Witches Incorporated Page 15

  “Not here!” said Melissande, acutely aware of the unfortunate attention they were attracting from the public-at-large. She grabbed brother and sister by an elbow each. “Let’s find somewhere to discuss this in private, shall we?”

  Monk wrenched himself free. “There’s no time. Can’t you see the rotten thing’s dying? And if it dies in this dimension I have no idea what the thaumaturgic fallout might be. And I really don’t want to find out the hard way! Do you?” Clutching the birdcage with its ailing occupant close to his chest, he made a dash for the pool of shadows cast by the Town Hall’s wide, imposing front steps.

  “What are you doing?” said Melissande, following him, with Bibbie at her heels.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” he retorted, harassed. “I’m sending this bloody sprite back where it came from!”

  “Here? This minute?” said Bibbie. “Monk, you can’t! There are too many people around, what if—”

  Now it was Monk’s turn to do the ignoring. Deeply frowning, he pulled a rock out of his pocket and hummed complicatedly and untunefully under his breath, then held it above the sprite trap he’d so casually invented. Melissande recognised the rock as a relative of the portable portal he’d used in New Ottosland.

  “Oooh!” said Bibbie, twitching. “Feel that!”

  Melissande stared at her. “What? Feel what?”

  “That,” said Bibbie. “Ewww, it’s like a thousand caterpillars crawling over my skin! Can’t you feel it?”

  No. She couldn’t. Because she wasn’t a real witch. But that didn’t bother her at all.

  Monk was grinning now, and Bibbie was grinning back at him, their nursery-squabbling forgotten. “Any second,” he murmured. “Wait for it… wait for it…”

  The air surrounding the ailing sprite shivered. Sparkled in an impossible whirlpool of silver and gold. The sprite emitted a tiny, surprised squeak. Then, as though an invisible hand had reached out to grab it by the scruff of the neck, or what passed for its neck, it was sucked into the sparkling whirlpool… and vanished.

  “Excellent!” said Monk briskly and returned the rock to his pocket. “Now I’d best be on my way. Oh, and there’s no need for you to worry about Millicent Grimwade. Reg filled me in on her shenanigans, and I’ve passed along the particulars to the relevant Department. In fact—” He nodded as an official-looking black car pulled up in front of the Town Hall. “Here comes justice now.” He grinned as two stern-faced men spilled onto the pavement and started marching up the Town Hall steps. “So that’s the cake cheat and her black market chum taken care of. She’ll spill every last bean, I’ll bet, to make things easier for herself.” Still grinning, he shoved the birdcage at Bibbie.

  “And what am I supposed to do with this?” she said, bemused.

  “Hang onto it until the next time we have dinner?” he suggested, walking backwards. “Thanks!”

  They stared after him, open-mouthed, until he was lost to sight amongst the city’s teeming pedestrians.

  Then Bibbie laughed. “Never mind. All’s well that ends well.” She linked her arm through Melissande’s. “Now I want tea. Lots of tea. And scones with lashings of blackcurrant jam and cream.”

  Melissande shook her head. The Markhams were totally incorrigible and utterly impossible. “Bibbie, no. We can’t afford—”

  “Oh, pishwash!” scoffed Bibbie. “We just solved the greatest crime in Baking and Pastry Guild history, sent a sightseeing interdimensional sprite home to its mother and put a black market thaumaturgist out of business! If that’s not an excuse to celebrate then I don’t know what is! Do you?”

  “Well… no,” said Melissande, reluctantly. “Only we mustn’t go overboard, Bibbie. One celebratory scone each and a teapot between us. That’s it. And then we go back to the office and make sure we’re ready for round two with Permelia Wycliffe. Because if you’re right, and this ridiculous cake fiasco is the start of something big, then I want to be ready for it. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” said Bibbie, rolling her eyes. “Now come on, do. It’s time for some fun!”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The story appeared on page twelve of the next morning’s paper. This Year’s Golden Whisk Award Anything But A Cake Walk! the Times’ headline snickered. The accompanying photograph was of Bibbie, looking effortlessly beautiful even while covered in sprite-exploded chocolate log and holding a stupid birdcage.

  “Ha!” said Reg, perched on the back of the client’s armchair and peering over Melissande’s shoulder. “What were you saying about the evils of free advertising?”

  Trust Reg to remember that. “Nothing,” she muttered. “Shut up. I’m trying to read.”

  But instead of reading she stared at Bibbie’s picture, her attention transfixed. It was petty, no, it was smaller than petty, to feel her throat close up and her eyes burn hot. It wasn’t Bibbie’s fault she’d still look glorious dipped head to toe in mud. That even under such kerfuffled circumstances as yesterday’s she could emerge at the end of the fracas looking cool, calm, unruffled and glamorous.

  I really thought that horrible little man was photographing me. With Bibbie standing there? How silly could I get…

  “So?” said Reg, and tugged on a stray, escaped lock of hair. “Well? What does it say about us?”

  “What?” she said, blinking hard. “Oh. I don’t know. I haven’t finished reading.”

  “Then finish,” said Reg. “I don’t know, young people these days, no application, no discipline…”

  With a concerted effort she banished treacherous self-pity and focused on the brief article about the previous day’s eventful Golden Whisk competition.

  “It doesn’t say very much,” she said after swiftly perusing the two short paragraphs. “Only that some hanky-panky—unspecified—was thwarted at the Guild’s annual baking contest. And there’s a quote from Permelia Wycliffe about the organisation’s unsullied international reputation and dedication to transparent cooking practices.”

  “You mean we’re not mentioned?” said Reg, scandalised. “And that Wycliffe woman didn’t give us due credit?”

  “No. Which I admit is a little disappointing.” She frowned, thinking about that. “Although I wonder…”

  “Wonder? What’s to wonder, madam? We’ve been gypped!” Reg retorted, vibrating with outrage. “We saved the day, ducky, we rescued the Guild’s bacon from the fires of a public roasting and now we’ve been filleted, we’ve been fricasseed, we’ve been—”

  “Oh, Reg, do calm down and think for a moment.”

  “There’s nothing to think about!” Reg screeched. “We was robbed!”

  She sighed. “No, Reg, we were gazumped.”

  “Gazumped? What’s that? That’s not even a word!”

  “It’s a government thing,” she said, and tapped the newspaper. “I’ll bet you a week’s supply of mice that the whole story was kept vague because someone important had a word with the editor. Don’t forget, Reg, in the end this case boiled down to black market thaumaturgy. That’s not the kind of thing Monk’s Uncle Ralph wants splashed across the Times’s front pages. From the little Monk’s told me, the less people know about the thaumaturgical black market the better off we’ll all be.”

  But Reg was in no mood to be placated by anything so humdrum as reasonable common sense and sober government responsibility. Taking to the air, she flapped about the office in a rage.

  “I don’t give a tinker’s cuss about your young man’s uncle! If that Sir Ralph’s so worried about black market thaumaturgy, I say let him knock it on the head without trampling all over our moment in the sun!”

  Melissande shook her head. “Well, yes, Reg, it would’ve been nice if we’d been mentioned by name but—”

  “Nice?” Panting, Reg thumped onto her ram skull. “Nice would be you not taking the bureaucrat’s side, ducky! You know what your problem is, don’t you? You still think you’re a bloody prime minister!”

  What? “Oh, that’s rich coming from someone
who’s been a bird for the last four centuries and still wants everyone to treat her like a queen!” Ignoring Reg’s sharp, offended gasp, she turned back to the Times. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to—”

  “Girls! Girls! Did you see?” cried Bibbie, frothy in pink muslin and dancing into the office brandishing another copy of the Times. “We’re famous!”

  “Famous? We’re not famous!” Reg retorted. “We’re ignored is what we are. And madam here can’t see it’s a disaster! She’s too busy applauding a government cover-up!”

  Surprised, Bibbie stopped dancing and stared at them. “Ignored? What are you talking about, Reg? There’s an article and a photograph.” She shook the paper again. “Haven’t you seen it?”

  Melissande lifted her own copy of the Times. “We saw,” she said, then glanced at the clock. Ten to nine: an early morning record for Bibbie. “Reg is upset because the agency didn’t get a mention. I’ve been trying to explain that—”

  “But we did get a mention,” said Bibbie. “Didn’t you read the caption on the photo?”

  Caption? No. She hadn’t wanted to look at the picture that closely.

  With an impatient sigh, Bibbie lifted her paper. “Miss Emmerabiblia Markham, co-proprietor of Witches Inc.,” she read aloud, “after successfully unmasking the Golden Whisk cheat.” She looked up. “See? It’s all there in black and white. So there’s no need for Reg to be in a flap. Just you wait, the phone will be ringing off its hook after this.”

  Feather by feather, Reg let her ruffled plumage settle. “Oh. Well. That’s more like it. Of course it’s not the same as being mentioned in the actual article, but it’s better than a slap in the face with a stunned mullet.”

  Bibbie dropped a swift kiss on the top of Reg’s head then perched on the edge of her desk. “It’s a lot more than that,” she said. “It’s utterly fantabulous. We could never have afforded this kind of publicity.”

  Melissande sat back in the client’s armchair and brooded at the photo.

  The little cogs and wheels of her imagination were clicking, stirring up a definite sense of unease.

  “Oh-oh,” said Bibbie, noticing. “I know that look. Come on, Mel. Out with it. What’s wrong now?”

  She tapped a finger on the picture of Monk’s triumphantly smiling sister. “What’s wrong is I’m not entirely certain this kind of attention really is going to do us any favours.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” said Bibbie, astonished. “We’re going to be run off our feet after this. Saving the Baking and Pastry Guild’s day is going to put us on the map!”

  She shook her head. “I don’t have a problem with the agency appearing on a map. I’m just not convinced that us being turned into topographical features is a good idea.”

  Bibbie stared at page twelve in her own copy of the Times. “Being photographed, you mean? But Mel, it was your picture with Monk at the opera that got us the Guild job. How can that be a bad thing?”

  “It wasn’t,” she admitted. “But Bibs, really, think about it. Ottish society’s already forgotten that photo of me. You, on the other hand, are an entirely different boatload of monkeys.”

  “Oh, please, don’t start on that,” Bibbie muttered, squirming. “You know I hate it when—”

  “Too bad,” she said firmly. “Like it or not, Bibbie, the fact is that you don’t have a forgettable face.”

  Bibbie scuffed the carpet with the toe of her pink kidskin slipper. “Possibly,” she said grudgingly. “But I fail to see what that’s got to do with anything.”

  “Oh, come now. You must. I mean, we were successful yesterday because Millicent Grimwade didn’t have a clue who we were. But how successful are we going to be next time, do you think, if we need to be inconspicuous and you’ve been turned into a walking advertisement for the agency?”

  Bibbie tossed aside her paper and slid off her desk. “That’s not fair, Melissande! I didn’t ask for my picture to be taken.”

  She held up one placating hand. “I’m sorry, Bibbie. Of course you didn’t. This isn’t your fault. I just think we need to be careful, that’s all. The last thing we can afford to do is limit the kind of jobs we can accept. We need to growWitches Inc., not prune it while it’s still practically a seedling.”

  “Mel, honestly, you worry too much,” said Bibbie, pouting. “Why are you always looking for the silver cloud’s dark lining?”

  Reg rattled her tail feathers. “Now, now, ducky. Madam’s got a point. Being famous is all very well for five minutes. After that it tends to get inconvenient.”

  Astonished, Melissande swivelled round in the client’s armchair. “You’re agreeing with me now? You know, Reg, I do wish you’d make up your mind.”

  “She must be sickening for something,” said Bibbie, with a teasing smile. “Take her temperature, quick.”

  “Yes, yes, very amusing,” said Reg, rolling her eyes. “But you mark my words, Mad Miss Markham. There are far worse things in this world than being anonymous.” She sniffed. “Trust me, I speak from personal experience.”

  Now it was Bibbie’s turn to roll her eyes. “And nobody’s had as much personal experience as you, we know.”

  “Well, nobody has,” Reg snapped. “And you’d do well to remember that instead of—”

  Reg’s familiar scolding refrain was interrupted by the telephone, ringing. Bibbie picked up the receiver. “Good morning, this is Witches Inc. No thaumaturgical task too large or too—I’m sorry?—Yes, this is Miss Markham.—Yes, that’s me in the Times.—Why yes, I am Aylesbury Markham’s sister.—Distinguished? Well, that’s one word for him.—Really? How very distressing for you, Miss Martin. Perhaps you’d care to stop by the agency so we can discuss your situation in person? Just a moment and I’ll look in our appointment book…”

  “Reg,” said Melissande, keeping her voice down, “tell me not to get my hopes up, would you? Remind me that it’s still very early days. Lecture me on not counting my chickens while the eggs are still being laid.”

  Reg’s dark eyes gleamed. “I don’t need to, ducky. You’re far from perfect but you’re a sensible girl… and a little bit of dreaming never hurt anyone.”

  “Well!” said Bibbie, grinning, as she hung up the phone. “Whoever would have thought Aylesbury could come in handy? Wonders will never cease.”

  Melissande took a deep breath, trying to steady her unsteady heart. “A new client?”

  “Prospectively,” said Bibbie. “The Honourable Miss Letitia Martin. She saw the story in the paper and she knows Aylesbury. Thinks he’s charming, what’s more, which means either she’s a noddycock or she can’t have known him very long.”

  “When is she coming in?”

  “After lunch.”

  “And what’s her problem?”

  Two dimples danced in Bibbie’s cheeks. “Aside from the fact she thinks Aylesbury’s charming? She’s lost some valuable jewellery and wants us to find it. Tactfully. No public hue and cry.”

  “Oh? Well. That doesn’t sound too hard.”

  “Not hard at all,” said Bibbie, openly grinning again. “It’ll be money for jam. We’ll be rolling in dosh soon, just you wait and see!”

  “At this point, madam, allow me to remind you about unhatched chickens,” Reg said severely. “One new client does not a bursting bank account make.”

  Bibbie groaned. “You’re such a spoilsport, Reg. Why don’t you go catch a mouse or something so Mel and I can celebrate in peace?”

  “I might just do that,” Reg retorted. “Because for all your overconfidence, ducky, a mouse might be the only thing standing between the three of us and starvation before long!”

  “Honestly, Bibbie,” Melissande sighed, watching Reg flap across next door’s rooftop in high dudgeon. “You know she’s only trying to help.”

  “Trying to burst my balloon, you mean,” Bibbie grumbled. “Just once you’d think she could be encouraging.”

  Yes. Well. Probably it was time to change the subject. “Look at the time!�
�� she said brightly. “Permelia Wycliffe will be here soon. We should spruce up the office, I think.”

  But instead of sprucing, Bibbie slumped against her desk, arms mutinously folded, her brow scrunched in another scowl. “Reg should stop treating me like a—a peahen. I mean, you’re not the only one who’s been losing sleep lately, Mel. This place is all I have that’s me. If it doesn’t work out I’ll have to go back to being a gel. It’s all right for you. You might not much like being a princess but at least it means nobody dares tell you what to do.”

  “Ha,” said Melissande. “That’s what you think. There’s an entire herd of lords back home who do nothing but witter on about my frivolity and make formal demands that I come home and be decorative.”

  “Yes, but you don’t have to pay attention to them,” said Bibbie, impatient. “You can tell them to shut up and they have to listen because you’re the king’s sister and they’re not.”

  Bibbie really did look unhappy. “What’s going on, Bibs?” she said, pushing out of the client’s armchair to perch beside her on the edge of the desk. “Who’s been filling your head full of rainclouds? Not Monk?”

  “No, of course not Monk,” said Bibbie. “He’s the only one who really understands.” She shrugged. “But everyone else seems to think that all I should care about is making a brilliant marriage. Even Father, and he’s forever boasting about me to his wizard chums. I tell you, Mel, you may get away with wearing trousers in public but the world is still full of Great-uncle Throgmortons. I don’t care if I never get married. I want a large life. A life that has purpose. I mean, truly, what’s the point of being a thaumaturgical prodigy if I never get to be prodigious?”

  Melissande cleared her throat. “Yes, well. Not that I’d know anything about being a prodigy, of course, but—”

  “Oh, Mel, I’m sorry,” said Bibbie quickly. “I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t thinking.”

  She bumped Bibbie with her shoulder. “Never apologise for speaking the truth. You are a prodigy, just like Monk. Almost like Gerald. And I’m not.”