Pure Dead Brilliant

by Debi Gliori

  “Mmmm. Yummy,” lied Signora Strega-Borgia, trying to edge past without inhaling. “Gosh, Marie, how, um . . . inventive.”

  The cook frowned and shrugged modestly, causing the sea slugs to quiver revoltingly. “Ees doll mads,” she muttered. “For the Seenyora's veezitors.”

  “Super,” gasped Signora Strega-Borgia, hoping she could squeeze past into the great hall before she had to draw breath.

  “Ees verr hard to cook, zis.” Marie Bain propped the tray against the kitchen door handle and sniffed wetly. “Ees no vine leafs, zo I use nettles instead. Ees no mince lamb, zo I find some ox-liver in freezer and use zat. Ees no meurrrnt in z'erb garden, zo—”

  Trying to stem this ghastly tide of culinary horror, Signora Strega-Borgia interrupted. “Golly. Heavens. How resourceful, Marie. But goodness, must dash, guests arriving—” She pushed past the cook and bolted along the corridor to the great hall, but not before she heard Marie say, “. . . zo I find ze citronella and use zat instead . . . ,” followed by a resounding crash as the tray slipped off the door handle and mercifully tipped its entire contents over the floor.

  Citronella? Signora Strega-Borgia shuddered. Citronella was what the family used as their last bastion of defense against the gnats. Citronella was the evil-scented oil with which one slathered one's skin prior to braving the infested air of Argyll. The little bottle of citronella oil was still in its accustomed place in a niche by the front door, but Signora Strega-Borgia found it to be empty. She opened the door and looked across the drive to where the balloon hovered at head height above the meadow, surrounded by beasts, all yelling helpful instructions to the passenger in the gondola, who was obscured by clouds of insects and clearly in need of some help.

  “Hold on!” called Signora Strega-Borgia, shrouding her head in a length of black silk to keep the gnats off her face. “I'm coming. Don't panic!”

  To Ariadne Ventete, the vision of Signora Strega-Borgia hurtling across the meadow toward her was not comforting. Maddened by gnat bites, deafened by yelling dragons and griffins, utterly confused by waving crocodiles and giant sulky dogs, she assumed that she had stumbled into a Caledonian version of Hell. Furthering this impression, she saw the figure—swathed in deepest black, lacking only the skull and sickle of popular imagery—of the Grim Reaper, racing across the meadow to greet her. Raising her wand above her head, Ariadne stammered out what she fervently hoped was the correct incantation to ward off her fate.

  With a flash and an accompanying crash of thunder, the hapless balloonist was instantly surrounded by a vast circle of fire. The beasts took several leaps backward out of harm's way, and Signora Strega-Borgia tripped over a trailing length of black silk and fell flat on her face. Then came an immense crack as all eighteen ropes suspending the wicker gondola under the balloon charred, blackened, and snapped. With a shriek, Ariadne plunged to the ground as the balloon, free of all restraint, shot up into the sky.

  The Coven Cometh

  The sight of a vast pink tent-thing ascending through the air over Lochnagargoyle caused Signor Luciano Strega-Borgia to floor the accelerator and race for home. In the rear of the car, Titus and Pandora pressed their faces to the windows and gazed out in awe. Sadly, their father was less impressed.

  “For heaven's sake, Baci,” he hissed, swerving perilously along the bramble-clad track that led from the village of Auchenlochtermuchty to StregaSchloss. “What madness is this?”

  “Yup,” said Titus, inwardly wincing. “That looks like one of Mum's dodgy spells.”

  “Giant pink pants floating across Lochnagargoyle?” groaned Pandora. “How embarrassing.”

  Their car drew closer to StregaSchloss, a break in the trees allowing them a brief view of the waters of the loch. In the distance they saw a ship in full sail, with its wake cutting a perfect line through the reflection of the floating balloon. The sails filled with wind, and a line of white foam was etched in the wake. Titus could just make out a skull and crossbones flying from the top mast.

  “What an amazing boat . . . ,” murmured Pandora. “Wonder where it's going?”

  Their view of the loch was again obscured by a clump of densely planted chestnut trees. Signor Strega-Borgia stopped in front of a car parked across the ornately carved bronze gate that barred the drive to StregaSchloss.

  “We appear to have a visitor,” he remarked, pulling on the hand brake and opening his window. The car ahead was a shiny black convertible with its roof firmly closed. The driver's door gaped open and a woman could be seen peering through the gate with the aid of opera glasses. She turned to greet them, smiling uncertainly as she tucked a tendril of her unruly black hair behind one ear.

  “It's locked,” she said apologetically, indicating the gate. “And I'm afraid I was expected at the house by . . .” She paused, rummaged in a pocket of her leather jacket, and produced an exquisitely fashioned silver pocket watch, at which she peered through her glasses. “Oh dear. Ten minutes ago.”

  “It's not locked,” said Signor Strega-Borgia, opening his car door and stepping out to explain. “It's just jammed shut. Look, I'll show you.”

  “Thank you so much,” said the woman, peering in at Titus and Pandora through the windows. “I'm sorry. How rude of me—let me introduce myself. I'm one of Baci's colleagues from the institute—name's Hecate Brinstone, but most people call me Heck. . . . And you must be Luciano, Titus, and Pandora. Baci has told me so much about you.”

  Signor Strega-Borgia hauled open the rusty, screeching gate and secured it to a stone pillar with a frayed bit of baling twine.

  “There,” he said. “Not locked at all. Just showing its age like most things in these parts.” He held out his hand to Heck and smiled. “Welcome to StregaSchloss.”

  It was at this precise moment that they all became aware of a distant whinnying sound. Around where they stood, the tops of the chestnut trees whipped and tossed, as if being bent aside by some colossal force.

  “What the—?” Signor Strega-Borgia threw himself full-length on top of the astonished Heck just as something rocketed past overhead, displacing so much air that for an instant their ears popped—and then it was gone, leaving broken twigs and leaves swirling behind. Titus craned forward in his seat to afford himself a better view.

  Thundering toward StregaSchloss came thirteen ink-black horses, their eyes blinkered, their hooves thirty feet above the drive. Steam poured from their nostrils with the effort of pulling a windowless carriage behind them, its wheels spinning wildly out of control. Climbing slowly to his feet and helping Heck to stand, Signor Strega-Borgia brushed dust from his clothes and squinted into the distance. As the carriage neared StregaSchloss, they could all hear the horses scream as they slowed to take the curve onto the rose-quartz courtyard in front of the house.

  “What a show-off,” muttered Heck, picking twigs and leaves from her hair. “She threatened to pull a stunt like this.”

  Pandora opened her door and climbed out gingerly. “What was that?” she asked, pointing to StregaSchloss, where the carriage had pulled up in front of the house, still at treetop height, the peaks of Mhoire Ochone eerily visible through the bodies of the horses.

  “That was Fiamma d'Infer and her precious hearse,” Heck stated, investing each word with as much contempt as she could muster. “Fiamma, our very own rich witch, heiress, society beauty, ex-model, ex-musician, ex-sculptor, and probably, if she keeps on with her dangerous practices at the institute, ex-witch as well—”

  “Look—the boat!” interrupted Pandora. “It's dropped anchor opposite the house. And there's an inflatable dinghy tied up at the jetty . . . it must belong to another of Mum's guests.”

  “Yup,” agreed Heck. “That belongs to Black Douglas, our only male classmate—used to be a publisher on one of the big London papers, but he decided to chuck it and enroll at the institute. Nice boat . . .”

  “Who are all those people on board?” Signor Strega-Borgia's voice betrayed just the faintest hint of apprehension.

/>   “I can't see too well,” said Heck, glasses pressed up against her nose, “but I imagine that'll be the rest of our class. . . .” She sighed. “And as usual, I'll be last to arrive.”

  “How many students did you say were in your class?” Signor Strega-Borgia batted a cloud of gnats away from his face as he spoke.

  “I didn't say, but in total there are one hundred and sixty-nine—thirteen groups of thirteen.”

  “Honestly, I do wish your mother was a little less vague about arrangements sometimes.” Signor Strega-Borgia addressed the retreating figure of Pandora, who was heading back to the car in an attempt to avoid the gnats. “She told me she'd invited a few colleagues over for a couple of nights' study leave.”

  “Oh dear,” said Heck, her eyes sliding away from Signor Strega-Borgia. “Um, not exactly. My impression was that Baci has invited all twelve of us over here for about a week's study leave, actually. . . .” Her voice trailed off and she added, “But we could put up at the local hotel if you don't have enough room.”

  In front of them lay the turreted mass of StregaSchloss, its ninety-six rooms, wine cellar, dungeons, and sprawling attic looking as though it could easily offer hospitality to a small country without feeling too stretched. Signor Strega-Borgia sighed. It would be churlish to turn Baci's colleagues away. Undoubtedly there was ample room for all the guests; there was probably enough food; Latch would manage to scrape together a quantity of linen and bedding to ensure sweet dreams for everyone, but—

  Pandora had reached the car and discovered that Titus had activated its central locking system. He was stretched out across the backseat, headphones clamped to his ears, eyes shut, arms flailing as he played an imaginary set of drums in time to some internal rhythm. In an attempt to draw his attention to her gnat-bitten plight, she yelled, “Open up—I'm being devoured out here—Titus!

  “TITUS! Open. The. DOOR!” Pandora scratched frantically with one hand, hammering the windshield with the palm of the other. Titus's eyes sprang open and he abruptly stopped playing air-drums. A puzzled expression crossed his face as he opened the door for his sister. He removed the headphones from his ears and frowned at them.

  “Weird,” he muttered, looking out of the window to where Heck and his dad stood. The student witch met his eye and winked. Just once, but unmistakably a wink meant just for Titus.

  “What's weird?” asked Pandora, flopping onto the seat beside him.

  “My CD stopped in mid-track,” said Titus, “and just for a second or two, I could hear a woman saying, ‘Open the car door, Titus—your sister's waiting'—and then the music started up again.”

  “Big deal.” Pandora waved a dismissive hand in Heck's direction. “She's a witch. They're all witches. They'll all be pulling weird kinds of stunts while . . . while . . .” Her voice trailed off and she blinked, rubbing her eyes and frowning. With a wave, Signor Strega-Borgia began to walk back to their car, and Heck climbed into hers and closed the door.

  “What? While what?” demanded Titus. “I hate it when you just trail off in mid-sentence like that.”

  “Did you see that?” squeaked Pandora. “Her car—that black thing—it just changed into a pumpkin, just for a second, a pumpkin pulled by rats. . . .”

  “I don't know if I'm up for this,” groaned Titus. “All Mum's classmates, all of them probably as incompetent as Mum, every last one of them trying to outdo the rest. We'll be falling over cauldrons and being stabbed by pointy hats while they're houseguests. They'll all want frogs for breakfast—they'll take over the washing machine with endless black robes needing laundering—the fridge will be stuffed full of tincture of maggot and bottles of newts' eyeballs in brine—the house'll stink of brimstone and candle wax—”

  As Heck started her car, a puff of small black bats emerged squeaking and chittering from the exhaust. Seeing this, Titus slumped back in his seat and rolled his eyes meaningfully. Signor Strega-Borgia did not seem inclined to be cheerful either. The remainder of the drive to StregaSchloss took place in uninterrupted silence as the three Strega-Borgias individually contemplated the current invasion of their home by twelve proto-sorcerers.

  Slightly Damp

  Left to finish licking the contents of a mixing bowl in the kitchen, Damp decided to explore. She slid off her seat and teetered off along the corridor, still clutching a sticky wooden spoon. In the great hall beasts galloped back and forth, ferrying steamer trunks, hatboxes, suitcases, cauldrons in aluminium flight cases, and assorted items of designer luggage up from the shore of Lochnagargoyle to the interior of StregaSchloss. Strange grown-ups wandered in and out of the house and, to Damp's delight, no one paid her the least bit of attention. Laboriously she crawled upstairs, stopping to peer through the banister rails at the activity below.

  Latch staggered through the front door bearing Ariadne Ventete in his arms. Since he was still heavily bandaged and caked in flaking calamine lotion, he bore an uncanny resemblance to the leading character in Return of the Mummy, an effect not lost on Ariadne. She had taken one look at the butler's eyes twinkling at her through bloodstained bandages and promptly passed out.

  Unobserved, Damp continued up the stairs till she reached the second floor. Ahead, the corridor branched off in four different directions. Damp sucked her wooden spoon as she considered which way to go, then caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye. Ambling down the sunny corridor that stretched along the south face of StregaSchloss was a large rat holding an open picture book. It read the story to itself under its breath. Curious, Damp crawled closer to see what the rat was reading. The illustration on the book's cover was of a girl asleep in a bed surrounded by roses.

  No, don't tell me, Damp thought, nibbling her wooden spoon to aid concentration, let me guess. I know I know that one—Cinderella? No. Hasn't got a glass shoe. Snow White? No. Girl hasn't got black hair and isn't sleeping in a glass box-thing. . . . Goldilocks? Nope, no bears . . . Wait a minute, it's—it's—”

  “SLEEPING BEAUTY!” Damp yelled in triumph.

  Multitudina looked up from her book with a squeak. “Is that how you pronounce it? No wonder it wasn't making much sense. I thought it was Sleeping Boaty. . . . Oh, sigh. That's what comes of being an Illiterat—” And dropping the book in disgust onto the floor, the rat scuttled off down the corridor and disappeared round a corner. Following this intriguing rodent, Damp found herself outside a door that was half-open, warm spring sunshine spilling through the gap. She pushed the door wide and crawled into the room to reconnoiter. In the middle of the room the shapes of furniture could just be discerned under their shrouds of dust sheets. The carpet had been rolled up and the curtains removed for storage—but despite being unlived-in, the room felt warm and welcoming.

  Crawling across the bare floorboards to the windows, Damp sneezed, sending a cloud of dust dancing upward. Caught in a beam of sunlight, the dust sparkled as it was sent spiraling to the ceiling, catching Damp's attention. She batted at it with her wooden spoon, making it dance and swirl. Engrossed, the baby narrowed her eyes and looped her spoon in wild circles in the air, faster and faster, in wider sweeps, more and more, and . . .

  “Pretty!” Damp cried, as suddenly the air was full of roses—masses of them—their pink and cream blossoms suspended in the sunshine, with only the odd falling petal obeying the dictates of gravity. Delighted by this, Damp stood up and waved her spoon extravagantly round her head like a demented conductor. More roses appeared—wine-red, icy white, pink streaked with gold. Amazed at the effect she was having, Damp laughed out loud, her spoon spinning in acrobatic loops and spirals, her bare feet dancing on a soft carpet of fallen petals whose perfume drenched the still air. Backing into a sofa hidden beneath its dust sheet, Damp tripped and sat down abruptly, her spoon clattering across the floor. Damp crawled over to retrieve it. She grasped it in one chubby fist and, unconsciously reversing the direction of her loops and swirls, began again. It quickly became apparent that this was not having the desired effect: to Damp's di
smay, the roses began to wither and rot. Shriveling into black shapeless masses, the once-perfect blooms began to drop a shower of beetles, slugs, and caterpillars onto the floor. In a panic, Damp waved her spoon faster, as if by speeding up she could somehow undo this unwanted decay. To the baby's utter horror, the blackened roses began to quiver and twitch, their leathery petals assuming a new shape entirely. With a wail of terror, Damp recognized what the flowers were turning into—

  Outside, bending over a table on the front lawn, Marie Bain and Mrs. McLachlan were laying out the best china for afternoon tea. Hearing a distant but familiar scream, Mrs. McLachlan looked up at the house. Unable to see Damp at any of the windows, she was, however, alarmed at the sight of hundreds of bats squeezing out of a half-open window on the second floor. Without hesitating, she sprinted across the lawn and up the stone steps, bolted through the front door—sending hatboxes rolling across the hall—and took the stairs three at a time. She arrived breathless and shaking in the room where Damp had crawled shrieking under a dust sheet, still hanging on to her spoon. The nanny plucked the screaming baby up in her arms and ran out into the safety of the corridor, slamming the door shut behind her.

  “Och, pet,” Mrs. McLachlan whispered, stroking Damp's trembling shoulders. “What have you done?” With a furtive look to make sure that there was no one around, she bore the child off to the nursery. Locking the door behind her, she carried Damp to the rocking chair, brushed aside a pile of darning lying folded on the seat, and, with a huge sigh, slumped down with the baby on her lap. Since her employment as nanny at StregaSchloss nearly a year before, Flora McLachlan had been dreading this moment. A true witch herself, Mrs. McLachlan had recognized Damp as one, too, from the first moment she had held the baby in her arms. Hoping to postpone the day when Damp discovered her own latent powers, the nanny had encouraged the adult Strega-Borgias in their mistaken assumption that the only witch at StregaSchloss was Damp's mother, the wildly enthusiastic but truly incompetent Signora Strega-Borgia. Mrs. McLachlan had long acquaintance with the necessity of hiding her own considerable gifts under the sensible, unflappable guise of a boring old nanny. Now she considered how best to disguise Damp's newfound gift for sorcery—and how to protect the baby from inadvertently alerting beings from the darker end of the magical spectrum to her presence.