Witches incorporated

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 unattractive 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-”

“Her Highness hasn’t long been among us in Ottosland, Permelia,” said Eudora, as her daunting companion’s thin face froze with disapproval. “And when at home in New Ottosland she travels by royal carriage, of course. But now that she’s here among us, living incognito — so romantic! — doubtless she wishes to maintain her anonymity, which she couldn’t do if she travelled with the best of the best on a Wycliffe airship.”

“Ah,” said Permelia Wycliffe, barely thawing. “Incognito. Yes. Although there is the matter of that photograph in the Times…”

“A mistake,” said Melissande grimly. “Believe me.”

“Incognito,” Permelia Wycliffe repeated. “I see. Doubtless that accounts for Your Highness’s… unorthodox… attire. Unless… perhaps you dress yourself in the costume of your native land? New Ottosland is a colony, after all. I believe colonials can be… eccentric.”

On her ram skull, Reg was wheezing with half-strangled laughter. And Bibbie was clearly biting the insides of her cheeks. They were far too easily amused, both of them.

Melissande fought to keep her expression welcoming. Eccentric? Trousers aren’t eccentric, you silly woman. Eccentric is my brother turning himself into a dragon.

“Actually, I prefer the term ‘practical’. You should give trousers a try, Miss Wycliffe. They might give you a whole new outlook on life.”

Permelia Wycliffe’s haughty expression congealed. “Indeed. What a quaint suggestion.”

“Oh yes, that’s our Mel,” said Bibbie cheerfully. “Quaint as anything.”

Melissande shot her a quelling look, then returned her attention to Permelia. “And your charming associate, Miss Wycliffe? Since we seem to be making our formal introductions?”

“Yes. Of course,” said Permelia Wycliffe, reluctantly co-operative. “This is Miss Eudora Telford. My secretary.”

“And bosom friend,” Eudora Telford added, bobbing up and down some more. “Such an honour. Such a pleasure. So regal. So distinguished.”

“Regal and distinguished, exactly!” said Bibbie, outrageously beaming. “That’s our Princess Melissande to a T. Just like her brother King Rupert the First! Of course you must’ve heard of him.” She snatched the Times from Melissande’s hand and waved the front page under Permelia Wycliffe’s nose. “He’s regal and distinguished, too. And handsome. Don’t you agree he’s a handsome king?”

“Oh yes,” breathed Eudora, before Permelia could speak. “Terribly handsome and distinguished! A positive jewel of a monarch. I’ve read all about him in the Times and the Ladies’ Almanac.”

Melissande frowned. While she unashamedly adored Rupert, only a woman with a bag over her head could honestly call him handsome. So this appeared to be yet another case of unrequited adoration from afar. Poor Rupert. Ever since ascending New Ottosland’s throne he’d been inundated by passionate expressions of affection from all over the world. It seemed a crown was the most potent yet indiscriminate aphrodisiac ever discovered.

“I’m sure he’d be moved by such beautiful compliments, Miss Telford,” she said. “Now, you mentioned something about a matter of life and death…?”

Eudora rallied. “Oh yes, Your Highness. Of course. Please, do forgive me. Such a rattletrap, I am, and a regular fusty gossip. So sorry. So very sorry.”

Really, she was the most horribly damp woman. Perhaps it wasn’t surprising that overbearing Permelia Wycliffe squashed her at every opportunity. Perhaps it was even understandable. Anyone spending any length of time in Eudora Telford’s company must surely end up wringing wet.

“Oh, there’s no need to apologise, Miss Telford. I appreciate it’s not always easy to discuss personal problems.”

“We have not come here to discuss Eudora’s personal problems,” said Permelia. “We have come in response to a disgraceful situation in the Guild. A situation that must be remedied before untold damage is done to the sterling international reputation I have worked so long and hard to build.”

Guild? International reputation? What was the dreadful woman going on about? But before she could betray her woeful ignorance Bibbie stepped forward, her expression suspiciously earnest.

“Then you must tell us all about it, Miss Wycliffe,” she said, her voice hushed. “We can’t have trouble in Ottosland’s world famous Baking and Pastry Guild. Indeed, Witches Inc. is honoured that its president would bring the Guild’s problems to us.”

Baking and Pastry Guild? President? What? How did Bibbie know that? Melissande looked at Reg, who seemed just as surprised, then back at Permelia Wycliffe. The woman was perilously close to letting her jaw drop in shock.

“So you are familiar with the Baking and Pastry Guild, Miss Markham?” she said, eyebrows raised disbelievingly. “I must confess to some surprise. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of seeing you at one of our… at our… at… oh.” She cleared her throat. “ Markham? Surely you’re not-am I correct in surmising-do you mean to tell me that you are-”

“Yes, Miss Wycliffe,” said Bibbie, a wicked gleam in her eyes. “I am related to Antigone Markham. She was my great-aunt, as a matter of fact.”

“In deed,” said Permelia, her nostrils pinching as she plumbed new depths of disapproval. Beside her, Eudora Telford was making little squeaking sounds. “And how can it be that you have failed to follow in her illustrious footsteps? Surely the great-niece of Antigone Markham is sensible of her obligations to the noblest calling to which any woman of breeding may aspire!”

“Oh I am, I am,” said Bibbie, adopting an air of martyred tragedy. She’d even managed to put a sob in her voice. “And it’s because I am sensible to them that you’ve not seen me in your hallowed Guild’s halls, Miss Wycliffe. Alas, I am bereft of Aunt Antigone’s talent for shortcrust. I felt I would’ve been betraying her if I’d asked you to overlook my lack of aptitude just because of my familial connections.” Another small, artistic sob. “Please, Miss Wycliffe. Don’t ask me to explain further. As I’m sure you can imagine, it’s a painful subject.”

Permelia Wycliffe was transformed into a monument to sympathy. “ Poor child. You have my sincere condolences and my heartfelt admiration. That you would so revere your great-aunt’s legacy as to not sully the memory of her magnificence-I am speechless with approbation.”

On her ram skull, Reg was back to chortling like a kettle. Eudora Telford seemed close to tears of worshipful joy. With nothing useful to contribute, Melissande warily let Bibbie have the floor. Tiny alarm bells were ringing in the back of her mind. Monk’s sister might have Permelia Wycliffe eating from the palm of her hand now… but in her experience, the Permelias of the world were fickle in their approval. One injudiciously uttered sentiment, one expressed opinion that deviated from the acceptable, and the air would swiftly freeze solid again.

And then of course I’ll be the one picking up the agency’s pieces.

She tried to semaphore as much to Bibbie with her eyebrows, but Bibbie was resolutely paying no attention.

“Thank you, Miss Wycliffe,” she said, one hand pressed to her heart. “I can’t begin to tell you how that makes me feel.”

“You see, Permelia?” quavered Eudora Telford. “It was meant that we should come here for assistance. Her Royal Highness and sainted Antigone Markham’s great-niece will save the day!”

“Yes indeed,” said Bibbie robustly. “There’s nothing we’d like better. Isn’t that right, Miss Cadwallader?”

Willing Reg to stop snickering, Melissande crossed her fingers behind her back. “Absolutely, Miss Markham. Saving the day is what we live for.”

“So, Miss Wycliffe-forgive me, Madam President,” said Bibbie. “How exactly does the day need saving? What is it you’d like Witches Inc. to do for the Guild?”

Permelia Wycliffe lifted her chin as though she’d just received a challenge. “Miss Markham, you can unmask a villain!”

“Happy to,” said Bibbie. “Does this villain have a name?”

“Millicent Grimwade,” said Permelia, through tightly pinched lips. “The most sly, underhanded, dishonest, deceitful and third-rate cook the Guild has ever known!”

“Really?” said Bibbie. “She’s that bad? Then-if I might be so bold as to ask-how is it she was admitted to the ranks of the illustrious sisterhood?”

Two bright spots of colour burned hotly in Permelia Wycliffe’s thin cheeks. “Allow me to assure you, Miss Markham, that had I been Guild President when her application was submitted she would have been summarily refused the honour! Unfortunately my predecessor lacked the acumen essential to the august position of Guild President.”

“It’s an absolute tragedy, Miss Markham,” added Eudora Telford, when it appeared Permelia Wycliffe was momentarily overcome. “Because Millicent’s been cheating. Brazenly cheating. And if we don’t put a stop to it she’ll win this year’s Golden Whisk uncontested.”

“The honour of the Guild is at stake,” said a recovered Permelia, eyes glittering. “It is unthinkable that the likes of Millicent Grimwade should receive our highest accolade.”

“It certainly is,” said Eudora, choking with emotion. “Why, Permelia’s won the Whisk for the last sixteen years, ever since she became our president. Everybody knows she’s the best cook in the Guild. Why, her Chocolate Rum Tart is renowned throughout Ottosland. When it failed to win its division in this year’s first county fair, well, we knew something dreadful was going on. And it’s still going on, because Permelia’s been defeated by Millicent at every county fair this year. It’s-it’s unheard of!”

Melissande exchanged a glance with Reg, who rolled her eyes, then cleared her throat. Time for her to rejoin the conversation before Bibbie enthusiastically committed them to a case they couldn’t possibly solve. To a case that wasn’t even a case, but simply a matter of sour grapes.

“Ah… that sounds very… disheartening, Miss Wycliffe,” she said with care. “But I’m obliged to point out to you that any understandable disappointment over your recent defeats isn’t proof of illegal behaviour. How is it you’re so sure that Millicent Grimwade is cheating? I mean, do you have any proof?”

Permelia Wycliffe looked at her as though she were an idiot. “Of course I have proof,” she said, witheringly. “The proof is that I’ve yet to win a single baking contest. You may rest assured, Miss Cadwallader, that Millicent Grimwade is using some kind of thaumaturgical charm to influence the judges or enhance the quality of her cakes or something equally nefarious. It’s the only explanation for her unprecedented success.”

Melissande stared. The only explanation? Was Permelia Wycliffe serious?

The woman is obsessed. Most likely delusional. And when we can’t prove there’s been cheating of any kind by this Millicent Grimwade-because who would cheat at baking cakes? The idea’s ridiculous! — this appalling Wycliffe woman is going to sue us for inadequate representation. Or at the very least tell every one she meets not to touch Witches Incorporated with a forty-foot barge pole. And then we really will go out of business.

No matter how long it took she was going to find that wretched photographer from the Times, and when she found him she was going to stuff Monk’s sprite down the front of his unmentionables.

Strangely, Bibbie didn’t seem at all disconcerted or disbelieving. Instead she was frowning. “I must apologise for my colleague, Miss Wycliffe. Not being of the Guild, she doesn’t understand. It goes without saying that if you’re convinced Millicent Grimwade is cheating then she is. After all, they don’t appoint just anybody as president of the Guild, do they?”

“Well, not usually,” said Eudora Telford loyally. “Although our last president was a sad disappointment. But of course since we’ve had Permelia at the helm we’ve surged from strength to strength. Seven times Best Cake in Show at the International Baking Symposium.” She beamed at the object of her uncritical adoration. “Which is why this has been so particularly distressing, Miss Markham. It’s even been suggested that Permelia is motivated by-by-oh, I can scarcely bring myself to say it.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “By jealousy.”

Bibbie patted the silly woman’s arm, like someone comforting the bereaved. “Please don’t weep, Miss Telford. That would be giving Millicent Grimwade the victory.”

“Oh, Miss Markham,” whispered Eudora Telford. “You’re so wonderfully sympathetic. It really has been awful, you know.”

“Eudora, I can imagine,” said Bibbie, so earnestly that even Melissande believed her. “The petty tyrannies of the mediocre are endless. But you must buck up, really you must. Witches Inc. is here to help. Now I take it you’ve approached other thaumaturgical experts regarding this wicked state of affairs?”

“We have,” said Permelia Wycliffe mordantly. “We have availed ourselves of the services of several highly recommended witches and wizards, Miss Markham… all to no good purpose. They’ve come along to this county fair or that one, taken our money and then told us we’re imagining things. One wizard even had the effrontery to suggest I stop imbibing so generously of my Rum Tart’s prime ingredient!”

“How shocking!” said Bibbie, shooting Melissande and Reg a repressive look. “Please, Miss Wycliffe, allow me to apologise again, this time on behalf of my misguided fellow-thaumaturgical practitioners. Clearly they have failed to grasp the gravity of your situation. Why, thanks to Millicent Grimwade the Guild’s integrity now hangs by the proverbial thread. The lustre of the Golden Whisk is about to be irretrievably tarnished!”

Permelia Wycliffe’s clasped hands tightened. “The Guild be praised. You really do understand!”

“Of course she does, Permelia,” said Eudora Telford, fresh tears trembling on her lashes. “Is she not the great-niece of Antigone Markham?”

“I am,” said Bibbie. “And I promise you, in my great-aunt’s illustrious name, we will unmask this dastardly Millicent Grimwade. The final bake-off’s tomorrow, isn’t it? In the Town Hall?”

“That’s correct,” said Permelia Wycliffe. “Commencing at eleven o’clock sharp. I take it we can count on you to be there in time?”

“Have no fear, Miss Wycliffe,” said Bibbie grandly. “My colleagues and I will be there in plenty of time to prevent a grave miscarriage of culinary justice… and see that Millicent Grimwade receives her comeuppance.”

Incredibly, it seemed that Permelia Wycliffe was on the brink of losing her intimidating composure. “Please, Miss Markham. Call me Permelia.”

“Of course, Permelia… if you’ll agree to calling me Emmerabiblia.”

“It would be an honour,” said Permelia Wycliffe, very nearly smiling. She extended her gloved hand. “Until tomorrow, Emmerabiblia.”

Bibbie shook the woman’s hand. “Until tomorrow, Permelia,” she said gravely.

“Come, Eudora,” said Permelia Wycliffe. “We still have the bake-off’s preparations to oversee.”

Eudora bobbed a curtsey to Melissande, and nearly to Bibbie. “Your Highness-Miss Markham-so pleased-so gratified-”

“Come along, Eudora!”

“Coming, Permelia, coming!”

With a last frosty nod at Melissande, and a thoughtful glance at the apparently empty birdcage on the desk, Permelia Wycliffe sailed towards the door with Eudora bobbing in her wake like a dinghy. But at the doorway, she hesitated then turned back. “I’m sorry. Did I hear you say your colleagues- plural — would be at the Town Hall tomorrow?”

Bibbie nodded. “That’s right.”

Permelia’s gaze shifted to Reg. “Do you mean to say you’ll be bringing…”

“Reg?” Bibbie grinned cheerfully. “Of course. She feels left out if we don’t bring her along. Especially since she’s the National Bird of New Ottosland and figures prominently on the kingdom’s coat of arms. Doesn’t she, Miss Cadwallader?”

Melissande scorched her with a look. “If you say so, Miss Markham.”

“I see,” said Permelia Wycliffe, after a precarious moment. “Well, I’m sure the great-niece of Antigone Markham knows best.”

And on that note, the door closed emphatically behind the two women from the Baking and Pastry Guild.

“ Gosh!” said Bibbie, and sagged on the desk. “Wasn’t that a stroke of luck, the president of the Baking and Pastry Guild needing our help! And to think I never thought batty old Great-aunt Antigone would ever come in handy.”

“Luck? Luck?” said Melissande, free to stamp about the office in an excess of temper. “Luck’s not the first word that comes to my mind, you raving nutter!”

“ Why?” said Bibbie, amazed. “What have I done wrong now?”

“You know perfectly well what you’ve done wrong!” she retorted. “Promising those two nitwits we could solve this ridiculous case? And all that guff about Rupert! Reg on the royal coat of arms! Honestly, Bibbie, you know I hate using that royalty claptrap to impress strangers. It’s crude and it’s common and it’s-”

“Going to help us pay the bills!” said Bibbie. “Just like me being related to the saintly Antigone Markham saved us from your stupid insistence on wearing those ghastly tweed trousers! The least you could do is wear velvet, Melissande, at least velvet’s got some class! But no, you have to-”

“ Shut up!” roared Reg, rattling her tail feathers so hard she nearly fell off the ram skull. “The pair of you!”

Shocked silent, they looked at her.

“Mad Miss Markham’s right,” Reg continued severely. “We can’t afford to tiptoe on our principles. Not if we want to avoid landing on our penniless arses in the alley.” She bestowed upon Bibbie an approving nod. “Nice work spotting the Guild pins, ducky.”

Bibbie dropped an ironical curtsey. “Thank you, Reg.”

“But don’t you see?” said Melissande, despairing. “That dreadful Eudora Telford’s going to run around telling everyone I’ve got a tiara stuffed up my blouse!”

Reg snorted. “Down the back of your trousers, more like it.”

As Melissande advanced, Bibbie leapt between her and Reg’s ram skull. “Ignore her, Mel. You know she only does it to get a reaction.”

“And anyway, madam here didn’t flap the Times under that silly woman’s nose!” Reg added, hopping from the ram skull to Bibbie’s shoulder. “That was you, ducky.”

“Look, Mel, you need to focus on the big picture,” said Bibbie, impatient. “Which is that the Baking and Pastry Guild is a really, really big deal. I’m talking about an upper-crust sisterhood full of women of affluence and influence. Women with excellent connections-and money. Once we’ve solved the mystery of Millicent Grimwade’s cheating, trust me: we’ll have more work coming in than we know what to do with.”

Melissande stared at her. “ Once we’ve solved — Bibbie, are you saying you think that dreadful Wycliffe woman’s got a case against this Millicent Grimwade?”

“Of course.”

“Emmerabiblia Markham, are you telling me that a grown woman would stoop to dishonesty-if not downright illegality-just to win some cheap statue of a cooking utensil?”

“Mel, Mel, Mel,” sighed Bibbie, shaking her head. “Don’t you have a Baking and Pastry Guild in New Ottosland?”

“Probably,” she said. “I know I used to get served up some pretty awful jam rolls when I was out and about on official duty. But I was never a member. I had better things to do!”

“Don’t you let Permelia Wycliffe hear you say that,” said Bibbie. “And stop being such a snob. I’ll have you know the internecine warfare of the Baking and Pastry Guild makes international politics look like a kiddie’s afternoon tea party. Trust me. Millicent Grimwade is up to no good.”

“Why? Because she’s won a few cooking contests?”

Bibbie wagged a finger. “Not a few, Mel. All of them. And all of them over the reigning Guild president. Trust me, it’s just not possible. Not without some unorthodox assistance.”

Melissande blinked. It sounded utterly potty. But Bibbie seemed convinced, and she was the one with the presidential great-aunt.

I suppose I’d be mad to discount her expertise and experience. It just all sounds so dreadfully silly…

“Fine,” she sighed. “So there’s a legitimate case. But Bibbie, even if Millicent Grimwade is cheating, how are we supposed to prove it? I mean if a tribe of other witches and wizards have failed to uncover even the tiniest hint of thaumaturgic interference, what makes you think we’ll fare any better?”

“ Because,” said Bibbie, eyes shining, “Witches Inc. has a secret weapon!”

With a flourish she reactivated the sprite trap’s etheretic field. In its small cage, the newly visible sprite buzzed and hummed.

Melissande stared at it, then at Bibbie, with a dawning horror. “Oh, no. Emmerabiblia Markham, you cannot be serious!”

Bibbie picked up the cage and made coochiecoochie faces at the sprite, which sparkled and buzzed back at her.

“I can, you know,” she said. “I’ve never been more serious. We’ve already established that this thing disrupts thaumaturgic vibrations. All we have to do is smuggle it into the bake-off tomorrow morning and let interdimensional nature take its course!”

“But what about Monk?”

She shrugged. “What about him?”

“Bibbie, he needs to send this sprite back to where it came from! We need him to send the horrible thing home, it’s a menace!”

“And he will send it back, Mel. Once we’ve used it to save the agency,” said Bibbie. “Come on. Monk owes us. What’s three tins of tamper-proof ink? We can buy that ourselves… or at least, we could if we had any money. But this sprite is priceless. This sprite is going to put Witches Inc. on the map, I can feel it in my bones. It’s not going back to Monk until it’s made us the heroines of Ottosland’s internationally celebrated Baking and Pastry Guild.”

Melissande gnawed the edge of her thumb. “I don’t know. I don’t like this, Bibbie. I’ve had enough unnatural creatures to last me a lifetime.”

“Really?” said Reg, staring down her beak. “Well, thank you very much, I’m sure.”

Distracted, she smiled at the bird. “Don’t be silly, Reg. You’re not unnatural, you’re just irritating.”

“And so are you,” snapped Bibbie. “ Honestly, Mel. How can you be so short-sighted? Don’t you see this sprite is a gift?”

A curse, more like it. But either she was going to trust Bibbie, or she wasn’t. “All right. Fine. But if this blows up in our faces-which is hideously likely-then I give you fair warning: I will swear with my hand on my heart that I don’t know you from a hole in the ground.”

Bibbie put the sprite trap back on the desk and leaned over for the phone. “And when my plan works brilliantly- which it will- I am going to take all the credit.” Picking up the receiver she dialled, then waited. “Hello, Monk? It’s me.-Yes, we’ve got your stupid sprite but you can’t have it back until tomorrow.-Because I say so, that’s why.-Because something’s come up.-All right, because if you don’t stop yelling at me the next person I telephone will be Uncle Ralph.-Well, actually, I can. But I won’t. Not unless you-Good. I didn’t think so.-You’re welcome. See you tomorrow night, for dinner.”

Melissande sighed. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. He’s not happy.”

“Who cares?” said Reg. “Bibbie’s right. This is about saving the agency. So, Miss Markham. About this crazy plan of yours…”

“It’s mad,” said Melissande much later, getting ready for bed. “And I’m mad for agreeing to it. Honestly, Reg, if something goes wrong…”

Reg swallowed the last of her supper mouse, burped genteelly, then fluffed out her feathers. “Most likely it won’t. But if it does we’ll deal with it, ducky. Now put a sock in it and turn out the light. I’m not the only one around here who needs her beauty sleep.”

Melissande concentrated on doing up her nightdress buttons. The trick with Reg was to just… not react. No matter what she said, no matter how rude she was, reacting only made things worse.

Besides. It only hurts because she tells the unvarnished truth.

Swathed in sensible pink flannel she padded across to the sprite trap on her lone bookcase, lifted up the blouse covering it, then flicked on the activation switch. Metaphysically revealed, the doleful sprite moped in the corner of the modified birdcage, its blue brightness dimmed.

She frowned. “It doesn’t look very happy, Reg.”

“Well, don’t you go trying to cheer it up,” Reg replied, cosily settled on the bedsit’s sole rickety chair. “No joyful ditties, for example. I’m still emotionally scarred from the last time I heard you sing.”

The last time she sang she’d been three-quarters full of Orpington whiskey, which was totally understandable given the dire prevailing circumstances. She glowered at the bird. “That’s not very nice, Reg.”

“Neither is your singing, ducky.”

Ah-ah-ah! No reacting, remember?

With teeth-gritted forbearance she turned off the sprite-revealer, dropped her blouse back over the cage and retreated to bed. “I still say this is a bad idea,” she said, putting her glasses on the bedside table then turning down the oil lamp’s wick until the bedsit was plunged into darkness.

“Only because you didn’t think of it,” said Reg. “That Markham girl may be scatty but she’s also inventive. And she’s not scared to give things a go.”

Melissande sat upright. “And you’re saying I am?”

Reg fluffed her feathers again, the soft sound loud in the late night silence. “I’m saying it’s easy to let yourself get timid when life’s not behaving itself.”

Stung, she felt her fingers tangle in the blankets. “I am not timid, Reg. I’m cautious.”

Reg sniffed. “If you say so.”

“I do say so! Somebody’s got to be. Between them, Monk and Bibbie are reckless enough to tip the whole world upside down and then shake its pockets so a few more bright ideas can fall out.”

“It’s perfectly understandable,” said Reg, ignoring that. “Being timid. You had your whole life planned, didn’t you? Thanks to that charlatan Rinky Tinky woman, you thought you were a genuine witch-inthe-making. You thought Bibbie’s Madam Olliphant was going to proclaim you a star. But that’s what these Rinky Tinky hussies do, ducky. They tell you what you want to hear so you’ll give them money, and so long as you keep on paying they’ll keep on fertilising your false hopes.”

Slowly, she lowered herself back to the mattress. Do I want to talk about this? Let me think… “ Yes, well, my beauty sleep beckons. Night-night, Reg, I’ll see you in the morning.”

“No need to be ashamed,” said Reg, oblivious. “You were bamboozled by a line of hokum, madam, but that’s not a crime. You’re not the first and you won’t be the last.”

“It seems to be about the only thing I’ve got a talent for,” she muttered. “Getting bamboozled. I’ve been hoodwinked twice now. By Madam Ravatinka… and by Lional.”

“You can’t go blaming yourself for Lional,” said Reg, gruffly. “Nobody can help being related to an insane thaumaturgical criminal. I mean, it’s not as though you weren’t related and fell in love with him, is it? And it’s not as though he was some bugger you met and fell in love with, and married, even though everyone was telling.”

Melissande blinked in the bedsit’s faintly illuminated gloom. “Is that how you ended up an immortal bird?”

“I’m not immortal,” said Reg, with another sniff. “Not exactly. I can get run over, shot, stabbed, starved or beheaded like the next careless clot. But provided I don’t do anything silly, the only way I’ll die is if someone tries to lift the hex my hus-that got put on me.”

“That’s good to know,” she said, after a moment. “But it’s not what I asked.”

“Yes, Melissande,” said Reg, so quietly. “That’s how I ended up an immortal bird.”

There was such a wealth of sadness in Reg’s funny, scratchy little voice that Melissande felt her eyes prickle. “ Anyway,” she said, clearing her throat and blinking hard at the hazy ceiling. “I’m not being timid. I’m simply expressing a perfectly reasonable concern about Bibbie’s plan.”

Another soft rustling sound as Reg fluffed out her feathers yet again. “Then think of another one if you’re so convinced hers is going to go kablooey.”

She felt her face scrunch into another frown. “I can’t.”

“I suppose we could have a word with Mister Clever Clogs,” said Reg idly. “He must know all there is to know about black market thaumaturgy. Maybe-”

“ No, Reg,” she said. “This is none of Monk’s business. This is Witches Inc. business and we’re going to solve the case without his help.”

Reg snorted. “Except for the sprite, you mean.”

“The sprite doesn’t count.”

“If you say so, ducky.”

Well, it didn’t count. It was an accident. A case of serendipity. It wasn’t as if they’d asked Monk to give them an interdimensional sprite.

Besides. He owes me. I’m still not sure I scrubbed off all the sprite shit.

“You know, Reg,” she said, snuggling beneath her blankets, “this whole affair is so hard to believe. And all those stories Bibbie told us… pastry brushes at forty paces and the rest of it. Grown women! They ought to be ashamed of themselves.”

“Ah well,” said Reg, around a yawn. “Everyone needs a hobby. Besides. Do you really want to tell that Wycliffe woman to bugger off back to her cake tins and take her money with her?”

“Of course I don’t,” she murmured, eyes drifting closed. “I just hope we’re not biting off more than we can chew.”

“Ha,” said Reg, stifling another yawn. “From the size of your buttocks, ducky, I’d say there’s nothing you can’t chew through.”

If she hadn’t needed her pillow, Melissande would’ve thrown it at the wretched bird.

She and Reg met Bibbie outside the Town Hall at half-past ten the following morning. From the number of well-to-do ladies crowding the footpath and jostling their way up the Town Hall steps to go inside, the annual Golden Whisk competition was something of a highlight on Ottosland’s social calendar.

“Blimey!” said Bibbie, staggering back a few paces. “Do my eyes deceive me, Mel, or are you wearing a dress?”

Melissande glowered at her. “No, actually. I’m wearing a blouse-waist and a walking skirt.”

“Never mind the pettifogging details,” said Bibbie, waving them away with a flick of her fingers. “The salient point is that you’re not wearing trousers.”

“Oh, shut up. Your brother’s carpetbag didn’t go with my tweeds.”

“It doesn’t go with the blouse-waist and walking skirt, either,” said Reg, under her breath in case a passer-by was listening. “But let’s not try to run before we can crawl.”

“And you can shut up too,” said Melissande, twitching her shoulder. She still hadn’t quite forgiven that last crack about butt-muscles one sits on. “Now, are we going to get this done or would you two prefer to stand out here critiquing my sartorial efforts while Millicent Grimwade gets away with metaphorical murder?”

Bibbie was still grinning at the change of attire. “Really, a princess dress would’ve been more appropriate, Mel.”

“A princess dress is what they’ll bury you in, Bibbie, if you don’t shut up so we can get this over with!”

Bibbie rolled her eyes. “Tetchy, isn’t she?” she asked Reg, conversationally. “Did you remember the sprite?”

“No,” said Melissande. “I just brought the carpetbag as a fashion accessory.”

“Where you’re concerned, Mel, anything is possible,” said Bibbie, then hastily raised her hands. “All right, all right. Truce. Let’s go inside shall we, girls, and save the day.”

The Town Hall chamber set aside for the Baking and Pastry Guild’s prestigious annual Golden Whisk competition was crowded with women of varying shapes, sizes, ages, wealth and rabid intensity. Silks and muslins whispered and rustled, sweeping the richly parqueted floor… or flirted above it as some daring young ladies risked censure by lifting their hems dangerously towards their mid-calves. The warm trapped air beneath the convolutedly decorated ceiling was redolent of lavender, patchouli, rose-water, musk, attar of roses and lily of the valley, combined into a heady perfume soup.

“Blimey,” Reg muttered, wheezing. “We’ve come to the asphyxia convention by mistake. I hope these cake-obsessed biddies have got first-aid officers standing by.”

Melissande twitched her shoulder again. “If you don’t shut up,” she muttered under her breath, “I’m going to find a hat and pin you to it.”

“Oh no you won’t,” said Reg. “Last thing you want to do is make yourself conspicuous.”

“Given there’s a woman in the corner wearing a stuffed monkey on her head, I doubt anyone would turn a hair. Now be quiet and pretend you’re an exotic shoulder ornament just like we agreed, Reg, please.”

“Look,” said Bibbie, pointing over the hats and bonnets of the women crowding round them. “There’s Permelia.”

And indeed, there she was. Permelia Wycliffe, faithful Eudora Telford in tow, stood ramrod-stiff at her display table, which was cordoned off from the hoi polloi behind a scarlet rope. All in all it appeared there were twelve finalists vying for the Golden Whisk. The grand prize itself stood in the centre of the room on a pedestal, protected by a glass case and its own scarlet cordon. Shafts of sunlight struck golden sparks from the coveted kitchen implement.

Melissande shook her head. Surely these women have something better to do with their time than sweat blood and shed tears over baking the perfect date scone?

Except clearly they didn’t. Clearly they believed that winning a stupid egg beater meant they’d reached some lofty pinnacle of success. What was the point? It wasn’t as if they could use the wretched Golden Whisk-all the gold would peel off in the omelette and give the dinner guests heavy-metal poisoning.

But practicality, or the lack thereof, didn’t seem to bother Permelia Wycliffe or the other eleven women standing guard over their culinary offerings. If they weren’t darting furious glances at each other’s Rum Balls they were feasting their avaricious gazes on the prize. It was a wonder the organisers hadn’t provided silver drool-salvers.

“Wait a minute,” Melissande said, frowning. “Why is Permelia a finalist? Didn’t she say she hadn’t won a single regional contest thanks to Millicent Grimwade?”

Bibbie grinned. “Perks of the presidency,” she whispered. “But don’t tell her I told you.”

Permelia was pulling extraordinary faces, eyebrows shooting up and down, nose twitching, head minutely jerking sideways.

“Don’t look now,” said Reg, “but I think the pressure’s finally got to her. Any moment she’ll start foaming at the mouth.”

“I think,” said Bibbie, “she’s trying to tell us which one’s Millicent Grimwade.” She nodded at a woman third from the end along the row of wound-up, waiting contestants. “There. Her.”

“Right,” said Melissande. “Then let’s prove she’s a rotten cheater and get out of here, shall we? Because if I have to stay in this room for much longer I’ll never be able to look a cake in the face and smile again.”

“Not a bad idea, ducky,” Reg muttered. “Your buttocks’ll thank you for it, believe me.”

Ignoring that, Melissande hefted Monk’s carpetbag and got to work.