by K. E. Mills
Trust Reg to remember that. “Nothing,” she muttered. “Shut up. I’m trying to read.”
But instead of reading she stared at Bibbie’s picture, her attention transfixed. It was petty, no, it was smaller than petty, to feel her throat close up and her eyes burn hot. It wasn’t Bibbie’s fault she’d still look glorious dipped head to toe in mud. That even under such kerfuffled circumstances as yesterday’s she could emerge at the end of the fracas looking cool, calm, unruffled and glamorous.
I really thought that horrible little man was photographing me. With Bibbie standing there? How silly could I get…
“ So?” said Reg, and tugged on a stray, escaped lock of hair. “Well? What does it say about us?”
“What?” she said, blinking hard. “Oh. I don’t know. I haven’t finished reading.”
“Then finish,” said Reg. “I don’t know, young people these days, no application, no discipline…”
With a concerted effort she banished treacherous self-pity and focused on the brief article about the previous day’s eventful Golden Whisk competition.
“It doesn’t say very much,” she said after swiftly perusing the two short paragraphs. “Only that some hanky-panky-unspecified-was thwarted at the Guild’s annual baking contest. And there’s a quote from Permelia Wycliffe about the organisation’s unsullied international reputation and dedication to transparent cooking practices.”
“You mean we’re not mentioned?” said Reg, scandalised. “And that Wycliffe woman didn’t give us due credit?”
“No. Which I admit is a little disappointing.” She frowned, thinking about that. “Although I wonder…”
“ Wonder? What’s to wonder, madam? We’ve been gypped!” Reg retorted, vibrating with outrage. “We saved the day, ducky, we rescued the Guild’s bacon from the fires of a public roasting and now we’ve been filleted, we’ve been fricasseed, we’ve been-”
“Oh, Reg, do calm down and think for a moment.”
“There’s nothing to think about!” Reg screeched. “We was robbed!”
She sighed. “No, Reg, we were gazumped.”
“ Gazumped? What’s that? That’s not even a word!”
“It’s a government thing,” she said, and tapped the newspaper. “I’ll bet you a week’s supply of mice that the whole story was kept vague because someone important had a word with the editor. Don’t forget, Reg, in the end this case boiled down to black market thaumaturgy. That’s not the kind of thing Monk’s Uncle Ralph wants splashed across the Times ’s front pages. From the little Monk’s told me, the less people know about the thaumaturgical black market the better off we’ll all be.”
But Reg was in no mood to be placated by anything so humdrum as reasonable common sense and sober government responsibility. Taking to the air, she flapped about the office in a rage.
“I don’t give a tinker’s cuss about your young man’s uncle! If that Sir Ralph’s so worried about black market thaumaturgy, I say let him knock it on the head without trampling all over our moment in the sun!”
Melissande shook her head. “Well, yes, Reg, it would’ve been nice if we’d been mentioned by name but-”
“ Nice?” Panting, Reg thumped onto her ram skull. “ Nice would be you not taking the bureaucrat’s side, ducky! You know what your problem is, don’t you? You still think you’re a bloody prime minister!”
What? “Oh, that’s rich coming from someone who’s been a bird for the last four centuries and still wants everyone to treat her like a queen!” Ignoring Reg’s sharp, offended gasp, she turned back to the Times. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to-”
“Girls! Girls! Did you see?” cried Bibbie, frothy in pink muslin and dancing into the office brandishing another copy of the Times. “We’re famous!”
“Famous? We’re not famous!” Reg retorted. “We’re ignored is what we are. And madam here can’t see it’s a disaster! She’s too busy applauding a government cover-up!”
Surprised, Bibbie stopped dancing and stared at them. “Ignored? What are you talking about, Reg? There’s an article and a photograph.” She shook the paper again. “Haven’t you seen it?”
Melissande lifted her own copy of the Times. “We saw,” she said, then glanced at the clock. Ten to nine: an early morning record for Bibbie. “Reg is upset because the agency didn’t get a mention. I’ve been trying to explain that-”
“But we did get a mention,” said Bibbie. “Didn’t you read the caption on the photo?”
Caption? No. She hadn’t wanted to look at the picture that closely.
With an impatient sigh, Bibbie lifted her paper. “ Miss Emmerabiblia Markham, co-proprietor of Witches Inc.,” she read aloud, “ after successfully unmasking the Golden Whisk cheat.” She looked up. “See? It’s all there in black and white. So there’s no need for Reg to be in a flap. Just you wait, the phone will be ringing off its hook after this.”
Feather by feather, Reg let her ruffled plumage settle. “Oh. Well. That’s more like it. Of course it’s not the same as being mentioned in the actual article, but it’s better than a slap in the face with a stunned mullet.”
Bibbie dropped a swift kiss on the top of Reg’s head then perched on the edge of her desk. “It’s a lot more than that,” she said. “It’s utterly fantabulous. We could never have afforded this kind of publicity.”
Melissande sat back in the client’s armchair and brooded at the photo.
The little cogs and wheels of her imagination were clicking, stirring up a definite sense of unease.
“Oh-oh,” said Bibbie, noticing. “I know that look. Come on, Mel. Out with it. What’s wrong now?”
She tapped a finger on the picture of Monk’s triumphantly smiling sister. “What’s wrong is I’m not entirely certain this kind of attention really is going to do us any favours.”
“Whatever do you mean?” said Bibbie, astonished. “We’re going to be run off our feet after this. Saving the Baking and Pastry Guild’s day is going to put us on the map!”
She shook her head. “I don’t have a problem with the agency appearing on a map. I’m just not convinced that us being turned into topographical features is a good idea.”
Bibbie stared at page twelve in her own copy of the Times. “Being photographed, you mean? But Mel, it was your picture with Monk at the opera that got us the Guild job. How can that be a bad thing?”
“It wasn’t,” she admitted. “But Bibs, really, think about it. Ottish society’s already forgotten that photo of me. You, on the other hand, are an entirely different boatload of monkeys.”
“Oh, please, don’t start on that,” Bibbie muttered, squirming. “You know I hate it when-”
“Too bad,” she said firmly. “Like it or not, Bibbie, the fact is that you don’t have a forgettable face.”
Bibbie scuffed the carpet with the toe of her pink kidskin slipper. “Possibly,” she said grudgingly. “But I fail to see what that’s got to do with anything.”
“Oh, come now. You must. I mean, we were successful yesterday because Millicent Grimwade didn’t have a clue who we were. But how successful are we going to be next time, do you think, if we need to be inconspicuous and you’ve been turned into a walking advertisement for the agency?”
Bibbie tossed aside her paper and slid off her desk. “That’s not fair, Melissande! I didn’t ask for my picture to be taken.”
She held up one placating hand. “I’m sorry, Bibbie. Of course you didn’t. This isn’t your fault. I just think we need to be careful, that’s all. The last thing we can afford to do is limit the kind of jobs we can accept. We need to grow Witches Inc., not prune it while it’s still practically a seedling.”
“Mel, honestly, you worry too much,” said Bibbie, pouting. “Why are you always looking for the silver cloud’s dark lining?”
Reg rattled her tail feathers. “Now, now, ducky. Madam’s got a point. Being famous is all very well for five minutes. After that it tends to get inconvenient.”
Asto
nished, Melissande swivelled round in the client’s armchair. “You’re agreeing with me now? You know, Reg, I do wish you’d make up your mind.”
“She must be sickening for something,” said Bibbie, with a teasing smile. “Take her temperature, quick.”
“Yes, yes, very amusing,” said Reg, rolling her eyes. “But you mark my words, Mad Miss Markham. There are far worse things in this world than being anonymous.” She sniffed. “Trust me, I speak from personal experience.”
Now it was Bibbie’s turn to roll her eyes. “And nobody’s had as much personal experience as you, we know.”
“Well, nobody has,” Reg snapped. “And you’d do well to remember that instead of-”
Reg’s familiar scolding refrain was interrupted by the telephone, ringing. Bibbie picked up the receiver. “Good morning, this is Witches Inc. No thaumaturgical task too large or too-I’m sorry? — Yes, this is Miss Markham.-Yes, that’s me in the Times.-Why yes, I am Aylesbury Markham’s sister.-Distinguished? Well, that’s one word for him.-Really? How very distressing for you, Miss Martin. Perhaps you’d care to stop by the agency so we can discuss your situation in person? Just a moment and I’ll look in our appointment book…”
“Reg,” said Melissande, keeping her voice down, “tell me not to get my hopes up, would you? Remind me that it’s still very early days. Lecture me on not counting my chickens while the eggs are still being laid.”
Reg’s dark eyes gleamed. “I don’t need to, ducky. You’re far from perfect but you’re a sensible girl… and a little bit of dreaming never hurt anyone.”
“ Well!” said Bibbie, grinning, as she hung up the phone. “Whoever would have thought Aylesbury could come in handy? Wonders will never cease.”
Melissande took a deep breath, trying to steady her unsteady heart. “A new client?”
“Prospectively,” said Bibbie. “The Honourable Miss Letitia Martin. She saw the story in the paper and she knows Aylesbury. Thinks he’s charming, what’s more, which means either she’s a noddycock or she can’t have known him very long.”
“When is she coming in?”
“After lunch.”
“And what’s her problem?”
Two dimples danced in Bibbie’s cheeks. “Aside from the fact she thinks Aylesbury’s charming? She’s lost some valuable jewellery and wants us to find it. Tactfully. No public hue and cry.”
“Oh? Well. That doesn’t sound too hard.”
“Not hard at all,” said Bibbie, openly grinning again. “It’ll be money for jam. We’ll be rolling in dosh soon, just you wait and see!”
“At this point, madam, allow me to remind you about unhatched chickens,” Reg said severely. “One new client does not a bursting bank account make.”
Bibbie groaned. “You’re such a spoilsport, Reg. Why don’t you go catch a mouse or something so Mel and I can celebrate in peace?”
“I might just do that,” Reg retorted. “Because for all your overconfidence, ducky, a mouse might be the only thing standing between the three of us and starvation before long!”
“ Honestly, Bibbie,” Melissande sighed, watching Reg flap across next door’s rooftop in high dudgeon. “You know she’s only trying to help.”
“Trying to burst my balloon, you mean,” Bibbie grumbled. “Just once you’d think she could be encouraging.”
Yes. Well. Probably it was time to change the subject. “Look at the time!” she said brightly. “Permelia Wycliffe will be here soon. We should spruce up the office, I think.”
But instead of sprucing, Bibbie slumped against her desk, arms mutinously folded, her brow scrunched in another scowl. “Reg should stop treating me like a-a peahen. I mean, you’re not the only one who’s been losing sleep lately, Mel. This place is all I have that’s me. If it doesn’t work out I’ll have to go back to being a gel. It’s all right for you. You might not much like being a princess but at least it means nobody dares tell you what to do.”
“Ha,” said Melissande. “That’s what you think. There’s an entire herd of lords back home who do nothing but witter on about my frivolity and make formal demands that I come home and be decorative.”
“Yes, but you don’t have to pay attention to them,” said Bibbie, impatient. “You can tell them to shut up and they have to listen because you’re the king’s sister and they’re not.”
Bibbie really did look unhappy. “What’s going on, Bibs?” she said, pushing out of the client’s armchair to perch beside her on the edge of the desk. “Who’s been filling your head full of rainclouds? Not Monk?”
“No, of course not Monk,” said Bibbie. “He’s the only one who really understands.” She shrugged. “But everyone else seems to think that all I should care about is making a brilliant marriage. Even Father, and he’s forever boasting about me to his wizard chums. I tell you, Mel, you may get away with wearing trousers in public but the world is still full of Great-uncle Throgmortons. I don’t care if I never get married. I want a large life. A life that has purpose. I mean, truly, what’s the point of being a thaumaturgical prodigy if I never get to be prodigious?”
Melissande cleared her throat. “Yes, well. Not that I’d know anything about being a prodigy, of course, but-”
“Oh, Mel, I’m sorry,” said Bibbie quickly. “I didn’t mean to-I wasn’t thinking.”
She bumped Bibbie with her shoulder. “Never apologise for speaking the truth. You are a prodigy, just like Monk. Almost like Gerald. And I’m not.”
“No, you’re not. Far from it,” said Bibbie, with more honesty than tact. “But you’re a genius at being practical and organised and that’s nothing to sneeze at.”
Possibly not, but it hardly compared. Still. No point pining after the impossible. “The thing is, Bibbie,” she said firmly, “that I do wear trousers and I don’t get hauled off the street. Slowly but surely things are changing. So you’re not to lose heart, do you hear me? Married or not you will have a large life full of purpose. In fact it’s my belief you’re going to take life by the scruff of the neck and shake it into trembling submission. We both are. Starting with Witches Inc., which is going to be the most successful witching agency in the history of Ottosland. Agreed?”
Bibbie straightened out her slump. “Yes. All right. Agreed.”
The phone rang eight more times while they were dusting and rearranging and getting ready for Permelia Wycliffe’s arrival. Three of the callers were eager young men pretending to require assistance from Miss Markham. They were given short shrift. But the other five were genuine enquiries for agency help, and were duly noted in the appointment book. Bibbie managed to restrain herself from saying “I told you so,” but her eyes shone like blue stars and her lips remained curved in the faintest of smug smiles.
Melissande didn’t begrudge her. The more clients the merrier. And it’s always possible I’m making grapefruits out of lemons. Bibbie’s right: I am a worrier by nature… and Lional only made things worse. Perhaps I need to start looking on the bright side first instead of last.
At precisely ten o’clock Permelia Wycliffe arrived, this time without Eudora Telford in tow. “Good morning, Emmerabiblia,” she said grandly, sweeping into the office like a duchess on a goodwill tour. Her costly mourning attire was elegantly restrained, as before, her discreet sapphire necklace quietly expensive. “Miss Cadwallader,” she added, almost as an afterthought.
So… in the absence of Miss Telford’s staunch royalism she’d been emphatically demoted. Hiding her amusement, Melissande nodded. “Miss Wycliffe,” she murmured, and indicated the freshly plumped client’s armchair. “Please, do have a seat. Might I offer you some refreshment?”
Permelia Wycliffe thawed the merest fraction. “Thank you. Yes.”
Further relegated to the role of maidservant-a good thing Reg hadn’t come back or she’d be blue-faced on the floor with suppressed laughter, feathers and all-Melissande busied herself with brewing a pot of tea and setting out some freshly bought macaroons on their only unchipped plate. Wh
ile she toiled, Bibbie and Miss Wycliffe exchanged animated reminiscences about late lamented Great-aunt Antigone. Clearly, as far as Permelia Wycliffe was concerned, Melissande Cadwallader didn’t exist.
But that doesn’t matter, Melissande reminded herself. It’s her money I’m after, not her undying friendship. An unflatteringly mercenary attitude, to be sure, but hearts-and-flowers didn’t pay the rent.
Once the tea and cakes had been served and consumed it was time to get down to business. Permelia Wycliffe withdrew from her gold-embroidered reticule a sealed envelope and gave it to Bibbie. “Payment for services rendered, Emmerabiblia, as agreed. Your performance yesterday on the Guild’s behalf was most impressive. So impressive that I have no qualms at all in entrusting to you an even more serious and sacred task.”
More sacred than the honour of the Baking and Pastry Guild? This was going to be something.
“It was our pleasure to be of service, Miss Wycliffe,” said Melissande, neatly plucking the envelope from Bibbie’s grasp. “And we’re gratified that you wish to trust us again.”
Permelia Wycliffe looked down her nose. “As you should be, Miss Cadwallader.” She turned again to Bibbie. “What I’m about to divulge to you, dear Emmerabiblia, is highly sensitive information. I must ask that you not repeat it to another soul.”
Seated on her own desk chair, pulled out for the occasion, Bibbie leaned forward and daringly patted Permelia Wycliffe’s gloved hand. “You have our solemn promise, Permelia. Client confidentiality is the Witches Inc. watchword.”
Permelia Wycliffe drew in a deep breath through pinched nostrils, her fingers fiercely interlaced in her lap. “Emmerabiblia… the Wycliffe Airship Company is nursing a viper in its bosom.” Incredibly, her voice broke on the last word, and her eyes glittered with emotion. “One of my gels is-is a thief.”
As Permelia groped in her reticule for a handkerchief, Melissande slid the envelope she’d given them into her desk drawer and exchanged a raised-eyebrow look with Bibbie, who pulled a face. Don’t just sit there, say something! She wasn’t very good with emotional crises, not her own or anyone else’s.