Borage

by Gill McKnight

  Astral refocussed on Dulcie.

  “It would be best if you went back, even for one more day, if only to see whether the magical signature is your family’s. Especially since we now suspect it might be from your wand.”

  “Can Astral do that?” Damián asked.

  “Of course I can read magical signatures,” she scoffed. “I’m looking at yours right now, and it’s in big yellow crayon.”

  “It’s a subtle art, but every witch is different, and their magic leaves a residue, or taint, depending on how benign the spell is,” Dulcie told him. “It doesn’t last long, but if Astral’s quick, she may be able to trace it and confirm we have Projector magic on the loose.”

  “So, why didn’t you do that already?” He asked.

  “I was too shocked to register a signature, but I’ll be prepared next time.” She frowned. “Errant magic. I can’t believe Magdalene would take a chance like that.”

  “My guess is that Magdalene hadn’t a clue what would happen when she broke the wand. I agree with Keeva that she held tremendous professional jealousy for it and was probably being spiteful,” Dulcie said, and speared a roasted carrot. “Magdalene’s not as smart as she lets on.”

  Astral poked at her pie. “The Mindcoddle isn’t enough, Dulcie, not with magic triggering all around me. Can you think of anything else I could use that won’t tip off a critter?”

  “Between the Mindcoddle and Cuckoo spell, I’m loathe to load you down with anything else.” She took a big swig of wine. “We need to be careful. Perhaps another charm? A neat little protection powder, maybe?”

  “One more can’t hurt. Should we tell Magdalene about the cake magic?” Astral asked, even though she really didn’t want to. The less she had to do with her, the better.

  “The broken wand is only a theory. We need to prove it, and then we’ll go to Magdalene and get you out of Black and Blacker.”

  Damián signalled the waitress and ordered another bottle of wine.

  “Meanwhile, stick to your remit and try to spot the critter,” Dulcie said. “If it didn’t show itself after all that cake nonsense, there’s a chance it’s not even there. It may have moved on.”

  Astral hoped so. She didn’t like this business. Not one bit.

  Another bottle of Merlot arrived and Damián merrily recharged their glasses.

  “To critters,” he toasted, raising his glass. “May they pop up like Whack-a-Moles under your magic mallet.”

  “Shush,” they both remonstrated.

  “Don’t you know what ‘it’s a secret’ means?” Dulcie said in a low, scolding tone.

  “You mean like the delightful hair extensions Erigone’s gotten for herself that she thinks nobody knows about? Shush, though.” He raised a finger to his lips.

  Astral noted he’d sunk most of the wine while she and Dulcie had been talking. A tipsy Damián was a dangerous thing.

  “What happened to her real hair?” she asked, because she couldn’t help wondering.

  He lowered his head and whispered, “I heard it was forge blowback and she got crisped.”

  Astral snorted. Ironwitches worked with precious metals and gemstones and, therefore, ferocious heat. Forge spells often backfired. It was precarious sorcery at best, but then again, Astral didn’t know of a poor Ironwitch. They were either as rich as Midas or in smithereens because their spells had gone awry.

  Maybe it was cruel to laugh, but Erigone was not a friend. In fact, she was the closest Astral had ever come to having an enemy. But it was all so long ago that it was childish of her to hang on to her hurt, so she dampened her humour in her wine glass.

  “Oh, so you can be circumspect about Erigone’s hairpiece but shout out all over the restaurant about critters.” Dulcie glared at Damián, clearly exasperated.

  “It’s extensions, not a wig,” Astral said with a wry smile. “Maybe Eve Wormrider gave her a fashion tip.”

  Damián’s eyes widened. “Oh, oops.” He ducked his head and gave the tablecloth a look of pure mortification.

  Astral’s heart sank. “She’s behind me, isn’t she?” Slowly, she peered over her shoulder. Sure enough, Erigone stood nearby on the top stair, heading up a posse of Golem’s young achievers, the best the witching community apparently had to offer. As usual, she looked stunning with her luminous blue eyes and shining cap of ebony hair, fake or otherwise. And she seethed, face chalk white, red lips thinned to venomous lines, and her beautiful eyes flashed with warning.

  Astral knew that look. What she wasn’t prepared for was the flash of humiliation that swept in behind it. That made her feel ashamed. Before Astral could properly register her cartwheel of emotions, Erigone turned on her heel, her rapid descent throwing her companions into a jumble as they all hurried to follow.

  “Oh, crappy McCrap,” Astral muttered.

  “Do you think she heard us?” Dulcie asked.

  “Yes, she most definitely did.” The angry look still stung…or maybe that was her shame. “And so did all her friends,” she added, and sighed. The day’s bad surprises just wouldn’t end.

  Damián made a little squeaking noise and immediately began biting his nails. Dulcie slapped his fingers away from his mouth with a well-practised swipe.

  “Great. Just great,” she said. “Well, it’s too late now. We’ve publicly humiliated Magdalene Curdle’s daughter in front of all her swishy friends. You know what that family is like. They’re all vile. There’ll be Hecate to pay somewhere down the line for this.”

  “Do you think she saw me?” Damián asked, his face full of false hope.

  “I bet she heard you from the other side of the square,” Astral answered.

  They fell into a brooding silence that lasted far too long.

  “Hey, guess what?” Damián said, valiantly trying to lift the mood. He reached into his man-bag and pulled out a small white envelope. “You can have this. I’m gifting you.” He handed it to Astral who pinched it between thumb and forefinger as if it were an exotic insect.

  “What is it?” The contents were granular and rustled against the paper.

  “It’s a charm. You said you wanted one. It’s got powdered mirror in it. I made it myself. It will make you absolutely charming to everyone you meet. They’ll all adore you.”

  “You keep it.” Astral pushed the envelope back. “You need it more than I do. Erigone hates you.”

  “I insist.” He pushed it back at her. “Mix with water and gargle.”

  “No, honestly, I can’t. It would be like stealing the shoes off a blind man.”

  “How can you possibly think that will work?” Dulcie asked, impatient.

  “Whatever do you mean?” He looked hurt.

  “I mean, you, a charm spell? Look at the way you treat my customers.”

  He sniffed. “Your customers are all takers.”

  “That’s the whole idea. They take flowers and give me money.”

  “They linger far too long sniffing this and smelling that. They get in the way. Malingerers, the lot of them.”

  Dulcie sighed. “You need to dab that powder on yourself. Rub it well in.”

  “How weird you saying that.” Damián delicately touched his cheek. “I’m trying out a new man-tan powder foundation. Golden Boy. See? It’s got little flecks in it to make me sparkle.”

  “And all this time I thought it was your personality,” Dulcie said, tone wry.

  Astral handed his envelope back once and for all. “And all this time I thought you were turning into Christmas.” She called for the check. “I think I’d better get home soon. Another big day tomorrow, after all.”

  But this time, she was going in prepared.

  Chapter 5

  “Good morning.” The greeting met her halfway across the foyer. Ping’s smile was radiant from behind the reception desk.

  “Good morning, Ms Ping.” Seeing a friendly face first thing made the day seem less worrisome. “I hope they didn’t work you too hard last night.”

  “Call
me Ping, silly,” she said, smile widening. “Everyone does. And it was an easy shift. I’ll be heading home soon.”

  “What exactly is it you do?” Astral rested her arm on the glass counter. She wanted to take her time before heading for the elevators and up into Hecate-knew-what on the thirteenth floor, but she had brought a secret weapon today, and she had wrapped it carefully and carried it in a cloth shopping bag.

  As with yesterday morning, Ping’s desk was covered in crumbs and sweet wrappers that she hastily swept into the wastepaper basket. “I’ve been snacking. I’m always snacking,” she said without a trace of remorse.

  “Me, too, but it shows on me,” Astral joked. Ping, however, was whip thin with a round, childish face. She had the kind of body that could wriggle through a keyhole, as Grandma Lettice used to say, whereas Astral’s curves demanded she knock on the door.

  “Oh, no, you’re lovely. Truly.” Ping looked at her, admiring, and a blush built under Astral’s collar.

  “Thank you, but I’m no Iraldine. She should be on a magazine cover or co-hosting a quiz show or something.”

  “I wish she was. Anywhere but here.” Ping made a face. “She may look physically gorgeous, but underneath, she’s ugh. You, on the other hand, are beautiful inside and out. The complete opposite of Iraldine.”

  The blush crept up her neck. “Well, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Ping grinned, and she looked like a pixie for a moment.

  “Anyway, I’ve brought some more goodies, if you’re interested. I’ll put them in the kitchen.” She gathered her bag to go, but Ping’s next comment stopped her in her tracks.

  “Iraldine pushed me down the stairs once.”

  She stared at her, not sure she had heard right. “What?”

  “In London,” she said matter-of-factly. “We worked in this ancient, old office building and the stairs were narrow and there was a fire drill and she pushed me. I fell flat on my face, and you know what she did? She stepped right over me and walked on out without so much as a—”

  “She pushed you over during a fire drill?” Astral was aghast.

  “And stepped right over me and walked on as cool as a cucumber as if nothing had happened, but it was her. She pushed me. I felt her hands on my back and—wham!” Ping mimicked a sharp push.

  “That is so dangerous.” And such a crittery thing to do…

  “I know. If Abby hadn’t hauled me up, I’d have been squished. It was a stampede. Don’t ever run a fire drill when there’s a happy hour in the pub over the road.” Ping sighed. “Abby’s lovely. She doesn’t look it, but she really is. I wish Iraldine hadn’t got her hooks in her.”

  “Ms Black and Iraldine are an item?” That was news. And somehow disappointing. What did someone like Ms Black see in a shallow, uncaring, narcissistic person like Iraldine?

  “You can call her Abby. Everyone does.”

  Ms Black did not feel like an Abby to Astral. And she very much doubted she’d be around long enough for them to get on first-name terms. Unfortunately.

  Wait. Where had that thought come from?

  “I’m not gossiping about her and Iraldine, by the way. Everyone here knows,” Ping continued, obviously gossiping. “Everyone wishes Abby would dump Iraldine because nobody likes her and if that happened, maybe Iraldine the awful would leave in a huff and take her stupid team with her. They’re all rude, you know. I think Iraldine encourages it.”

  Astral was well aware of the rudeness of the Reconciliations team, though Iraldine and Ms Black being an item seemed strange. She agreed with Ping. They didn’t look like a good, or even a happy, match. Plus, that meant Iraldine couldn’t be the critter if she’d been mooching around with the boss for ages. Too bad. She’d have to continue trying to figure it out.

  “How long have they been an item?”

  Ping leaned forward, conspiratorial. “I’m not sure, but it seems off and on for a few months. I don’t think Abby wants to remain an item, but you know how you can sometimes get stuck in bad relationships, and poor Abby has so much responsibility here and she doesn’t seem to have close friends to talk things out with. I think she’s just stuck, and with the move from London, she’s just too exhausted and busy to end it, especially since Iraldine is a coworker, too. It’s a bit messy. I think Abby feels bad about the whole thing.”

  Astral cleared her throat, not sure what to do with all these revelations from Ping. And they might not even be true. “I need to get to work,” she said.

  “Oh, of course.” Ping beamed at her. “Have a good day.” She gave her a wan smile and went to the elevator, where she rode it to the thirteenth floor, listening to 10cc’s “Dreadlock Holiday” on glockenspiel.

  As planned, she was one of the first there, and after she made fresh coffee in the kitchen and left her lunch and one of the two loaves of bread she had brought, she went back to her desk and put the bag with the extra loaf of fresh bread into one of her desk drawers, hoping no wayward magic would create a disturbance. She settled in at her desk to start her morning’s work. Except her computer was down. A quick investigation showed the cleaner had knocked a cable out. So, she slid under her desk and crawled over to the power point shared by her desk and Fergal’s and clicked the cable back into place.

  A grubby canvas bag under Fergal’s desk caught her eye, but it seemed unremarkable, so Astral ignored it, until she accidently kicked it as she crawled back to her seat. A wad of brand new twenty-pound notes in a paper collar tumbled out by her foot. She froze for a moment, then poked gingerly at the sack with her toe and another wad of twenties dropped onto the carpet. A quick peek confirmed the sack was chock full of brand new twenties bound up in bundles of about a grand each. And there was at least twenty grand in the bag. She had never seen so much money. She studied it and mulled things over. Critters loved money, but if Fergal was it, why would he leave it lying around in a tatty old bag? Were they that careless?

  The nearest elevator dinged, and she hurriedly shoved the two rolls of cash back into the bag and got up, deciding that she would observe what Fergal did with it. He was now number one on her ever-changing list of suspects.

  She sat at her desk and turned her computer on, determined to pay even more attention to him. And, at some point, she needed to make her peace offering to Ms Black.

  She had a long wait to observe Fergal, because he didn’t swan in until around ten thirty.

  “Top o’ the mornin’,” he greeted her, and went straight to the kitchen. Maybe he didn’t know there was a bag of loot under his desk? He certainly didn’t look overly concerned.

  This notion was quashed on his return. He set his coffee mug on his desk, switched on his computer, and stooped over and swept the bag into his top drawer with not so much as a blink. The entire process had the seamless choreography of a hardened criminal, and it was all immensely confusing.

  If Fergal was embezzling funds, then who had left the sack there for him, and why in such an unsecure place? Then again, critters were stupid, and Fergal’s behaviour fit the bill. She plodded on through her own work, her mind awhirl, all the time watching Fergal out of the corner of her eye. It was an easy surveillance because he did little except pull up a few social media sites, abuse the phone to call what she surmised were his bookies, and then he was out the door for lunch with the lads from his old team before the clock hit noon.

  “That man has the life of Riley, and apparently the funding for it, too,” she muttered, and opened her Tupperware of sandwiches, pondering her next move. Do nothing. That was her next move. She was here to observe and, hopefully, identify a critter, and today, it was all coming together beautifully. In fact, she thought as she chewed, maybe it was coming together too easily. Best not to second-guess herself. She finished her sandwich and put her hand in her coat pocket for a tissue to wipe her hands.

  Her fingers came away gritty. She inspected the beige powdery substance with a frown. A quick rummage in her pocket produced Damián’s battered envelope, wh
ich he had clearly snuck into her pocket at some point last night.

  “Sneaky little twerp,” she said under her breath, and went to the restroom to wash off the residue. Not only had she not wanted his stupid mirror charm, now it was wasted.

  *

  Fergal was late getting back from lunch and when he arrived, he wore a flush and a layer of excitement.

  “Right, Astral. Ye and me have a meeting with Abby in about fifteen minutes.” He flapped about his desktop, resituating papers, and checking his top drawer, though he didn’t seem to find whatever he was hunting for.

  This was the first Astral had heard of a meeting and she got caught up in his agitation. “We have? What’s it about?” From her side of the desk, she could smell drink on his breath and wondered how that would go down with Abby Black. The thought made her more anxious. If Fergal was a critter, he was an extremely stupid one, even by critter standards. “What do I need to do?”

  “She wants to go over those contracts you were looking at yesterday. How comfortable are you with them?” he asked, peering myopically at his monitor.

  “I’m fine with them,” she said, “except for these questions.” She flashed her notebook. Basically, these were standard contracts with standard defaults. She’d seen nothing out of the ordinary when she’d run through them earlier, except for the fact that she couldn’t pin down the deliverables for some of them, and that was odd. Hence, her list.

  “Good girl. You run along to the meeting, then. I’ll send the invite over.” He slammed a button on his keyboard.

  “What?” The invitation shot into Astral’s mailbox as Fergal got to his feet and weaved his way towards his boisterous ex-teammates, who looked as bright and breezy as he did. He had just opted out of his afternoon meeting with the head of ops and Astral stared after him, both shocked at his behaviour and anxious that she would have to meet with Abby Black by herself.