by K. E. Mills
“All right then, girls,” said Melissande, watching Monk beat a hasty retreat. “Let’s go catch ourselves an invisible sight-seeing interdimensional sprite, shall we?”
As they hurried back to the agency, still on foot unfortunately, given the parlous state of their finances, she could only hope the stares they attracted were the usual ones on account of the tweed trousers, and had nothing to do with the invisible sprite shit becoming inconveniently visible.
Clustered with Bibbie and Reg in the dingy corridor outside their office-Saint Snodgrass be praised the other two offices on their floor were empty-she stared at the agency’s locked door. “So… how do we know the sprite’s still in there?”
Bibbie shrugged. “There’s only one way to find out.” She grabbed her brother’s carpetbag and took out the portable sprite detector. “Stand back,” she added, turning it on. “This could get interesting.”
Melissande flattened herself against the corridor’s far wall and watched Bibbie pass the sprite detector’s copper wire-wrapped rod over their recently painted door.
“Does that answer your question?” Bibbie shouted above the detector’s hysterical shrieking.
Melissande nodded, hands clapped over her ears. “Yes! Yes! Now turn it off before we have everyone in the building up here asking inconvenient questions and calling the landladies!”
Bibbie turned off the detector then unhexed the agency door’s lock. Not that it needed hexing and a key. It barely needed the key, since there wasn’t anything in there worth stealing. But they were a witching locum agency. It was a matter of professional pride.
“Right,” said Bibbie, as the hum from the unhexing faded. “Got your key, Mel? I left mine at the boarding house.”
Of course she did. When it came to “scatty,” Bibbie was a dictionary listing all by herself. She fished out her key, unlocked the door-then hesitated. “Wait. We need a plan first.”
“We’ve got a plan,” said Reg. “Find the sprite, catch the sprite, make that Markham boy eat the sprite for dinner, without mustard. That’s the plan.”
Melissande frowned. “That’s not a very specific plan, Reg. For starters I think that before we go charging in there we’d better make sure we know how to work Monk’s sprite trap.”
“Oh, well, if you’re going to insist on being all sensible about things,” said Bibbie, grinning.
“I don’t know,” she said, suddenly uncertain, while Bibbie read Monk’s hastily scrawled operating instructions. “Perhaps we should wait until Monk’s finished his meeting at the Department. I mean, this isn’t ordinary thaumaturgy we’re dealing with, is it, it’s uncharted territory, and-”
“Bollocks to that,” said Reg, nipping her on the ear. “Since when do we need a man to do our dirty work? We’re Witches Incorporated, ducky, and it’ll take more than some cheeky sod of a sprite on an interdimensional sightseeing safari to get the better of us! Perhaps we should wait for Monk.” She snorted. “I’m surprised at you, madam. And not in a good way!”
“All right, all right,” she muttered. “It was just a suggestion.”
In truth, she was a little surprised at herself. It seemed her confidence had taken more of a battering lately than she’d been willing to admit, even in the privacy of her own thoughts.
Get a grip, woman. You’re a royal princess and a former prime minister. This is no time to be going to pieces.
She turned to Bibbie. “Well? What do you think? Will Monk’s sprite trap work?”
“It ought to,” said Bibbie, thoughtfully. “I mean, his theory’s sound enough-as far as I can tell.” Then she rolled her eyes with sisterly scorn. “Although if he’d bothered to ask me I’d have told him you get much better etheretic cohesion if you use two parts powdered shloss-root to one part dried dragon-tongue, not three. But did he ask? Of course not. Just because he works for the Department he think he knows every-”
“ Excellent,” she said briskly. “So let’s get this over with, shall we? When I open the door, Reg, you fly left. I’ll dart right. And Bibbie, you forge straight ahead with the trap activated. As soon as we spot the sprite, Reg, you play sheepdog and herd it into a corner so Bibbie can get it into the trap.”
“And what are you going to do?” said Reg.
“Take notes for the post-mortem.” She took hold of the door handle. “Right, girls. On three. One-two-”
There was a click and a brief, high-pitched buzz as Bibbie activated Monk’s invention.
“ Three!”
She flung the door wide and they charged into the office like a very small herd of maddened wildebeest.
“There it is!” shouted Bibbie, as the sprite trap’s flux capacitor illuminated the sprite. “Oh look-it’s so pretty!”
Kicking the door shut behind them, Melissande stared at the creature. Bibbie was right, drat her. The sprite was pretty, beautiful even, all dancing blue etheretic particles. Not much bigger than one of Rupert’s late lamented butterflies, it shimmered with an incandescent brilliance as it perched on the test tube of ruined tamper-proof ink. And floating deep within the blue sparkles, a face. Or something that maybe, possibly, looked like a face…
No. No. It’s my imagination. And I am not about to get attached or feel sorry for it just because it’s a long way from home.
“ Ha!” she said. “A pretty big pain in the arse, you mean.” Abandoning her plan, she snatched the sprite trap from Bibbie and advanced. “Come here, you horrible little creature! I’ll teach you to cover me in interdimensional sprite shit!”
“No! Wait!” chorused Reg and Bibbie, for once in perfect harmony. “Don’t do that, you’ll fri-”
Too late. Temporarily brought into dimensional phase by Monk’s sprite trap, the startled sprite emitted a shrill squeak and launched itself into the air.
“After it, Reg!” cried Bibbie. “Melissande, you raving nutter, give me the trap!”
Shamed by her loss of control, Melissande surrendered the sprite trap and stood back as Reg and Bibbie ran and flew to and fro beneath the agitated blue sprite. Cries of “ Go left-watch out for the armchair-go right-higher-mind the umbrella stand-lower-it’s on the curtain rail-no, no, now it’s behind the curtain-yes, ducky, I can see it. I’m old and ensorcelled but I’m not blind yet!” bounced from window to wall and back again as they pursued the agitated escapee from the dimension-next-door.
“Yes! Yes!” shouted Bibbie as Reg, panting like an antiquated racehorse, chased the sprite into the drooping embrace of the potted Weeping Fireblossom Monk had given them as an office-warming present.
With a shout of triumph Bibbie leapt at the sprite, the trap’s door open wide to swallow the creature. “ Gotcha!”
Too late, Melissande realised she was standing in precisely the wrong place. Bibbie’s spectacular leap carried her clear over the potted Fireblossom and “ Ow!” she cried as Bibbie sent her sprawling. “Get off me, get off me!”
“Shut the trap door, shut the trap door!” shrieked Reg, hovering above them. “I’m too old for all this excitement!”
As Melissande and Bibbie both dived for the trap their heads collided with a resounding thwack.
“Ow!” said Melissande. “Bibbie, you idiot!”
“ I’m not the idiot,” moaned Bibbie, clutching her forehead. “ You’re the idiot, you idiot!”
“Oh, Saint Snodgrass preserve me!” said Reg. “It’s getting away!”
On a string of colourful curses Melissande threw herself over Bibbie and slammed the trap’s door shut just as the sprite made a swoop for freedom. “Oh no, you don’t!” she snarled. “You stay in there, you disgusting little horror!”
“Oh do get off me you lump!” said Bibbie, sounding squashed.
Melissande shoved Bibbie sideways. “ Lump? Who do you think you’re calling a-”
“I’m sorry,” said a clipped and disapproving voice above them. “Have we come at a bad time?”
“Bugger,” said Reg, under her breath, and strategically retreated to
her ram skull.
Gasping for air, red-faced from more than exertion, Melissande staggered to her feet. Standing in the open office doorway were two astonished middle-aged ladies. One was short and comfortably plump, her walking-dress an eye-searing combination of mandarin and peacock blue. Her flat-brimmed bonnet was also blue, adorned with a bedraggled mandarin-dyed feather. Her companion, unfashionably tall and uncomfortably spare, was swathed in deepest black silk; a high-brimmed black hat with a sheer half-veil completed her mourning ensemble. Decorating each woman’s buttressed breast was a brightly enamelled pin shaped like a chocolate eclair. The thin woman’s pin was edged with gold.
Clients? Botheration. “Bad time, ladies?” she echoed, painfully aware of her tousled appearance. “Ah. No. Not as such. We were just-ah-”
“Concluding a very important assignment,” said Bibbie, on her feet again. Naturally, though she’d been rolling on the floor with equal abandon, she looked immaculate even while clutching Monk’s doctored birdcage in front of her. Unfortunately she hadn’t thought to deactivate the sprite-revealer, so the blue buzzing creature was in plain, inconvenient sight.
The plump woman squeaked and pointed. “Gracious me, what’s that?”
Bibbie dropped sprite trap and sprite on the desk, neatly flicking the off-switch. There was a high-pitched hum and the sprite promptly vanished. “I’m sorry? What’s what?”
“That, in there,” said the plump woman, quaking. “It looked positively unnatural.” She squinted. “But how strange… it seems to have disappeared.”
Bibbie smiled her most dazzling smile. “I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you. As you can see, the cage is empty. Must’ve been a trick of the light.”
“No, I don’t think so,” said the plump woman. “I definitely saw-”
Melissande cleared her throat. Time to nip this in the bud. “I’m so sorry, but we’re not at liberty to discuss it. Strict orders from the Department of Thaumaturgy, actually.”
“That’s right,” chimed in Bibbie with a dazzling smile. “They trust us implicitly. We have the closest relationship, you’ve no idea. But… top secret, hush-hush, you know how it is.”
“No,” said the tall, thin lady-she of the clipped and disapproving voice. Despite being attired for a longstanding bereavement, everything about her suggested wealth. The cameo pinned beside the gold-trimmed eclair pin was just that little bit larger than her companion’s. The stones in her tasteful gold necklace were real rubies, not garnets. An aura of old money surrounded her, impervious to youthful, upstart charm. “I’m afraid we don’t.”
“You don’t?” said Bibbie, taken aback. “Oh. Well, I’m sorry to hear that. I’d explain, you know, except-hush-hush-top secret-”
“And, as my colleague has pointed out, concluded!” Melissande added firmly, because Saint Snodgrass knew she wasn’t about to let these women or their money get away without a fight. “So… how might we assist you, madam?”
Their unimpressed visitor looked down her high-arched nose. Clearly she was too well-bred to comment on the trousers, but her expression was as eloquent as a politician’s speech. “Young… lady, I doubt very much that you can. In fact, it would appear we have come to the wrong establishment. So if you’ll excuse us-”
“Which establishment were you looking for?” said Bibbie gamely, still trying to dazzle them with her best smile.
“Witches Incorporated,” said their plump visitor, before her disapproving friend could speak.
“Then you’re in the right place!” said Bibbie. “That’s us. Witches Inc. I’m Miss Markham and these are my colleagues Miss Cadwallader and Reg. Reg is the one with the feathers.”
The haughty spokeswoman silenced her companion with a severe look then smiled at Bibbie, not at all dazzlingly. In fact her expression was positively unpleasant. “You have a bird for a colleague? How… quaint.” Her voice could have stripped paint.
“Actually, she’s more of a pet,” said Bibbie, doughtily undaunted. “But we like to humour her. It saves hurt feelings.”
As Reg made a noise like an exploding tea kettle, the disapproving woman looked Bibbie up and down. “I’m sure. However, as I said, we appear to have the wrong-”
“Oh please, Permelia, no!” said the other lady anxiously, plump fingers plucking at her friend’s leg-of-mutton sleeve. “Please, can’t we at least explain what we need? I mean, we can’t leave. We’ve nowhere else to turn and there’s no more time!”
“ Hush, Eudora,” her companion snapped. “Kindly restrain yourself. I hardly think we’re so desperate we must throw ourselves upon the mercy of these two hoydens.”
The chastened Eudora shrank. “Of course not, Permelia,” she whispered. “Only-”
“ No, Eudora. There is no ‘ only ’,” said Permelia, magnificently magisterial. “Obviously the Times has made a grave error. You can be assured I shall have Ambrose speak to its editor in the strongest possible terms. Now I suggest that we withdraw immediately and-”
“Excuse me,” said Melissande, heart sinking. Reg is never going to let me hear the end of this. “ I’m sorry, I don’t wish to be impolite, or-or unbecomingly forward, but by any chance are you referring to this morning’s edition of the Ottosland Times?”
Before the formidable Permelia could speak, her companion stepped forward with a puppyish eagerness. “That’s right, Miss Cadwallader! In the society pages. There was a photograph-and a mention of your agency-”
“Which is clearly a case of misrepresentation!” said icily unimpressed Permelia. “Now hold your tongue, Eudora Telford! I will not have the sterling reputation of our organisation tarnished by an unfortunate-”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Permelia!” Eudora Telford exclaimed, pinkly penitent. “It’s dreadful of me to contradict you, I know, but I simply can’t stay silent, not when such an injustice is being perpetrated upon you!”
“Forgive me, ladies,” said Melissande, very carefully not looking at Reg. “I really don’t mean to be rude, truly, but-” She picked up the agency’s copy of the Times from the rickety occasional table where she’d earlier dropped it, and opened it to the despised social gossip pages. “-did you mean this photograph?”
Courageously ignoring the irate Permelia, Eudora joined her. “Why, yes! That’s the one! Her Royal Highness Princess Melissande of New Ottosland, proprietor of Witches Inc., attending the opera.” She peered at the newspaper, then frowned sideways. “Oh. Dear. My gracious. I’m sorry, Miss Cadwallader, are you quite sure-I mean to say-”
“Of course,” said Bibbie, with a grin as lunatic as her mad brother’s, “when I introduce my esteemed colleague as Miss Cadwallader, really that’s just her name of convenience. Really she’s Her Royal Highness Princess Melissande of New Ottosland. Don’t let the tweed trousers fool you. Go on, Mel. Don’t be shy. Show ’em your tiara.”
It was almost worth Reg’s evil chuckling to see the look of unbearable snobbery congeal on the awful Permelia woman’s face.
“Her Royal Highness?” Permelia said in a strangled voice. “Princess Melissande?”
“Well, yes,” said Melissande. “I’m afraid so.”
“I see,” said Permelia faintly. “Of course. Well. Do forgive me, it appears I–I didn’t recognise you without your bustle.”
“Oh, Your Highness!” cried Eudora, snatching up Melissande’s hand and hanging onto it like a life preserver. “Oh, please, please, you have to help us! Please. It’s ever so important! In fact it’s a matter of life and death!’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Life and death?” said Melissande, discreetly attempting to retrieve her hand from Eudora Telford’s fervent clutches. “Really? How very alarming. Well, of course we’ll help you, if we can. And for a very reasonable fee.”
“Oh thank you, thank you,” the woman said, breathless all over again. “I knew we were right to come to you, I knew-”
“Eudora Telford,” said her disapproving friend. “Do stop fawning. It’s most unattracti
ve in a woman of your age. Especially as you and the princess have not been formally introduced.”
Eudora Telford blushed bright red. “Oh-oh, how awful of me!” she choked. “How embarrassing. Such a social solecism. I’m quite beyond the pale.”
Finally released from the poor woman’s desperate adoration, Melissande cleared her throat, uncomfortable. “Oh no, truly, it’s-”
“Eudora being Eudora,” said Permelia Wycliffe bitingly. “Alas.” Lips pinched in additional, silent criticism, she advanced like a warship under full sail. “Allow me to introduce myself, Your Highness. Miss Permelia Wycliffe. Of the Ravenscroft Wycliffes. Not to be confused with the Lormley Wycliffes, who now find themselves genealogically extinct.” There was no “alas” this time. The addendum And serve them right wasn’t spoken aloud but nevertheless, the words hovered in the air.
Melissande looked at Permelia Wycliffe’s gloved and outstretched hand.
I could be wrong, but I thought I was the one meant to make the first move. And isn’t she supposed to be curtseying or something? I am a princess, after all…
Except Ottosland had long since shrugged off the oppressive shackles of monarchy-Monk’s words, not hers-and now took a positive delight in putting visiting royalty in its place. Although apparently no-one had thought to mention that to Eudora Telford. Banished to the back seat of this encounter, she was bobbing up and down like a cork in a stream.
The part of Melissande that was related to Lional prickled in the face of Permelia Wycliffe’s overbearing condescension. But with penury looming this was no time to indulge offended feelings.
“Miss Wycliffe, it’s a pleasure,” she said, decorously shaking the woman’s hand.
“Likewise,” said Permelia Wycliffe. “Doubtless you have heard of my brother, Mister Ambrose Wycliffe. He heads the Wycliffe family firm. The Wycliffe Airship Company, established fifty-two years ago by my distinguished, world-famous late father Mister Orville Wycliffe.” Her disciplined eyebrows lifted, inviting a response.
“The Wycliffe Airship Company,” Melissande murmured, playing for time. No, she’d never heard of it. Her acquaintance with airships was severely limited, since New Ottosland had never gone in for newfangled contraptions. Installing their own portal had practically caused a revolution. “Ah-”