Witches Incorporated (14 page)

“Oh, well, if you’re going to insist on being all
sensible
about things,” said Bibbie, grinning.

“I don’t know,” she said, suddenly uncertain, while Bibbie read Monk’s hastily scrawled operating instructions. “Perhaps we should wait until Monk’s finished his meeting at the Department. I mean, this isn’t ordinary thaumaturgy we’re dealing with, is it, it’s uncharted territory, and—”

“Bollocks to that,” said Reg, nipping her on the ear. “Since when do we need a man to do our dirty work? We’re Witches Incorporated, ducky, and it’ll take more than some cheeky sod of a sprite on an interdimensional sightseeing safari to get the better of us!
Perhaps we should wait for Monk
.” She snorted. “I’m surprised at you, madam. And not in a good way!”

“All right, all right,” she muttered. “It was just a suggestion.”

In truth, she was a little surprised at herself. It seemed her confidence had taken more of a battering lately than she’d been willing to admit, even in the privacy of her own thoughts.

Get a grip, woman. You’re a royal princess and a former prime minister. This is no time to be going to pieces.

She turned to Bibbie. “Well? What do you think? Will Monk’s sprite trap work?”

“It ought to,” said Bibbie, thoughtfully. “I mean, his theory’s sound enough—as far as I can tell.” Then she rolled her eyes with sisterly scorn. “Although if he’d bothered to ask me I’d have told him you get much better etheretic cohesion if you use
two
parts powdered shloss-root to one part dried dragon-tongue, not three. But did he ask? Of course not. Just because he works for the Department he think he knows every—”

“
Excellent
,” she said briskly. “So let’s get this over with, shall we? When I open the door, Reg, you fly left. I’ll dart right. And Bibbie, you forge straight ahead with the trap activated. As soon as we spot the sprite, Reg, you play sheepdog and herd it into a corner so Bibbie can get it into the trap.”

“And what are you going to do?” said Reg.

“Take notes for the post-mortem.” She took hold of the door handle. “Right, girls. On three. One—two—”

There was a click and a brief, high-pitched buzz as Bibbie activated Monk’s invention.

“
Three
!”

She flung the door wide and they charged into the office like a very small herd of maddened wildebeest.

“There it is!” shouted Bibbie, as the sprite trap’s flux capacitor illuminated the sprite. “Oh look—it’s so
pretty
!”

Kicking the door shut behind them, Melissande stared at the creature. Bibbie was right, drat her. The sprite
was
pretty, beautiful even, all dancing blue etheretic particles. Not much bigger than one of Rupert’s late lamented butterflies, it shimmered with an incandescent brilliance as it perched on the test tube of ruined tamper-proof ink. And floating deep within the blue sparkles, a face. Or something that maybe, possibly, looked like a face…

No. No. It’s my imagination. And I am not about to get attached or feel sorry for it just because it’s a long way from home.

“
Ha!” she said. “A pretty big pain in the arse, you mean.” Abandoning her plan, she snatched the sprite trap from Bibbie and advanced. “Come here, you horrible little creature! I’ll teach you to cover
me
in interdimensional sprite shit!”

“No! Wait!” chorused Reg and Bibbie, for once in perfect harmony. “Don’t do that, you’ll fri—”

Too late. Temporarily brought into dimensional phase by Monk’s sprite trap, the startled sprite emitted a shrill squeak and launched itself into the air.

“After it, Reg!” cried Bibbie. “Melissande, you raving nutter, give me the trap!”

Shamed by her loss of control, Melissande surrendered the sprite trap and stood back as Reg and Bibbie ran and flew to and fro beneath the agitated blue sprite. Cries of “
Go left—watch out for the armchair—go right—higher—mind the umbrella stand—lower—it’s on the curtain rail—no, no, now it’s behind the curtain—yes, ducky, I can see it. I’m old and ensorcelled but I’m not blind yet!”
bounced from window to wall and back again as they pursued the agitated escapee from the dimension-next-door.

“Yes! Yes!” shouted Bibbie as Reg, panting like an antiquated racehorse, chased the sprite into the drooping embrace of the potted Weeping Fireblossom Monk had given them as an office-warming present.

With a shout of triumph Bibbie leapt at the sprite, the trap’s door open wide to swallow the creature. “
Gotcha
!”

Too late, Melissande realised she was standing in precisely the wrong place. Bibbie’s spectacular leap carried her clear over the potted Fireblossom and—

“
Ow
!” she cried as Bibbie sent her sprawling. “Get off me, get
off
me!”

“Shut the trap door, shut the trap door!” shrieked Reg, hovering above them. “I’m too old for all this excitement!”

As Melissande and Bibbie both dived for the trap their heads collided with a resounding
thwack.

“Ow
!” said Melissande. “Bibbie, you
idiot
!”

“
I’m
not the idiot,” moaned Bibbie, clutching her forehead. “
You’re
the idiot, you idiot!”

“Oh, Saint Snodgrass preserve me!” said Reg. “It’s getting away!”

On a string of colourful curses Melissande threw herself over Bibbie and slammed the trap’s door shut just as the sprite made a swoop for freedom. “Oh no, you don’t!” she snarled. “You
stay
in there, you disgusting little horror!”

“Oh do get
off
me you
lump
!” said Bibbie, sounding squashed.

Melissande shoved Bibbie sideways. “
Lump
? Who do you think you’re calling a—”

“I’m sorry,” said a clipped and disapproving voice above them. “Have we come at a bad time?”

“Bugger,” said Reg, under her breath, and strategically retreated to her ram skull.

Gasping for air, red-faced from more than exertion, Melissande staggered to her feet. Standing in the open office doorway were two astonished middle-aged ladies. One was short and comfortably plump, her walking-dress an eye-searing combination of mandarin and peacock blue. Her flat-brimmed bonnet was also blue, adorned with a bedraggled mandarin-dyed feather. Her companion, unfashionably tall and uncomfortably spare, was swathed in deepest black silk; a high-brimmed black hat with a sheer half-veil completed her mourning ensemble. Decorating each woman’s buttressed breast was a brightly enamelled pin shaped like a chocolate éclair. The thin woman’s pin was edged with gold.

Clients?
Botheration
. “Bad time, ladies?” she echoed, painfully aware of her tousled appearance. “Ah. No. Not as such. We were just—ah—”

“Concluding a very important assignment,” said Bibbie, on her feet again. Naturally, though she’d been rolling on the floor with equal abandon, she looked immaculate even while clutching Monk’s doctored birdcage in front of her. Unfortunately she hadn’t thought to deactivate the sprite-revealer, so the blue buzzing creature was in plain, inconvenient sight.

The plump woman squeaked and pointed. “Gracious me, what’s
that
?”

Bibbie dropped sprite trap and sprite on the desk, neatly flicking the off-switch. There was a high-pitched hum and the sprite promptly vanished. “I’m sorry? What’s what?”

“That, in there,” said the plump woman, quaking. “It looked positively
unnatural
.” She squinted. “But how strange… it seems to have disappeared.”

Bibbie smiled her most dazzling smile. “I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you. As you can see, the cage is empty. Must’ve been a trick of the light.”

“No, I don’t think so,” said the plump woman. “I
definitely
saw—”

Melissande cleared her throat. Time to nip this in the bud. “I’m so sorry, but we’re not at liberty to discuss it. Strict orders from the Department of Thaumaturgy, actually.”

“That’s right,” chimed in Bibbie with a dazzling smile. “They trust us implicitly. We have the closest relationship, you’ve no idea. But… top secret, hush-hush, you know how it is.”

“No,” said the tall, thin lady—she of the clipped and disapproving voice. Despite being attired for a longstanding bereavement, everything about her suggested wealth. The cameo pinned beside the gold-trimmed éclair pin was just that little bit larger than her companion’s. The stones in her tasteful gold necklace were real rubies, not garnets. An aura of old money surrounded her, impervious to youthful, upstart charm. “I’m afraid we don’t.”

“You don’t?” said Bibbie, taken aback. “Oh. Well, I’m sorry to hear that. I’d explain, you know, except—hush-hush—top secret—”

“And, as my colleague has pointed out, concluded!” Melissande added firmly, because Saint Snodgrass knew she wasn’t about to let these women or their money get away without a fight. “So… how might we assist you, madam?”

Their unimpressed visitor looked down her high-arched nose. Clearly she was too well-bred to comment on the trousers, but her expression was as eloquent as a politician’s speech. “Young… lady, I doubt very much that you can. In fact, it would appear we have come to the wrong establishment. So if you’ll excuse us—”

“Which establishment were you looking for?” said Bibbie gamely, still trying to dazzle them with her best smile.

“Witches Incorporated,” said their plump visitor, before her disapproving friend could speak.

“Then you’re in the right place!” said Bibbie. “That’s us. Witches Inc. I’m Miss Markham and these are my colleagues Miss Cadwallader and Reg. Reg is the one with the feathers.”

The haughty spokeswoman silenced her companion with a severe look then smiled at Bibbie, not at all dazzlingly. In fact her expression was positively unpleasant. “You have a bird for a colleague? How… quaint.” Her voice could have stripped paint.

“Actually, she’s more of a pet,” said Bibbie, doughtily undaunted. “But we like to humour her. It saves hurt feelings.”

As Reg made a noise like an exploding tea kettle, the disapproving woman looked Bibbie up and down. “I’m sure. However, as I said, we appear to have the wrong—”

“Oh please, Permelia, no!” said the other lady anxiously, plump fingers plucking at her friend’s leg-of-mutton sleeve. “Please, can’t we at least explain what we need? I mean, we
can’t
leave. We’ve nowhere else to turn and there’s no more time!”

“
Hush
, Eudora,” her companion snapped. “Kindly restrain yourself. I hardly think we’re so desperate we must throw ourselves upon the mercy of
these
two hoydens.”

The chastened Eudora shrank. “Of course not, Permelia,” she whispered. “Only—”

“
No
, Eudora. There is no ‘
only
’,” said Permelia, magnificently magisterial. “Obviously the
Times
has made a grave error. You can be assured I shall have Ambrose speak to its editor in the strongest possible terms. Now I suggest that we withdraw immediately and—”

“Excuse me,” said Melissande, heart sinking.
Reg is never going to let me hear the end of this. “
I’m sorry, I don’t wish to be impolite, or—or unbecomingly forward, but by any chance are you referring to this morning’s edition of the
Ottosland Times
?”

Before the formidable Permelia could speak, her companion stepped forward with a puppyish eagerness. “That’s right, Miss Cadwallader! In the society pages. There was a photograph—and a mention of your agency—”

“Which is
clearly
a case of misrepresentation!” said icily unimpressed Permelia. “Now hold your tongue, Eudora Telford! I will
not
have the sterling reputation of our organisation tarnished by an unfortunate—”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Permelia!” Eudora Telford exclaimed, pinkly penitent. “It’s dreadful of me to contradict you, I know, but I simply
can’t
stay silent, not when such an injustice is being perpetrated upon you!”

“Forgive me, ladies,” said Melissande, very carefully not looking at Reg. “I
really
don’t mean to be rude, truly, but—” She picked up the agency’s copy of the
Times
from the rickety occasional table where she’d earlier dropped it, and opened it to the despised social gossip pages. “—did you mean
this
photograph?”

Courageously ignoring the irate Permelia, Eudora joined her. “Why, yes! That’s the one! Her Royal Highness Princess Melissande of New Ottosland, proprietor of Witches Inc., attending the opera.” She peered at the newspaper, then frowned sideways. “Oh. Dear. My gracious. I’m sorry, Miss Cadwallader, are you
quite
sure—I mean to say—”

“Of course,” said Bibbie, with a grin as lunatic as her mad brother’s, “when I introduce my esteemed colleague as
Miss Cadwallader
, really that’s just her name of convenience.
Really
she’s Her Royal Highness Princess Melissande of New Ottosland. Don’t let the tweed trousers fool you. Go on, Mel. Don’t be shy. Show ’em your tiara.”

It was almost worth Reg’s evil chuckling to see the look of unbearable snobbery congeal on the awful Permelia woman’s face.

“Her Royal Highness?” Permelia said in a strangled voice. “Princess Melissande?”

“Well, yes,” said Melissande. “I’m afraid so.”