Witches incorporated ra-2

by K. E. Mills

  Monk grimaced. “Trust me, mate. If I try and stick a spoke in her wheel she won’t be my young lady any more.”

  “Well-well-what about Bibbie? She’s your sister, your own flesh and blood! Are you going to let her put her life at risk? Or is it more important for you to cover your tracks over-what was it? Your whoopsie with the Mushtarkan diplomat’s cousin?”

  “Hey!” Monk protested. “That’s not fair!”

  “And Bibbie’s not at Wycliffe’s,” Melissande added. “She’s holding the fort back at the agency.”

  “But even if I was undercover at Wycliffe’s,” said Bibbie, pink with crossness, “I wouldn’t leave either. What do you take me for, Gerald? Some lisping, chicken-hearted, lily-livered gel?”

  “And what about your future?” he retorted. “I’m assuming you want one!”

  Melissande rolled her eyes. “Oh, do stop trying to frighten us, Gerald. It won’t work. If you want to be useful, concentrate on rattling Errol Haythwaite and finding this dreadful Rottlezinder person.”

  Sighing, he looked at conspicuously silent Reg. “What? You don’t have anything to add?”

  “No,” she said, staring down her beak at him. “You’re still digging your own grave perfectly well without my assistance, Gerald.”

  He felt his jaw clench. “Right. Fine. That’s very helpful. Thank you.”

  Melissande stood again. “Excellent. And now that’s settled we’ll be on our way. It’s despicably late and we’ve got an early start.”

  She headed for the closed parlour door, Bibbie on her heels, coat dangling from one hand. Monk jumped up. “I’ll see you out,” he said, and snatched Melissande’s coat from its hook.

  “Fine,” Gerald called after them. “Good. This is wonderful, girls. I’m glad we got this all straightened out.”

  Instead of following her colleagues, Reg flapped from the sofa to the arm of the chair. “Well,” she said, considering him with a bright eye. “I did say it was going to be interesting, didn’t I?”

  Groaning, he slid into the chair properly and dropped his head into his hands. “Oh, Reg. I don’t mind interesting. It’s impossible I’m having a problem with.” He lifted his head again. “You look well. Are you well?”

  She sniffed. “Much you care if I’m well or not, Gerald Dunwoody.”

  “Oh, Reg…”

  “I’m fine,” she said gruffly. “But you’re looking peaked. Don’t let that plonker Errol Haythwaite boss you about. Or that government stooge, Sir Alec. And don’t worry about madam. I’ll make sure she keeps her mouth shut.”

  “Thanks, Reg,” he said, subdued. “I’d really appreciate it.” He hesitated then added, “I meant what I said in the garden, you know. I miss you. A lot.”

  Monk stuck his head back in through the open parlour doorway. “Reg, they’re going.”

  “I miss you too, sunshine,” said Reg, and flapped out of the room.

  After she was gone, Gerald sat back in the chair and closed his eyes, his head pounding.

  Oh, lord. Oh, Saint Snodgrass. Sir Alec is going to kill me.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I think it’s time you stopped sulking, madam,” said Reg, with a rattle of tail feathers. “You can’t tell me you don’t understand about difficult choices. Every princess knows all about those. Well. Every princess worth her tiara, anyway.”

  Melissande looked up from her horribly early breakfast of hard-boiled egg and glowered. “I am not sulking.”

  “All right, then. Moping… with a snooty look on your face,” said Reg. “Same thing.”

  She sprinkled more salt on her egg. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Look,” said Reg, hopping down from the bedpost onto the bed, and strutting back and forth like a teacher in front of her class. “What did you think was going to happen when Gerald agreed to work for that Sir Alec? Did you think he was going to be romping through alpen fields picking daisies? He’s in a dirty business now, ducky. He’s going to get grimy.”

  “Fine,” she snapped. “If he wants to get grimy that’s his choice. But now there’s a chance his grime is going to rub off on me!”

  Reg stopped strutting and fixed her with an angrily gleaming eye. “Like your grime rubbed off on him, do you mean? Back in New Ottosland?”

  “That was different,” she muttered. “I didn’t know Lional was a raving lunatic.”

  “Yes, well, I think we’ll leave what you did and didn’t know about Lional for another argument,” said Reg. “Let’s stick to this one for now, shall we?”

  Shocked, Melissande stared at her. “I don’t-what are you-I resent that insinuation, Reg!”

  “Yes, I’m sure you do,” said Reg, looking down her beak. “Now as I was saying, it’s time you pulled yourself together, madam. Gerald risked everything by telling us why he’s at Wycliffe’s. And since it has nothing whatsoever to do with why we’re at Wycliffe’s we are going to leave him alone to get on with things. We’re still owed half our retainer, remember?”

  “I don’t understand why you’re defending him,” she complained, ignoring that. “I thought you weren’t even talking to Gerald.”

  “Ha!” said Reg. “Didn’t you know? I’m ambidextrous. I can be itching to kick his arse and yours at the same time.”

  Abandoning her other egg, Melissande got off the bed and stalked over to the window. Gazing across the rooftops, she caught sight of something floating through the sky, flashing silver in the light of the rising sun. A Wycliffe airship.

  Floating not on the air but on a river of innocent blood.

  She turned. “I’m not just worried about me, you know. About how I’ll feel if there’s another portal incident and more people get hurt or-or even die. What about Gerald?”

  “Gerald’s a big boy,” Reg said quietly. “He knew what he was getting into when he jumped in the boat and started rowing with that Sir Alec. There’s no such thing as a perfect solution, ducky. There’s the best you can do at any given moment on any given day and that’s all. Besides, we don’t know what else that Sir Alec knows. If we go wading into the middle of this now, throwing our weight about just because we’re royalty and we think we were born knowing better than everyone else, we could make things worse, not improve them. Is that what you want?”

  “No, of course it’s not,” she said. “And I do not think I was born knowing better than everyone else!”

  “No?” said Reg. “Oh well. If you say so.”

  Melissande choked down the impulse to scream. Reg was the most impossible, infuriating, outrageous -

  “Hey!” Bibbie called from beyond the closed door. “Is anybody here?”

  She marched to the bedsit door and flung it open. “Of course,” she said, stamping into the office. “Where else would we be?”

  “All right, calm down. There’s no need to bite my head off,” said Bibbie, perching on the edge of her desk.

  “Well?” she said, ignoring that. “Did you bring the hexes?”

  Bibbie rolled her eyes. “No. I just slaved through the night finishing the last of them, and making sure they worked, and then left them behind at the boarding house for Mistress Mossop to find. She snoops, you know. I’m starting to think I might have to take Monk up on his house-sharing offer after all.”

  “Good idea,” said Reg, gliding in from the bedsit to land on her ram skull. “Then you can play chaperone and we can move in with you. I’d very much appreciate a bedroom of my own. Madam here snores like a combine harvester.”

  Melissande gasped. “I do not!”

  “No?” said Reg. “Then get Mad Miss Markham to leave a recording incant on in the bedroom and prove me a liar.”

  “I don’t care if Mel snores so loudly all the roof tiles fall off,” snapped Bibbie. “Why would I want to share a house with two people who can’t be bothered to say thank you after someone’s slaved through the night on their behalf!”

  Oh dear. Melissande exchanged a guilty glance with Reg and cleared her throat. �
��Sorry, Bibbie. Did you really slave through the night?”

  Bibbie stifled a yawn. “I slaved through two nights,” she said, waspish. “Because as you very well know my days have been spent slaving in here!”

  “Yes, I do know,” she said in a small voice. “And I appreciate it. We both appreciate it, don’t we, Reg?”

  “I’d appreciate a good night’s sleep more,” said Reg.

  “Oh well,” said Bibbie, with another of her lightning-swift mood shifts. “I suppose it could be worse. I could be impersonating a Wycliffe gel.” She tipped her head, consideringly. “Because honestly, Mel, that awful blouse-and-skirt ensemble doesn’t get any more attractive with the passage of time.”

  Melissande looked down at her black-clad self and sighed. “It doesn’t, does it?”

  “And you being such a fashion plate I’m sure it’s breaking your heart,” said Reg. “But you need to glue the pieces back together again, ducky, because if you don’t leave in the next five minutes you’re not going to get into Wycliffe’s early enough to set our trap. So haul out those hexes, Emmerabiblia, and let’s get cracking.”

  The single most irritating thing about Reg was that too often she was right. “Yes, Bibbie,” she said. “Quickly, explain what I’m supposed to do with them.”

  Bibbie reached into the carpetbag she’d dumped on her desk and pulled out a smoked-glass jar with its lid screwed on. “All right. So what you do is put a hex on any item you think is at risk of being stolen. Things that generally speaking stay put in the office, that don’t have any business being taken out of it? Yes?”

  Melissande pulled a face. “That’s easier said than done. You’re talking about practically everything in the place.”

  “Then choose the thief’s favourite targets,” said Bibbie. “Like Permelia’s special biscuits. One hex for each item, and whatever you do be careful. Anyone who touches a hexed item with bare skin is sort of painted with a detectable thaumic signature, so whatever you do don’t handle the hexes or the items you’re marking without wearing gloves. Otherwise we’ll be wasting a lot of time chasing you instead of our mystery pilferer.” She held out the jar. “I made a hundred. Please don’t tell me you’ll need more than that.”

  “A hundred?” she said, cautiously taking the jar. “Bibbie, that must have cost a fortune. We may be getting more clients now but we can’t afford-”

  “Yes, well,” said Bibbie, beautifully blushing. “You forget I’m a Markham, which means I’m not exactly poor.”

  Ambushed by sudden emotion, Melissande blinked hard then cleared her throat. “Oh, Bibbie. You used your own money? You shouldn’t have done that.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Reg. “Of course she should. We each do what we can, ducky. You wave your tiara about, Little Miss Markham here empties her piggy bank and I–I-”

  “Remind us of things we keep forgetting,” said Melissande. “Especially when we don’t want to remember them.”

  As her eyes met Reg’s she managed a very small smile. Reg sniffed, pretending not to understand, but her feathers ruffled ever so slightly.

  “Anyway,” said Bibbie, and pulled a stoppered test tube out of the carpetbag. “Once you’ve marked all the at-risk items, put one of these hexes on all the doors and windows. Gloves again or there’ll be hell to pay. The two hexes react antithetically, you see. They’re a lot like dogs and cats, they start snarling and spitting when they get too close to each other.” She grinned. “Just like Monk and Aylesbury, actually. Probably that’s what gave me the idea. Well. When that happens-” She handed over the stoppered test tube and pulled out a small blue crystal. “-this hex detector will light up. It’s different from the first one we tried. Much more powerful, and operating on a different etheretic vibration.”

  Melissande shook her head. “That’s marvellous, Bibbie.” And it was. Her inventiveness was amazing. “Except-what happens if the thief triggers the hex detector when I’m not around to see it?”

  “Well, if you’re not on the premises then we’re out of luck,” said Bibbie. “But if you are-even if you’re at lunch in the garden-the hex detector will still react. Its range is good enough, I made sure of that.”

  “And if it does go off while I’m at lunch?”

  “Then you’ll have to find a way to sort of-wave it past everybody,” said Bibbie, shrugging. “It’ll go off again when it detects the presence of the triggered hex-marker on the guilty party.”

  “Excellent,” said Melissande. She retrieved her own carpetbag from the bedsit, stowed the smoked-glass jar, the stoppered test tube and the blue crystal hex detector inside, and straightened. “Is that it?”

  “Not quite,” said Bibbie, and fished again in her own carpetbag. “This is a confounder,” she added, handing over a small perfume spritzer. “For the picking of locks both large and small. One tiny squirt in the keyhole will get you into Permelia’s office, and anywhere else you need.”

  “A confounder,” she repeated. “I see. Ah-something tells me this is a gift horse I shouldn’t look in the mouth.”

  Bibbie grinned. “And something tells me you’re right. Illegal doesn’t begin to cover it.”

  “So is it one of Monk’s little-”

  “Monk?” said Bibbie. She sounded annoyed. “Why do you assume Monk had something to do with it? Honestly, Mel, if you let being sweet on my brother turn your brains to slush I’m going to be very disappointed in you.”

  “Sorry, sorry,” she said hastily. “I wasn’t thinking. So- you made it?”

  Mollified, Bibbie tapped a finger to her nose. “Gift horse, remember? No peeking allowed. And whatever you do, don’t let anyone catch you with it. Since it’s a liquid hex, at a pinch you really can pretend it’s perfume but I don’t recommend more than a single short spritz. Now shoo. So many hexes to distribute, not very much time.”

  Melissande looked at Bibbie’s inventive and illegal gift then closed her fingers around it. Saint Snodgrass give me strength. “Fine. I’m shooing. But are you sure you’ll be all right here on your own again? Maybe Reg should stay in the office today.”

  “No, maybe Reg shouldn’t,” said Bibbie, sharply. “Do you mind? It’s bad enough when Gerald and Monk get all patriarchal on me. Don’t you start or I’ll have an apoplexy. Besides, that chap in Births, Deaths and Marriages I sweet-talked is letting me have a peek at some personal information about Permelia Wycliffe’s gels today, remember?”

  Oh. “Well, yes, but-”

  “So probably, Mel, you should just wobble on your way, yes?” said Bibbie, with a dangerous smile.

  “Yes,” said Reg. “She should. And so should I. There’s a tree in that employee garden with my name on it, unfortunately. But I’m telling both of you, duckies, I’m giving you fair warning: if that constipated male pigeon living in the roof of the R amp;D building tries one more time to look up my feathers those gels really will have a dead bird to scream about.”

  Uncomfortably aware that time wasn’t on their side, Melissande took a cab almost the whole way to the old Wycliffe estate on the outskirts of West Ott, where the family company did its business. After paying the driver, hiding her wince behind a polite smile, she half-walked, half-jogged along the quiet road, through the open gates with their enormous “W”s and decorative ironwork airships, under the not-quite-life-sized tethered model airship and up the long tree-lined driveway towards the administration office.

  According to her watch it was a few minutes after half-past six. The early autumn air had a nip to it, and the birds were yet to finish their rousing dawn chorus. Somewhere over to the left, behind a carefully cultivated swathe of greenery, Permelia was hopefully still abed in the family mansion. Ambrose, too. Unlike Monk, he’d been able to persuade his unwed sister to run his household for him.

  Holding her breath, praying this wasn’t the one morning that Permelia or Ambrose decided to greet the dawn in person, or that one of Ambrose’s wizards hadn’t succumbed to a fit of dedication-or worse, th
at officious Miss Petterly wasn’t doing some investigating of her own-she crept to the administration office’s front door, fished Bibbie’s highly suspect confounder out of the carpetbag and squirted some hex over the front door’s lock. There was a subdued hum, a discreet flash of green light, and the handle turned without resistance.

  “Oh, Bibbie,” she whispered. “Promise you’ll only ever use your powers for good!”

  Biting her lip with nerves, she let herself in to the ground-floor reception area. It was hushed and empty, thank Saint Snodgrass. Miss Fisher, the receptionist, never arrived before eight. Climbing the stairs up to the office as quickly and quietly as she could, uncomfortably aware of her heart thudding against her ribs, she clutched the carpetbag in one hand, the confounder in the other and begged the muse of good luck not to desert her.

  The door into the administration office was also locked. Melissande pressed her ear against it but couldn’t hear a sound. Bibbie’s confounder took care of that minor impediment and she found herself alone in the grey, cubicle-crammed dimness.

  Oh, lord. Where to start, where to start…

  Permelia’s office seemed the logical place. Closing the door behind her, she put down the carpetbag then made her way through the gloom to the curtained window behind Permelia’s desk. After letting in the morning light, she unlocked Permelia’s private supply cupboard, put on the gloves she’d stuffed into the carpetbag and quickly hexed everything she could think of that the office thief might decide to pinch.

  That done, she took a moment to inspect the crowded wall of framed photographs. Permelia starred in each one, the collection seeming to span at least three decades. There was Permelia at around Bibbie’s age, standing beside a younger and slightly less flinty Orville Wycliffe than the one in the portrait. Behind them hovered an enormous tethered airship-the Ambrose. There didn’t seem to be a corresponding photo of an airship called the Permelia. Sad, but perhaps not entirely unexpected. After all, Permelia was only a gel.

  Other Permelias, gradually aging, proudly posed with various cakes and pies, each one adorned with either a ribbon or a cup or, in sixteen repetitive cases, a Golden Whisk. The award’s design hadn’t changed a whit over the years. Many of the photographs showed Permelia with an assortment of apparently important and exotically-attired women from around the world: given the cake-themed badges pinned to their breasts it seemed reasonable to assume they were international sister-Guild members.