by K. E. Mills
It was none of the wretched woman’s business, but… “Because I love my brother, Miss Wycliffe,” Melissande said quietly. “And while His Majesty fully supports my desire to be an independent woman of means, his enlightened attitude isn’t shared by all his subjects. So while I forge my way in the world I try to remain inconspicuous, for his sake.”
Permelia Wycliffe smiled. “I understand. And let me say how much I admire you for taking such a bold stance in the face of what must be daunting opposition.”
Melissande felt herself smiling back, for the first time liking Permelia Wycliffe… which came as a surprise. “It would only be daunting if I gave a turnip what the old tossers thought,” she said. “But since I don’t…”
“Oh dear,” said Permelia Wycliffe, her lips twitching. “You mustn’t make me laugh. Miss Petterly will think I’m having a spasm.” She took a moment to rearrange her pens and pencils, then looked up. “Very well, Miss—Carstairs. As soon as I can contrive it I’ll see that you set foot beyond the office. In the meantime I presume you’ll continue to search for this thief among the gels.”
It was her cue to leave, so Melissande stood. “That seems like an excellent plan, Miss Wycliffe. And of course I shall keep you discreetly apprised of the investigation’s progress.”
Miss Petterly gave her a gimlet stare as she left Permelia Wycliffe’s office. “Your in-tray is full, Miss Carstairs. Did I mention that should it not be emptied in a timely fashion a penalty shall be deducted from your weekly wage?”
Melissande bobbed a curtsy in passing. I swear, before this is over I’m going to deduct you, Miss Petterly. “Yes, Miss Petterly. I’ll get right to it, Miss Petterly. Thank you, Miss Petterly.”
She minced back to her horrible little grey cubicle, passing all the other horrible little cubicles where gels clad head-to-toe in sober black bent over their abacuses and their typewriters and their paperwork, striving not to earn a deduction from their weekly wage. Not a single gel looked up as she passed, and the air beneath the high ceiling smelled ever so faintly of an anxious tedium. Clack-clack-clack went all those typewriter keys. Click-click-click went the wooden abacus counters. The office boy dragged his little cart up and down the aisles between the cubicles, its wheels creaking a protest. He never once looked up or smiled.
Probably there’s a penalty for smiling.
Even though this was fieldwork, even though this was a job, one that might well lead to other jobs and the saving of Witches Inc., Melissande shuddered.
Is this what it’s going to be like, then? From the ridiculous to the depressing? Exploding cakes one day, a grim office the next? Sliding in and out of other people’s lives, in and out of their unhappiness and stifled dreams and stunted ambitions, knowing that when I’m done I can leave but they can’t?
Maybe. But that came with the territory, didn’t it? No job was perfect. She just had to remember she’d opened the agency for a reason, to help people who needed helping. All right, so this assignment promised to be dreary. But dreary or not, she was helping Permelia Wycliffe protect her family’s business from a person—or people—who didn’t care who they hurt just so long as they got whatever they wanted. Yes, all right, biscuits… but even so. The principle was noble. This was a calling of which she could be proud. That was worth a little boredom and discomfort.
And let’s face it, Melissande. Life can’t all be interdimensional sprites and exploding chocolate logs.
As promised, her in-tray was now full to the point of overflowing. Swallowing a sigh she slid into her chair, selected a pencil, lined up her abacus and got to work.
Melissande returned to the agency after seven that evening, tired and hungry.
“Well?” Reg demanded from her ram skull. “What happened? Who’s guilty? How soon do we get paid?”
With a groan, still clutching her carpetbag, she dropped into the client armchair. “Too much paperwork, I don’t know yet, and just as soon as I do.”
“Was it awful?” said Bibbie, sympathetically, glamorous as ever behind her desk.
“Yes.”
“And what did you find out?”
She grimaced. “Not much.”
“You don’t even have an inkling of who might be the thief?” said Bibbie, patently disappointed.
“I told you. No. I didn’t have a chance to do any actual investigating. I was too busy processing orders for jalopy door-handles and velocipede tyres.”
“What?” said Bibbie, astonished. “But I thought—”
“It seems Wycliffe’s is diversifying,” she said, and swallowed a yawn. “Where’s Boris?”
“Who knows? Who cares?” said Reg, sniffing. Then she stared down her beak. “You look like a crow in that getup, madam. I almost think I prefer the bustle.”
With another groan Melissande levered herself out of the client chair, took the cat’s dinner out of her carpetbag and staggered towards her adjoining bedsit. “Yes. Thank you, Reg. That’s what I need after today—one of your trenchant fashion critiques.”
“Honestly, Reg,” said Bibbie. “That’s not very nice. The least you could say is that she looks like a royal crow.”
Melissande slammed the bedsit door behind her.
After stripping out of the hideous black blouse and skirt and carefully hanging them up so she could look like a royal crow again tomorrow, she pulled on her beloved tweed trousers and a pale pink blouse then hung out of the tiny window calling for the cat.
Just as she was beginning to despair, Boris leapt lightly through the open bedsit window, all long lean nonchalance, tail flicking, whiskers bristling, and butted her under the chin once or twice to say he was sorry. She unwrapped his fresh fish and put it on the floor, using the waxed wrapping paper as a plate. Then she returned to the office where Reg was sulking on her ram skull and Bibbie was making her share of the office paperclips dance like silver butterflies above the desk.
“I don’t know, Mel,” she said, looking up. “Maybe I should’ve taken the chance and gone to Wycliffe’s. I’d have tracked down the thief by lunchtime. Betcha.”
Melissande dropped again into the client armchair. “No, you would’ve tried to turn the office supervisor into a nanny-goat, which is just what she sounds like and richly deserves.”
Bibbie grinned. “Oooh! Can I?”
“No.”
“Have I ever mentioned you’re a spoilsport, Mel?” said Bibbie, pretending to pout. With a snap of her fingers she dropped the floating paperclips back in their tin dish. “All right, so you were too busy to snoop. What about the hex detector? Did it locate any incriminating sleight-of-hand incants by any chance?”
Drat. Melissande got out of the chair, trudged back to the bedsit, fished the hex detector out of her skirt pocket, trudged back to the office and dropped it onto Bibbie’s desk. “None. Thanks to Wycliffe’s Research and Development laboratory there’s so much ambient thaumaturgical energy in that place your hex detector whimpered and gave up.”
“Hmm,” said Bibbie, staring at the murky orange crystal. “That’s disappointing. What a shame you didn’t stumble across one of the gels shoving packets of biscuits down her knickers.”
She stared. “Yes, I was just thinking that. Oh well. There’s always tomorrow.”
“The answer’s obvious, ducky,” said Reg on her ram skull, rousing from her sulk. “We need a better hex detector. And something thaumaturgical to help us identify our thief. Which is right up Mad Miss Markham’s alley.”
“I was thinking that, too,” said Melissande, nodding. “What about it, Bibbie? Can you come up with something strong enough to swamp Wycliffe’s etheretic atmosphere?”
“You have to ask?” said Bibbie, mildly offended. “Just leave it to me.”
“Gladly. And speaking of leaving things to you, how did you go checking up on the office staff?”
“I left a message with Monk to call me pronto. He knows people who know everything about everyone.”
“Oh,” she said, frowning. �
��You know, Bibbie, I’m not entirely certain I’m comfortable with that.”
“Relax, Mel,” said Bibbie. “It’s called exploiting our resources. Besides, he’d come running to us fast enough if he needed to know something about witches.”
“Well, possibly,” she admitted reluctantly. “Only—”
“Only nothing. Trust me, Mel,” said Bibbie, offended again. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Pleased to hear it. So that’s you taken care of. And tomorrow I’m going to see if I can make friends with some of the gels and find out who the wizards are at Wycliffe’s. Which just leaves Reg.”
Reg fluffed out her feathers. “I can take care of myself, madam, thank you very much.”
“Nobody said you couldn’t, Reg,” she retorted. “But it’s going to take all three of us to solve this case and I’m the one of us on the inside so if you don’t mind? Wycliffe’s has an employee garden. Everybody except Permelia and her brother use it for lunch and sometimes tea break. It’s the perfect place for you to eavesdrop. You never know what might be let slip while people are gossiping, especially if—as I suspect—we’re dealing with more than one thief.”
“What, me sit in a tree all day?” said Reg, staring down her beak.
“Well, yes. That’s what birds do, isn’t it? Sit in trees?”
“Birds, yes,” said Reg. “But I’m not—”
“Going to say one more word,” she said, glaring. “Because unless you can type thirty words a minute, do mathematics on an abacus and fill out purchase orders in triplicate you are going to sit in that garden until your tail feathers fall out, if that’s what it takes to solve this case.”
“Oh dear,” said Bibbie. “I think somebody needs to go nighty-night.”
Melissande rubbed her eyes. “Sorry. I can still hear the typewriters.” Then she looked at Reg. “I know it won’t be much fun sitting there all day, but the employee garden’s the only place you can go where you won’t be conspicuous and there’s a chance to learn something useful from everyone.”
“Everyone except the Wycliffes,” Reg pointed out.
“Yes, except the Wycliffes, but since our clients aren’t paying us to investigate them let’s not get into an argument about that.”
“Agreed,” said Bibbie, before Reg could answer. “And now that we’ve got that settled, don’t you want to know what I’ve been up to while you were slaving over a hot abacus?”
“Oh,” she said, feeling guilty. “Sorry, Bibbie. Yes. Of course I do.”
Bibbie looked at Reg and grinned. Reg couldn’t grin exactly but her eyes went shiny, a sure sign she was pleased.
“Well, for a start I found Letitia Martin’s jewellery.”
“Oh, well done!”
“And I cast three progressive horoscopes, booked in four more consultations and helped two clients who walked in off the street. The first one wanted to know if her young man was stepping out on her. So I looked and he was, the cad. Poor girl cried a river.”
Alarmed, Melissande sat up. “Yes, but did she pay? I mean, you didn’t feel sorry for her and give her the answer for free, did you?”
“She wanted to,” said Reg, before Bibbie could answer. “So I looked at her and she changed her mind.”
Bibbie threw a paperclip at her. “Traitor.”
“No, she’s a lifesaver,” said Melissande, sagging. “What about the other client?”
“She’s a Guild Invigilator,” said Bibbie, still glowering at Reg. “Her daughter’s about to have a baby and she wants me to put up some hexes in the nursery. You know, a lullaby incant so the baby sleeps through the night, something to help it smile a lot and not get colic.” Mercurial as ever, she laughed. “I hate to say it, Mel, but I think we’re going to have to send that Times photographer a box of chocolates.”
“Only if they’ve been laced with a laxative,” she muttered. Then she pulled a face. “Um… is it my imagination or is this frippery work, Bibbie? Millicent Grimwade. Permelia Wycliffe’s purloined biscuits. Babies and horoscopes and cheating young men.”
“Mel, we’re witches,” Bibbie sighed. “Females. Not wizards. As far as the wider world is concerned frippery is what we are, let alone what we’re supposed to do.”
“But doesn’t that bother you? Because I’ll tell you, Bibs, it bothers me.”
“Are you kidding?” said Bibbie. “It kills me. But babies and cads and horoscopes are good bread-and-butter money.”
“Which pays the rent,” Reg added. “And that’s nothing to sneeze at.”
“Yes, I suppose so.” She stifled an enormous yawn. “Saint Snodgrass, I’m tired. Time for supper and bed, I think.” She rummaged again in the carpetbag and this time pulled out what was now a lukewarm pork pie, wrapped in more waxed paper.
Bibbie looked horrified. “What’s that?”
“I told you. Supper. I bought it from a barrow girl on the way home.”
“It looks revolting!”
“Maybe, but it’s cheap. And it’s doing my part for barrow girls.”
“Monk would feed you,” said Bibbie, fanning herself. “There’s no need to be a martyr.”
Melissande felt a blush creep over her cheeks. “Monk hardly ever remembers to feed himself, even when someone puts the meal on the table in front of him. I’m fine. You should head home. Good work today. But tomorrow make sure you find out something about the gels. I don’t want to be stuck in that place a minute longer than is necessary.”
After Bibbie departed, Melissande ate her pork pie—more pastry than pork, but it could’ve been worse—then spent an hour carefully writing up the day’s events for the Wycliffe case file. By then she could hardly keep her eyes open.
“Right. Now I am going to bed,” she announced. “What about you, Reg?”
“I’m off hunting,” said Reg.
Melissande held out her arm for Reg to hop on, then returned to the bedsit and stood by the open window. “Have fun. Be careful. I’ll see you in the morning. Don’t let me oversleep.”
“Hmmph,” said Reg, sleeking all her feathers. “I make no promises, madam. I’m a queen, not an alarm clock.”
With a snap of her wings, she flew into the night.
Melissande changed into her nightgown and crawled into bed. “And I’m a princess, not a gel. But we do what we must in this cold, cruel world.”
On which thought, as Boris draped himself over her knees, she promptly fell asleep.
The next morning, as she trudged through more grim piles of paperwork and resisted the urge to throw her abacus across the room, she jumped to find Permelia Wycliffe standing beside her cubicle.
“Miss Wycliffe!”
“Miss Carstairs,” said Permelia Wycliffe, her tone indifferent. “As Miss Petterly has stepped away from her desk I wish you to take these files down to Mister Ambrose Wycliffe in Research and Development.” She held out a sheaf of buff-coloured folders. “Each one must be perused and initialled and returned to me, in person.”
Clever. Very clever. Wait for Petterly’s morning tea break and pounce. She took the folders. “Yes, Miss Wycliffe. At once, Miss Wycliffe.”
“Cor, aren’t you lucky!” whispered Delphinia Thatcher, as soon as Permelia Wycliffe was safely out of earshot. “Getting to go downstairs, Molly. All those handsome wizards. Have fun!”
Melissande swallowed a smile, just in case one of the other gels was watching. She did like Delphinia. The young woman was a bit like Bibbie—relentlessly cheerful. Determined not to let life squash her.
Blimey, I hope she’s not the thief. That would be awful.
“What’s the matter?” said Delphinia. “You’re not interested in handsome wizards?”
Melissande took a moment to make sure her blouse was tucked in and her hair tidy in its horrible bun. “Oh. Well. I wouldn’t say that,” she murmured, and left the office quickly before Miss Petterly returned.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Well, Dunwoody? Are we set?”
Gerald looked up
from the gauges on the etheretic quantifier and nodded. “Yes, Mister Methven. Gauges are reading at zero.”
Robert Methven, First Grade wizard, thirty-six years of age, graduate of Tenlowe’s Private School of Thaumaturgics, no criminal record, no question marks in his Department file, second most senior wizard at Wycliffe’s, turned back to the model prototype Ambrose Airship Mark VI and raised his hand.
“Very well then, Dunwoody. On three. One—two—three!”
As Methven pressed his thumb to the remote control for the prototype airship, Gerald flicked the switch on the etheretic quantifier. As he watched, the model quivered and began to gently bump up and down in its cradle. A moment later the needles on the quantifier began to flicker, reflecting the thaumic resonance within the prototype’s experimental engine chamber.
“Readings, Dunwoody!”
“Four thaums, Mister Methven. Five—eight—thirteen—oh, dear.” He looked up. “Twenty thaums, Mister Methven. Perhaps we ought to—”
“No, no,” said Methven, impatiently. “We’re still within the tolerances. There’s no point pussyfooting around, man. This is a test, not a tickle.”
Third Grade wizards did not argue with their betters. Third Grade wizards were the equivalent of—of clerks, at Wycliffe’s. They twiddled knobs and filed reports and fetched mugs of coffee for their superiors. They didn’t, if they wanted to keep their job, contradict a senior wizard. Not even when that wizard was making a very big mistake.
And especially not when they’re only pretending to be a Third Grade wizard and shouldn’t be able to sense the thaumic imbalance in the experimental engine’s central chamber.
Gerald held his breath and closed his eyes. Any second now. Any second. Three… two… one…
“Damn!” cried Methven, as the lovingly constructed prototype of the Ambrose Airship Mark VI lurched free of its confining cradle and shot up to the rafters of the laboratory like a bullet.