Witches Incorporated Read online

  “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.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  They fought their way through the growing crowd, past the other contestants’ cake and pastry-laden tables, until they found themselves standing in front of Permelia Wycliffe’s nemesis, usefully camouflaged by two shifting rows of gossiping spectators.

  Glimpsed between feather-crowned hats and silk-shawled shoulders, Millicent Grimwade lived up to her name. She was a tall, thin, hatchet-faced woman dressed head-to-toe in deep purple silk and basking in a premature aura of victory. A delicate lace cloth covered her display table right down to floor level, pinned in place by a cream-slathered gooseberry sponge, a primrose-yellow iced pound cake and a seductively glistening chocolate log.

  Melissande considered the offerings, then sidled a little closer to Bibbie. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, mindful of eavesdroppers. “But I don’t see what’s so terrible about those cakes. They look like cakes you’d buy in a shop. In fact, they make Per—” She darted a glance around the jostling crowd. “You-know-who look like a sore loser. Which means we’re in grave danger of making ourselves look like idiots if we start throwing about unsubstantiated accusations.”

  “What? Are you blind?” said Bibbie, in a disbelieving undertone. “Those cakes are terrible, Mel. They’ve got no business being in the Golden Whisk finals. The cream on the sponge is over-whipped, there’s too much yellow in the pound cake’s icing and she’s used the wrong kind of chocolate for the chocolate log. I can only imagine what they taste like.” She shuddered. “Sawdust, probably. I can hear Great-aunt Antigone’s ashes now, whirling in their urn.”

  Close around them the scented crowd swirled and shared its unfettered opinions. Everyone was praising Millicent Grimwade’s entries. Melissande considered the apparently ghastly cakes for a moment. No, she still couldn’t see what had woken Bibbie’s scathing contempt.

  “Are you sure?”

  Bibbie glowered. “Of course I’m sure.”

  “Reg?” she whispered. “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s a long time since I ate cake,” Reg whispered back, mournful.

  “That’s very helpful, thank you.” She chewed her lip. “The thing is, Bibbie, how is it you can tell they’re so awful when nobody else can? If they have been incanted surely you’d be singing their praises too.”

  Bibbie’s cheeks turned pink. “Oh. Um. That. Well, I zapped myself with one of Monk’s classified anti-hex hexes. It—ah—it only works if you’re thaumaturgically sensitive. Sorry.”

  Ouch. Thrusting aside the sting of that, Melissande glanced again at Permelia Wycliffe’s smug opponent, who was presiding over her entries like a queen receiving homage. “So you’re saying there is definitely black market thaumaturgy in play?”

  “After one look at those cakes?” Bibbie snorted. “I’d stake my First-Class diploma on it. Only it’s some of the slickest incanting I’ve ever met.” She opened her neatly gloved fingers, revealing a small green crystal. “This thing is supposed to turn black in the presence of an obfuscation or enhancement hex. Kindly note, girls, its conspicuous greeniosity. Whoever designed Millicent’s judge-fuddling incant is good. I mean, they’re bad, they’re very bad, but—”

  “Yes, yes, we get it,” Melissande snapped. “All right. Let’s see if we can put an end to this farce, shall we? I’d like to leave with at least the dregs of my self-respect intact.”

  Ignoring the molten glances and mutterings from their fellow spectators, they shoved and insinuated their way through the crowd until they were pressed against the scarlet cordon-ropes separating the public from the Guild’s illustrious competitors. Trying to remain inconspicuous, Melissande wafted Monk’s carpetbag to and fro before the table of suspect cakes. Any second now, surely, if Bibbie was right, the sprite’s interdimensional nature would disrupt whatever thaumaturgic influences had been placed on Millicent Grimwade’s entries and this ridiculous expedition could be successfully concluded.

  The gooseberry sponge, the pound cake and the chocolate log refused to co-operate. Not a single culinary crime went kablooey.

  �
�Psst!” she hissed into Bibbie’s ear. “Your brilliant plan doesn’t seem to be working. Don’t suppose you thought of an alternative, did you?”

  “We’re a good twelve feet from Millicent’s abominations,” Bibbie hissed back. “I think you’ll have to take Monk’s little friend out of the carpetbag.”

  “Oh, that’s a bright idea!” she whispered, staring. “I’ll just wave the interdimensional sprite around for all and sundry to see, shall I? I’m sure nobody will blink twice at the sight of a bright blue buzzing thing in a birdcage!”

  “They won’t if you don’t activate the etheretic normaliser,” Bibbie retorted. “There’s no need for anyone to see anything except Millicent Grimwade being unmasked!”

  “So you’re saying they’ll completely ignore the mad woman waving the empty birdcage about?”

  Bibbie groaned. “No, Mel, I’m saying—”

  “Oy,” said Reg, speaking out of the side of her beak. “Don’t look now, duckies, but we’re attracting the wrong kind of attention.”

  Sure enough, Millicent Grimwade was staring at them in a less than friendly fashion. Her gimlet gaze raked them up and down, then darted suspiciously to Eudora Telford, who was doing her very best to ruin everything, it seemed: smiling and nodding at them, and wagging a finger at Millicent while Permelia was distracted by a question from the crowd.

  Bibbie cursed under her breath. “Strategic withdrawal, girls, quick, before the Grimwade crone screams for a Guild Invigilator.”

  “A what?” said Melissande, as they hurriedly retreated to the nearest stretch of empty wall.

  “A who, not a what. Over there,” said Bibbie, jerking her chin. “There’s one. See her? The Guild appoints six of them altogether and trust me, we do not want them taking an interest in us. Guaranteed to cramp our style, that is, and get us tossed out on our well-padded posteriors.”

  Safely withdrawn from Millicent Grimwade’s line of fire, Melissande stared over the heads of the milling spectators and saw an official-looking woman prowling the edges of the chattering crowd. Dressed in a severely plain blue gown covered in a capacious and crisply spotless white apron, and carrying a wooden spoon of office, she looked imposing enough to tame a ravening horde single-handed.

  “Blimey,” said Reg. “Let her get near the cream and it’ll be clotted whether you want it clotted or not!”

  “Oh, don’t be mean,” said Bibbie. “She’s just doing her job. Believe me, it’s a thankless task. Great-aunt Antigone got her start as an Invigilator so I know all about it.”

  Holding their breaths, they waited to make sure the dreaded Guild Invigilator’s attention was focused elsewhere then went into a huddle.

  “All right,” said Melissande. “What do we do now? We’ve been here nearly half an hour, the judging must be about to start and we’re no closer to proving Millicent Grimwade is a cheating cheater who cheats than we were this time yesterday. Suggestions?”

  “What I already said,” said Bibbie, impatiently. “We’ve got to get the sprite in a direct line of sight with Millicent’s cakes. Which means like it or not, Mel, it’s got to come out of the carpetbag.”

  “And then what, Bibbie? I’m telling you, the minute I start waving an apparently empty birdcage around the place those Guild Invigilators are going to—”

  “What if it’s not empty? What if we put Reg in there?”

  “Over my dead body, madam!” Reg almost shrieked. “Are you out of your tiny mind? Shove me in a cage with an interdimensional sprite, would you? I’ll bloody shove you, ducky, I’ll—”

  Melissande pinched the wretched bird’s beak shut before someone noticed that her exotic shoulder ornament was having a fit. “She’s too big to squish into the cage, Bibbie. Besides, it says quite clearly on the door: No Pets Allowed.”

  “Good point,” Bibbie admitted, and lapsed into furious thought. “All right,” she said after a moment. “How about this?”

  “How about what?” said Melissande suspiciously, watching as Bibbie removed the velvet choker from around her neck and carefully unthreaded the exquisite cameo dangling from it. “Bibbie, what are you doing?”

  Bibbie dropped the cameo into her reticule then held out her hand. “Give me the birdcage, Mel, quick.”

  Baffled, she took the cage out of Monk’s carpetbag, handed it over and watched as Bibbie threaded the velvet choker through its handle. Then, in a blinding bolt of horrified comprehension, she realised what Monk’s mad sister was doing.

  “Oh, no. No, Bibbie. You cannot be serious!”

  “I can, you know,” said Bibbie, testing the weight of the cage as it dangled from her velvet choker.

  “It’s out of the question! You can’t wear a birdcage around your neck, it’s far too conspicuous!”

  Bibbie glanced up. “Well, no, of course I can’t. But you can.

  “Me?”

  “Yes, Mel. You.” Bibbie rolled her eyes. “I know this might come as a shock but women wear jewellery all the time.”

  “Jewellery, yes. But since when is a birdcage a fashion statement, you raving madwoman?”

  “Since Her Royal Highness Princess Melissande of New Ottosland makes it one,” said Bibbie, with her most anarchic grin. “Royalty always sets the trend in fashion, didn’t you know? After today, Mel, I’ll guarantee you that an empty birdcage around the neck will be the must-have accessory of the season! Or the week, at any rate. Even a day will do, provided it’s today.” She looked around the crowded room. “I wonder if that photographer from the Times is here…”

  Melissande tried to ignore Reg’s strangled laughter. “I hope so!” she hissed, glowering. “I’ll bet he’d just love to photograph a woman swallowing a birdcage whole!”

  “Now, now, you two,” Reg chided, her voice still choked. “We don’t have time for girlish romps.”

  “But—”

  Reg tightened her claws, warningly. “Like it or not she’s right, ducky. We’ve got to get that sprite close to Millicent Grimwade’s tricked-up nosh, and hanging it round your neck is our best bet.”

  “But it’ll never work!” she protested, even as the clammy waters of inevitability closed over her head. “I’ll be a laughing-stock! One of the Invigilators will throw me out!”

  “I doubt it,” said Reg with a derisive snort. “Not if they let that woman wearing the stuffed monkey stay. Now hurry up, because unless I’m mistaken those three fat men coming in now are the judges.”

  “What? Where?” Melissande spun round. “How can you tell?”

  “Well, for a start, it says “Judge” in six-inch high letters on their chests.”

  Botheration, the bird was right. They were indeed the judges, solemn and sober in their black morning coats and boiled shirt-fronts, diagonally bifurcated by their gaudy crimson sashes of office, guarded by the Guild Invigilators as though they were visiting royalty.

  The richly dressed and enthusiastically scented spectators broke into enthusiastic applause as the judges made their way from the doorway to the special “Judges Only” section of the chamber, which was also cordoned off by ropes.

  “Quick, Mel,” said Bibbie. “Get this on while nobody’s paying us any attention.”

  Depressed, Melissande stared at the birdcage dangling from Bibbie’s velvet choker. Then, with a surreptitious glance around the judge-absorbed crowd, she flicked on the etheretic normaliser.

  “Ah—is it my imagination, or does the sprite look sickly?” she whispered, staring through the cage’s bars at the unlikely creature. Its bright blueness had definitely faded since yesterday, and even its odd, not quite certain little face looked forlorn.

  “It’s fine,” said Reg, hopping over to Bibbie’s shoulder. “You’re imagining things. Now let’s get this over with! I’m about ready for my morning tea.”

  Get this over with. Easy for Reg to say. Reg didn’t have to make a fool of herself by dangling a birdcage round her neck. Honestly, if she’d ever once thought that she’d be brought this low she’d never have
approached Bibbie with the idea of opening Witches Inc. She’d have applied for a position as a governess first, even though other people’s children appalled her.

  “Come on, come on,” whispered Bibbie, quivering with anxiety. “Before it’s too late!”

  It was already too late. But I don’t have a choice, now. I’m committed… or I will be, once this madness is over. She gave the sprite one last worried look, switched off the etheretic normaliser and donned her lovely new necklace. The cage balanced precariously on her front, drawing embarrassing attention to her bosom. It was so in the way she was forced to rest her chin on it.

  “Excellent!” said Bibbie. “Now, let’s get into position, quickly, before the judges start their perambulations.”

  With ruthless courtesy, sublimely oblivious to glares and complaints, they pinched and pushed and weaselled their way back through the crowd of perfumed spectators until they’d reclaimed their prime ogling position directly in front of Millicent Grim-wade’s table. Upon spying their return to the fray, Eudora Telford immediately began flapping her hands and pulling alarming faces. Even Permelia lost a little of her iron-clad composure and began to lock and unlock her fingers in a nervous rhythm. Fortunately, before Millicent Grimwade or one of the prowling Invigilators could notice, they were both distracted by the polite yet insistent ringing of a tea bell.

  “Ladies! Ladies!” cried a fluting, excessively modulated voice. “The annual Golden Whisk competition now commences to be adjudicated! Resounding applause, if you please, for this year’s revered, respected judges, Ottosland’s Mister Huffington-Smythe and Mister Pertpeach, and our very special overseas guest adjudicator, Mister Grilliski from Blonkken.”

  Under cover of the obedient response, scores and scores of gloved hands patting each other with such restrained, ladylike enthusiasm it sounded as though a velvet-clad thunderstorm had struck, Melissande inched forward until she was pressed as hard against the scarlet boundary rope as she dared. In its cage round her neck the invisible sprite whined… but there was no reaction from Millicent Grimwade’s allegedly illegal cakes.