by Ashly Graham
So Jenny squared her shoulders, counted to three, and headed inside.
”
Chapter Thirty-Five
“
It was at this moment that what vestige of worldliness Jenny had retained throughout the course of the day vanished. For instead of leading back into Hecate’s shabby living room, the dark narrow hall opened into a black and white marble-floored vestibule with mirrored walls and a frescoed ceiling.
At the far end, on either side of a pair of high doors surrounded by gilded architrave, stood a pair of stiff-necked footmen in powdered wigs. The high nasal voice of one of them was announcing the name of the last person to have arrived. Judging from the din that was coming from within, this was no more than a formality, for it was unlikely that anyone could hear.
‘Some open house,’ breathed Jenny, stopping. But then, reminding herself that she had emerged from her quandary about whether to attend the occasion or not, she crossed the vestibule and addressed the chin of the footman on the left.
‘Lady Eugénie Beauvais Plantagenet,’ she said with a trace of defiance, hoping that her birth title would overcome any reluctance the man might have to admitting a person dressed as she was who could produce no evidence that she’d been invited. The footman’s eyes, which had closed after his previous nomenclatorial exclamation, opened fractionally and, without moving his head, he looked Jenny up and down.
Self-consciously she checked herself...and went rigid with disbelief. Gone were her corduroy jacket and cotton blouse, and gone her woollen skirt and sensible shoes; her satchel she must have left in the other room, if it still existed.
Incredulous, Jenny looked in the glass of the wall, where her reflection confirmed her perception of self-transformation. In place of her workaday clothes she was wearing a full-length gown, jet black and classically elegant, low cut, and made of samite silk. She had on elbow-length black gloves and was carrying a reticule. On her feet were black T-strap pumps with a medium heel that emphasized her already above-average height. Her hair, washed and shining, was worn up in loose coils, clasped at the back with a crystal comb, she was decked with a pair of antique gold and pearl pendant earrings, and a pearl necklace that—Jenny took a moment to consider—looked rather well against her skin. The pearls were large.
The footman must have been satisfied with his inspection, and maybe even awed, for he pivoted and, preceding the hesitant guest into the interior, bawled, ‘The Lady Eugénie Beauvais...ah...’
‘Plantagenet.’
‘Plantagenay!’
Doing her best to suppress her nervousness, Jenny found herself entering a ballroom in which, like a wire through cheese, her arrival cut the hubbub of conversation as people turned. Dazzled by the glare of the elaborate décor, and conscious that everyone was transfixed at the sight of her, she blushed and clasped both hands on her reticule to keep them from trembling.
She was standing at the top of twin balustraded steps that curved to left and right from a podium at the entrance, down to the main floor. There was a strong smell of conflicting perfumes, and sweet Turkish tobacco smoke, a cloud of which hung about the glassy fronds of five great golden chandeliers.
The eyes of every witch, and there must have been several hundred of them, were riveted to Jenny’s face, drinking in every feature as eagerly as, until a moment ago, they had been the champagne in the goblets that they were holding. Amid each cluster of people, mouths that had been open in animated conversation, or admitting a canapé plucked from one of the silver plates that the waiters were circulating, remained so.
As soon as good breeding had restored her poise, and she was able to judge her steps, with perfect carriage and a rustle of silk Jenny stepped smiling down the stairs to her right. Looking straight ahead, she walked in stately manner through the silence across the polished hardwood floor towards the middle of the ballroom. The witches who were in her path fell back to let her through.
Jenny halted at the centrepiece, which was an enormous ice sculpture of Triton, son of Poseidon, on a great round table, complete with trident and shell trumpet, and surrounded by cavorting dolphins. Beneath the Triton, a fountain was spouting a cascade of champagne into tiers of saucer glasses. The white linen cloth was set with bowls of ice that had prawns hooked over the edges by their tails, and there were dip trays of cocktail sauce, and others of wedges of lemon. There were platters of vol-au-vents, smoked salmon on crustless squares of brown bread, pâté de foie gras on thin crackers, and caviar on blinis.
Turning to face the room, Jenny noted that the savoury items being offered around were of similar quality: not the tired sausage rolls, mini pizzas, and ham and pineapple chunks on sticks that she might expect to find at a party held by the impecunious Hecate—but more delicate-looking morsels similar to those on the table.
As for the witches, they did not seem like the ones Jenny presumed herself to have admitted to the apartment, notwithstanding their concealment beneath the weathered hats and the cloaks they had foisted upon her. Although they had hastened past without giving her the opportunity to examine them, those that were before her now were dressed in colourful muslins, satins, and gauze wraps, and had lacquered hair, painted faces, and a lot of jewellery on, some of it good.
Just as suddenly as Jenny’s entrance had stalled it, movement was restored to the ballroom, as if a reel of film, frozen at a single frame, had started to spool again. The low confabulations that replaced the chatter of before sounded serious and intense; and from this, and the many haughty, inquisitive, and frankly envious glances that were being cast in her direction, it was obvious to Jenny that she was the topic of conversation.
Overlaying the atmosphere in the room was the one thing Jenny was prepared for: the easy sound of The Essentials Swing Time Band.
The Ingredients were positioned on a dais with a backdrop of potted palms. Their leader the rump-fed ronyon was waving his baton with panache, and, as B.J. had vouched, the sound was very impressive.
Relaxing a little, Jenny admired the vim with which Fang the wolf’s tooth applied himself to his clarinet, and how well Terence Turknose and his friend Andreas Lip-Tartar coordinated their movements, as they pointed their trumpets at the ceiling in each direction when the musicians played key phrases. She smiled at Sharkey, who was looking cool in a pair of dark glasses, and plucking his double bass so vigorously with a fin that he could have fired arrows from the strings.
The last strains of Little Brown Jug segued into Moonlight Serenade, and Dogtongue the crooner, who’d been panting in time to the introduction as he awaited his entrance, hovered over the microphone.
‘“My love, my one and only love,”’ sang Dogtongue; ‘“come to me tenderly in the June night...let me take you out under the moonlight and sing you a song; a love song, my darling, a moonlight serenade.”’
Since no one approached her and she was beginning to feel the heat of covert scrutiny—it was easier to stare than be stared at—Jenny picked a glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray, and a blinis from the table, and walked across the room towards…three huge open glass doors in the opposite long wall of the rectangular room, which was also made entirely of transparent glass.
The doors, which Jenny assumed to be a further metamorphosis of the famed windows, gave onto what looked like a broader and wider version of Dragonburgh’s roof terrace. Many more witches were gathered upon the terrace, and either entering the ballroom or spilling out of it.
Spotting a pair of witches near the glass doors who were engaged in so deep an entre-nous that they had not noticed her entrance, Jenny sidled up and stood with her back to them, to conceal her presence and enable her to eavesdrop.
‘The formula I swear by, Boadicea,’ said one of them, who had a mole on her cheek and a poor eye for matching colours, ‘for gonorrhoea calls for ratsbane instead of shrew paste. Works like a charm, if there was a charm for it, but if there is I’m not aware of it. You can mix it yourself instead of buying Hec’s preparation
, which smells of Bovril and probably is. Cut the middle woman out wherever possible, that’s my philosophy.
‘It’s not as strong as the original, but clients don’t know that, and when it wears off they have to renew the prescription and you sell them some more. You can have the recipe if you like.’
‘Brill,’ said Boadicea, wiping the excess of a draught of champagne from the hairs on her pointed chin with a lace handkerchief. ‘Good to know, Lucretzia. I’ve been using gall bladder, and grinding it myself. You’ve heard me say it before, but I’ll say it again: there’s often more magic in arm and wrist than any spell. Sorry, Hec. Hic. Beg pardon. Hic.’
‘Ratsbane works better than gall bladder, Boady,’ said Lucretzia. ‘If you like I can drop the recipe over tomorrow night. You’ll need the non-bubonic version, and if you’re low on it you’ll have to be quick, because the Supermart’s putting its price up next week. There’s a shortage, apparently, but thanks to that foresight spell I invested in last year, I stocked up. Bought six cases at twenty per cent off, so I’ll be quids in, as long as it’s used before the expiry date. You can have a case at cost, if you like.’
‘I’m rarely solvent enough to buy in bulk, so thank you, Lucretzia. Tomorrow doesn’t work, though: it’s Book Club and I’m facilitating at Belinda Binge’s house. We’ve been reading that new Guild insider on how to nip these Internet witches in the bud. You can have it if you like now I’m done with it, I’ll trade you for the recipe.’
‘Super. Look, I’ll drop by anyway, and stick an envelope with the recipe in it behind the plant pot on your doorstep, and a can of ratsbane to get you started.’
‘Dandy. Look for a bag with the Internet witch book in it by the pot when you come by. I only need my notes for tomorrow night. Next month we’re reading that Penthesilea novel by Deirdre Djagger, if you’re interested.’
‘Amazon Penthesilea?’
‘I got it on my Kindle Fire, but there’s a paperback too if you’re not into those gadgets.’
‘Oh...come to think of it, Boady, I’ve got a late consultation, so I won’t have time to detour your way. I’ll have my new familiar, Pistol, drop it off. Better make a note on my band programme to remind me. I had a pencil somewhere...ah, here it is. Boad—Pistol—drop off gonorrhoea recipe, and can—pick up book. There. We can sort out the case of ratsbane next week.’
‘Pistol, you say? I didn’t know you had a new familiar, Lucretzia.’
‘Giant newt, trendy don’t you think? A serious upgrade and one I couldn’t afford, but I decided to splurge.’
‘What happened to your ferret, Samantha?’
‘Samantha was crushed in the pannier when Esmé Thurible hit my Airstream making an illegal downturn in one of those new hovercraft—Stargazers, I think they’re called—on the way to the swap meet.’
‘Condolences. Did the insurance cough up?’
‘Sore subject. Esmé was running bare, not even Third Party, and I didn’t carry the Familiars Extension. Too expensive.’
‘If she has a Stargazer, she must have had a really good year. In fact she told me so. Doesn’t make sense she can’t afford insurance.’
‘She lied. She had to cut back like crazy to afford that fancy ride, and insurance was the first thing to go. Her ’Gazer’s on hire purchase at some exorbitant rate of interest. Thurible! Never could drive, that woman, it comes of learning on an automatic. Jumping jujubes, I could have poisoned her, I’m not a Borgia for nothing. She’d have been suspended for a year if there’d been an air cop around, but there never is when one isn’t at fault. She would have been in hot water with the Guild, too.’
‘I got a parking ticket from a sky warden the other day for being a minute late back to a Mart meter. So you got nothing out of Esmé for Samantha? Giant newts are bloody expensive.’
‘She cashed in some bonds her aunt left her, enough for the down payment on Pistol, five gallons of moon juice, and a new pannier. But that was only after I threatened to take her to the Guild court. She kept maintaining that Samantha was worthless, she was so old. So I had Titty Besom pay her a visit. The size Titty is, she can be pretty intimidating.’
‘That old contraption Titty drives, she doesn’t need an airbag, that’s for sure.’
‘Esmé was right, though: the moon juice alone was worth more than Samantha. My old Airstream’s a guzzler.’
‘Sweet. Juice is an iniquitous price per gallon, but there’s nothing we can do about it while the wizard cartel’s in control. There’s talk of five pounds a litre. You have to sell a lot of gonorrhoea lotion and cream to pay that.’
‘Speaking of guzzling, that’s the only drawback to newts, should you be contemplating buying one yourself: any excuse to get pissed. On Saturday nights they’re tiddlier than owls.’
‘Thanks for the heads-up. If I do, I’ll keep the key to the drinks cabinet about my person.’
‘Hey, watch out, old girl—Sissy’s coming up behind you. If I have to hear about her you-know-what operation again I’m going to lose it. Let’s split.’
‘Well spotted. Later, Lucretzia.’
‘Mew mew, Boady.’
Lucretzia and Boadicea parted and moved in opposite directions, as Sissy, a heavily gussied woman with a purposeful stride, passed between them like a foiled underwater missile. She quickly locked onto an alternative target who didn’t see her until it was too late.
Wanting to view the scene outside, Jenny deposited her empty glass on a tray with one hand, scooped up a fresh one with the other, and passed through the open doors onto the terrace. The night air was pleasantly warm on her face, and lit not only by the flaming torches that had been placed in bracket stands at intervals, but the huge moon that she’d observed earlier. It seemed even larger and closer than before, and every crater and rocky polyp was visible.
Jenny sipped her champagne and began to enjoy herself.
Although the area was less populated than the interior, there was plenty of activity, owing to the many air conveyances that were pulling up one after the other at the end of the terrace, where a docking station had been set up. This was manned by a couple of attendants who helped each witch out of her vehicle, onto an apparently unsupported ramp that sloped down to the tiled terrace. From there a plush red tongue of carpet fed into the maw of the ballroom. The gangway was covered by a white canopy, to protect the witches’ hairdos from disturbance by any rain-shower or wind that might threaten to spoil or disarrange them.
The vehicles were as B.J. had described them, very impressive- and luxurious-looking, and Jenny moved closer to admire them. Because there was only room for one conveyance to dock at once, a line of late arrivals was visible in a holding pattern, their headlamps strung like a necklace through the night. Each was sounding its own distinctive horn in an attempt to hurry along those who were disembarking, whereupon some were wasting further minutes of party time by pausing to have their pictures taken by an official photographer wearing a tuxedo.
When each conveyance on final approach pulled up to the terrace ramp, a hydraulic door opened, and its preening occupant emerged onto the walkway. As her familiar did its best to ensure that her dress remained wrinkle-free, the witch paraded along the red carpet as if she were in a fashion show. At the entrance to the ballroom, the latest guest was welcomed with a great deal of air-kissing and insincerity by her friends, who had been looking out for her, and escorted in to make up for lost time at the ever-bubbly champagne fountain.
Having deposited its mistress on terra firma, her familiar withdrew into the vehicle, closed the door and departed so that the next conveyance might come in. Each transport then removed itself to a waiting area an eighth of a mile away, where it hovered to await the summons for departure from the signalling device on the key ring in each witch’s handbag.
From the cluster of coloured flashing lights, and the sound of a weird music and thumping bass that came from the transportation pool, Jenny gathered that the familiars of the wealthier witches were having a
party of their own.
Strolling to the least witch-infested area, the better to admire the moon, Jenny rounded a giant terracotta urn and came face to face with Hecate. The ancient witch was leaning on the parapet smoking a clay pipe, the bowl of which was carved in the shape of a mediaeval gargoyle. Perhaps in disdain or defiance of the finery about her, Hecate was still wearing her pilled shawl cardigan, faded tartan skirt, shapeless blouse, and scuffed pump shoes of earlier in the day.
Hecate cocked an eye at Jenny, drew on the dottle in her pipe until it bubbled, and blew smoke towards one of the attendants as he was handing a guest onto the terrace; it drifted under his nose, causing him to sneeze, and the witch he was helping to stumble.
‘Good evening, Dame Hecate,’ said Jenny. As extraordinary as this all was, she was miffed at the lack of forewarning as to what she might expect, for which there seemed to be no reason. ‘This isn’t quite the event I was expecting, but I do thank you very much for inviting me. The champagne is excellent, even better than Lord Huntenfisch’s. As for the gown, well, what can I say? I’ve never worn anything so glamorous. You have excellent fashion sense.’
Looking at Hecate, Jenny realized the irony of the comment too late.
The old woman took the pipe from her mouth. ‘It was nothing,’ she said laconically, ‘and I did promise. Not everybody is as sartorially negligent as I am on these occasions, and I didn’t want to embarrass you. Though “Every Lover”, as Robert Burton says in his Anatomy of Melancholy, “admires his mistris, though she bee very deformed of her selfe, ill favored, wrinkled, pimpled, pale, red, yellow, tan’d, tallow-faced...crooked, dry, bald, gogle-eyed, bleare-eyed, or with staring eyes...a nose lik a promontory, gubber-tushed, rotten teeth, black, uneven, browne teeth, beetle browed, a Witches beard.”—old Bob Burton never witnessed such a bunch of ugly as confronts us now.’