Witches Incorporated (20 page)

“I say! I say!” an excited voice called out. “Can you look this way?”

“What?” said Melissande, turning. “I know that voice! It’s—”

And then she was blinded by a flash of thaumically-enhanced light as the appalling photographer from the
Times
assaulted her yet again with his camera.

A tide of red and righteous wrath rose within her. “
You
! What are
you
doing here?
Give
me that camera, you
revolting
little man!”

The photographer yelped and ran. Hurdling the still-prostrate Millicent Grimwade, scattering spectators like skittles, she chased the mingy weasel out of the chamber, down the Town Hall steps and into the busy carriage-filled street.

“That’s right, you little rodent!” she bellowed after him. “Run, go on! And just you
keep
on running, you hear? Keep on running and
don’t look back
!”

“Now, now,” said Reg, landing on her shoulder in a fluttering of brown-and-black feathers. “That’s not very nice of you, ducky. I mean, in a roundabout way he did get us this job.”

Hotly aware of the stares and imprecations she was collecting from various shocked pedestrians and carriage-drivers, Melissande leapt back onto the sidewalk and lifted her chin, refusing to be embarrassed. “I don’t care. It’s an invasion of privacy, that’s what it is. He’s a weasel and a toad and I’ve half a mind to slap Millicent Grimwade silly with a soggy cooked noodle until she gives up the name of the witch or wizard who devised that hex of hers. Could be I might have some business for them. There’s a certain camera I need to futz with.”

“No, don’t do that,” said Monk, behind her. “Black market thaumaturgy is kept strictly hush-hush. If you stick your nose in I’ll have to report you to the Department and that could get a bit awkward. And speaking of awkward, Mel, what have you done with my sprite?”

Melissande spun on her heel. “Monk? What are you doing here?”

“Reg came and got me,” he said, his eyes warm, his expression guarded. “Now can I have my sprite back, please? We’re up to our armpits in a controlled thaumic inversion back in the lab, and Macklewhite won’t cover my absent arse forever.”

“The wretched thing’s inside,” she said, desperately attempting to recover her poise. If only she wasn’t wearing
quite
so much whipped cream…

“Inside?” Monk repeated, horrified. “What do you mean, inside? You mean inside the
Town Hall
? Where people can
see
it? Mel, what were you
thinking
?”

“I wasn’t!” she said hotly. “This was all your mad sister’s idea! So if you want to shout at someone I strongly suggest you shout at
her
!”

Monk scrubbed a distracted hand over his face. “Mmm. Yes. That never turns out well for me.”

“And you think
this
conversation is destined for a happy ending?”

“Quit while you’re ahead, sunshine,” said Reg, snickering. “Want me to go and fetch Mad Miss Markham?”

They stared at her in mutual dismay. “
Absolutely not!
”

Reg sniffed. “Suit yourselves.”

Melissande watched her flap away, then sighed. “Wait here, Monk. I’ll fetch Bibbie and your precious sprite.”

But there was no need, for as she turned to trudge back into the Town Hall Bibbie came out with the deactivated sprite trap.

“
There
you are!” said Monk, wrathfully advancing. “Bibbie, are you completely
cracked
?”

Ignoring the question, his sibling thrust the seemingly-empty birdcage at him. “Here’s your sprite, Monk. Lucky for you it came in handy or I might’ve had to devise a truly awful payback hex. As things stand, we’ll call us even.”

“
Even
?” he said, flicking on the etheretic normaliser. “Not bloody likely!”

“Honestly, it’s
in
there, Monk,” said Bibbie, with unrestrained sisterly scorn. “Do you really think I’d—oh.”

Oh
was right. The interdimensional sprite was puddled on the bottom of the birdcage, its only sign of life a faint, pulsating blue twitch.

Melissande stared at it, aghast. “Oh yes? My imagination, was it? I
said
the thing didn’t look very well, didn’t I say that? But no-one
ever
listens to me. Just because
I’m
not a thaumaturgical genius I get
ignored
!”

It was true. Bibbie was ignoring her now. “You’d better do something, Monk. If the stupid thing dies it’ll be your fault.”

“
My
fault?” He looked in danger of falling to the pavement in an apoplectic fit. “Bugger that, Bibbie! If you’d done what I asked in the first place and brought me the damned sprite as soon as you caught it—”

“
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
!”

T
he 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—”