren’t going to see me up here, the old dears are as blind as a herd of bats. But even if they do see me they’ll just think I’m a well-dressed weather balloon. Or a novelty kite.” She frowned. “I wonder… is there such a thing as a herd of bats? Maybe it’s a flock. Or a gaggle. Or possibly a school…”
“Trust me when I say I neither know nor care,” said Melissande grimly. “But if there were more than one of you, for which I thank Saint Snodgrass daily there isn’t, you’d be known as a Headache of Emmerabiblias! And don’t call me Mel!”
Bibbie pretended to pout. “Monk calls you Mel.”
“You’re not Monk!”
“Sorry,” said unrepentant Bibbie, back to grinning.
She took a deep and goaded breath. “This is not funny! You just about frightened the life out of poor Reg! Now would you please be serious for five consecutive minutes and come inside? It’s well after half-past nine, which means you’re horribly late.”
“Sorry,” said Bibbie, still unrepentant. “I over-slept. After I got back to the boarding house Demelza Sopwith and I ended up in an argument about the accurate measuring of etheretic fluxes and it went on for hours. Oooh, she’s such an ignorant hag. She says you need to take five readings to be certain of the thaumic variations but I say you only need three, provided you—”
“Yes, yes, yes,” she said impatiently. “That’s fascinating, Bibbie, and I’d love to hear all about it, honestly, only not now. Now you need to come inside before I drag you inside. I want your help.”
“Help?” Bibbie looked pleased. “With what?”
She felt her chin tilt. “Nothing much. Hardly anything at all, actually. Just—”
“She’s forgotten how to make tamper-proof ink,” said Reg. “So if you’re quite finished impersonating a deranged bumblebee, ducky, perhaps you’d care to join us and earn your keep.”
When it came to Reg, Bibbie had a hide like a rhinoceros. Instead of arguing, she just nodded and smiled. “Not a problem, girls. Don’t go away.” And with a jaunty little wave she dropped out of sight, plummeting like a hydraulic lift with its cables cut.
“Bibbie!” Melissande threw herself precariously across the windowsill, sure that Monk’s mad sister would end up smashed to pieces on the ground. But no—she was touching down on the cobbles quite safely with a gentle clatter of hexed dustbin lid. “And don’t forget to check the mailbox on your way upstairs!” she shouted.
Another jaunty wave was the only reply.
Sighing, she hauled herself back into the office. “It doesn’t matter how many times I remind her, she always forgets to fetch the first post.”
Reg snorted. “Too busy levitating. She’s as bad as her brother, that girl, and that’s saying something.”
Despite her aggravation Melissande smiled as she picked up the scattered bits and pieces of the discarded Ottosland Times.
“Well, I suppose it’s to be expected. They are related, after all. And really there’s no harm in her. She’s just young and high spirited. I expect I’d be the same if Lional—” She cleared her throat. “Well. If he hadn’t turned into a homicidal maniac.”
“You’d be young and high spirited if you had tighter buttocks,” said Reg. “I’m telling you, ducky, flab is not your friend.”
The bird was saved only by Bibbie’s arrival. Witnesses to murder were so inconvenient.
Melissande swallowed a bubble of unbecoming envy as Monk’s sister sauntered into the office, the morning mail tucked under one arm. Every so often—like right
this moment, for example, probably thanks to the spirit-crushing debacle of the exploding tamper-proof ink—she found herself struck speechless by the girl.
Simply put, Emmerabiblia Markham looked like a princess. Well, the way people imagined a princess should look, anyway. And despite being the genuine royal article, Melissande Cadwallader regrettably didn’t. Not even when she went to the trouble of sprucing herself up.
Slender and shapely in watered green silk, with the kind of complexion oft-compared to strawberries and cream, Bibbie also enjoyed luxuriously waving hair the obligatory colour of a sun-ripened wheat field, cherry-red lips, eyes like blazing sapphires and so on and so forth ad absolutely nauseum and sometimes—galling as it might be to admit—it was hard to feel anything but inferior. Especially since Bibbie was also a phenomenally gifted witch.
Beautiful and talented: it was a daunting combination.
But at least there was one tiny glimmer of salvation: talented, beautiful Bibbie was practically bereft of common sense. Without Captain Melissande’s pragmatic hand on the tiller, the good ship Emmerabiblia would have capsized some time in the first week of the agency’s operation. In her weaker moments, like this one for example, Melissande hugged that comforting knowledge tight.
“Well, that was fun,” said Bibbie, nudging the office door closed, her face alight with mischievous amusement. “One of the boys from Briscowe’s Bootlaces pulled a shell game with all our postboxes. Nobody’s letters were where they’re supposed to be and there was so much squawking the foyer sounded like a poulterers’ convention run amok.”
“But this is our mail?” said Melissande, snatching it from her and perching on the arm of the client’s chair. “You’re sure? Because that Mister Davenport swore blind he was posting us payment and there’s the milk account due tomorrow and—”
“Of course it’s our mail,” said Bibbie, waving a negligent hand. “A simple locati locatorum and hey presto, confusion resolved. It was so simple I did one for everybody.”