Witches Incorporated (9 page)

Melissande turned away so Reg wouldn’t see the tell-tale flush of colour in her cheeks. “Don’t be ridiculous, Reg. I might wear trousers but I’m not completely
abandoned
. Bibbie could move in with him, she’s his sister. I’m not.”

The truth is I’m not sure what I am to him. Honestly, things were much less complicated when we were in the middle of an international crisis.

Another sniff. “All right, all right. Untwist your knickers, ducky. It was only a thought.”

But not the kind of thought she wanted to be thinking. Besides, she had far more immediate concerns. “Well, those kinds of thoughts are best kept to yourself,” she said briskly. “Anyway, I’ve already come up with one way for us to pinch our pennies. I’m going to brew up a fresh batch of tamper-proof ink. I might not be a patch on Miss Markham when it comes to proper witchcraft but I’m a dab hand at brewing tamper-proof ink. I went through gallons of the stuff once Lional—”

And there he was, tripping her up again, curse him. Ottosland’s wizards were wrong. There really were such things as ghosts.

I wonder if it’s like this for Gerald, too? Wherever he is. Whatever he’s doing. I wonder if he thinks of Lional every time he remembers he’s only got one good eye.

“Good idea,” said Reg, breaking the difficult silence. “That’ll keep you out of mischief. And I’ll help.
I
was brewing tamper-proof ink five minutes after ink was invented.”

Melissande groaned. “Of course you were.”

It was still too early to go shopping for regular ink that she could gussy up with a dash of her limited thaumaturgy, so she trudged back downstairs to see if the morning paper had arrived. Yes, it was there on the building’s front doorstep beside the agency’s daily half-pint of milk, which they had delivered in the frail hope that prospective clients would arrive parched and desperate for a rallying cup of tea. Sadly, Boris had been the main beneficiary of that little plan.

Of course it could be argued the newspaper was another pointless extravagance, except there was always the hope—possibly forlorn, but a hope nonetheless—that a client might be found by perusing the crime section. Or the social pages. According to Reg they were usually one and the same. And even though Bibbie was forbidden from actively exploiting her family connections, she still knew a great many people in the upper strata of Ottosland society. Inside information would never go astray.

The clunk of the stoppered milk jug against the steps brought Boris out of hiding from the shadows next door. Green eyes gleaming, black tail flicking suggestively, he wound himself endearingly around Melissande’s tweed ankles.

“Forget it,” she told him. “Prospective clients come first.”

Boris twitched his whiskers in disgust and leapt back into the shadows. Arms full of newspaper and milk jug, Melissande looked up and down the narrow street, searching for signs of life, but it was empty. Daffydown Lane wasn’t what anyone could call a bustling thoroughfare. Unfortunately, the rent for premises on bustling thoroughfares was daylight robbery. Daffydown Lane was the best they could afford.

She turned to go back inside… and was confronted by the tenant roll attached to her building’s brickwork beside its slightly warped door frame. Amid the faded listings for Briscowe’s Best Bootlaces, Argent Exports and Dashforth’s Superior Comestibles, one entry stood out.

Witches Inc. No thaumaturgical task too large or too small. Reasonable rates, discretion guaranteed.

The bold, black-edged gold lettering leapt starkly to the eye, still so brand-new and hopeful compared with the faded announcements of the building’s other occupants. Without warning she felt a flutter of fear in the pit of her stomach, as delicate as one of Rupert’s butterflies.

Please, Saint Snodgrass. Don’t let us fail.

Subdued, she trudged upstairs to the office and made herself comfortable with the paper in the over-stuffed, high-backed client armchair. She wasn’t supposed to, because the client armchair was the only newish piece of furniture they possessed and was meant for Special People, otherwise known as clients, but it seemed a pity to let it go to waste.

Ignoring violent partnerly opposition, Reg had insisted on keeping her revolting old ram skull on top of the office’s sole filing cabinet. Ensconced there now, she looked down her beak.

“Well? Find anything interesting?

The paper’s front page was decorated with a splendid photograph of Rupert, diplomatically losing a camel race to his next-door neighbour Sultan Zazoor. She felt her heart skip and quickly flicked the paper open. Homesickness was like a scab: not nearly so painful if you didn’t pick at it.

“Interesting?” She scanned the various stories of the day. “Well, the last injured travellers from the most recent portal accident have been released from hospital, poor things. Still no official announcement of what went wrong this time. Five accidents in four months? It’s unprecedented.”

“What went wrong is some fool of a government inspector fell asleep on the job,” said Reg, scornful. “Portal travel might be convenient but it’s only been around for five minutes. Mucking about with that kind of metaphysics is no romp in the park. What else?”

Melissande turned another page. “Not much. Lots of nattering about this upcoming symposium. The usual blowhards blustering in Letters to the Editor. Oh, and the Potentate of Aframbigi’s lodged a formal complaint about his sanctions.”

“Never mind him,” said Reg. “He’ll need a sight more help than the likes of us can provide, the silly old fogey. Try the social pages. With any luck one of our Miss Markham’s old school chums has lost an expensive bracelet and needs us to—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, turning to the back section of the paper. “Why would one of Bibbie’s friends need us? Any graduate of Madam Olliphant’s would be perfectly capable of—oh
no
!”

“What?” said Reg, and flapped from her ram skull to the arm of the client chair. “What’s wrong?”

Mortified, Melissande stared at the photograph in the paper’s breathlessly overwritten social section. “What do you think?”

“I think that bustle was a big mistake,” said Reg, peering at the offending picture. “You’ve got more than enough bum to be going on with, madam. No need to go
enhancing
it.”

Melissande gritted her teeth. “Yes, so you said at the time, Reg. But—”

“
Her Royal Highness Princess Melissande of New Ottosland
,” Reg said aloud, reading the photograph’s caption, “
only sister to the King of New Ottosland and co-proprietor of Witches Inc., the capital’s newest thaumaturgical agency, escorted by Monk Markham, Esquire, younger son of celebrated thaumaturgist Wolfgang Markham, attending a performance of “
The Shepherd’s Revenge
” at the Opera House
. What’s wrong with that? That’s free advertising, that is. Even if most of you that isn’t bustle is hidden behind that Markham boy.” She chuckled. “Although he does scrub up quite nicely, doesn’t he?”

Yes, he did, very nicely, but that wasn’t the point. “I could’ve
sworn
I managed to fritz that wretched man’s camera!” Melissande fretted. “He’s always lurking around public events hoping to photograph me. Next time I’ll get Monk to fritz his camera. Better yet I’ll get Monk to fritz
him
.”

“Oh, no you won’t, madam!” said Reg. “Not when he’s giving us free advertising, you won’t!”

She threw the paper on the floor and shoved out of the armchair. “I don’t
care
about the free advertising. I care about Rupert seeing this and thinking I’m exploiting him for my personal gain! He’s been so wonderful about what happened at Madam Olliphant’s, and me starting up the agency even though it’s got the potential to embarrass him. They’re still wittering about it back home, you know, all those fuddy-duddy aristocrats. Lord Billingsley and the rest. I’m flying in the face of Tradition, Reg, and they’re not impressed. But Rupert’s standing firm. The
last
thing I want is for him to think I’m taking him for granted.
Using
him.”

“If you think he thinks that, ducky,” said Reg, surprisingly gentle, “you’re daft. That brother of yours adores you. In his short-sighted eyes you can do no wrong.”

Which was precisely the problem. Rupert’s loyalty was limitless, so she had to place the limits for him. Otherwise he could get himself into trouble. She’d have to write him a letter, and bother the expense of postage home. If his feelings were hurt he’d never tell her. He’d just brood and look sad…

Oh, Rupes. I’m sorry. Maybe coming to Ottosland was a mistake after all.

“
Mister Cripps will be at his shop by now,” she said abruptly, glancing at the tinnily ticking clock on the wall. “I’m going out to buy that ink. In the unlikely event a client should turn up while I’m gone don’t do anything, just let them fill out the enquiry card and pop it through the door-slot and I’ll deal with it when I get back.”

Reg immediately looked outraged. “Do you mind? I’m perfectly capable of—”

“Pretending to be an etheretic answering machine, getting into an argument with a client and sending them away in a huff?” she interrupted. “Yes, Reg, I know. Last week’s demonstration was flawless. You could give tutorials. Which is why I’m saying
don’t do anything
.”

And on that trenchant note she picked up her slightly faded velvet reticule and swept out of the office, banging the door firmly closed in Reg’s offended face.

It took her not quite three-quarters of an hour to walk to Mister Cripps’s Office Supply Emporium, which was nowhere near as grand as its title suggested, make a purchase of his cheapest black ink, convince him she was perfectly capable of carrying the tin back to her office unassisted, and do so.

Reg, determined to remain offended, pretended to be asleep on her ram skull. Knowing perfectly well the dreadful bird was just aching to be appeased, Melissande pointedly ignored her. After setting up her test tube, conductive tubing, large beaker and etheretic condenser on Bibbie’s desk, since Monk’s sister wasn’t there to object, she started the process of tamper-proofing the first batch of ink.

Task completed, she returned to the client armchair with a book about the impact of cosmic rays on the etheretic field, which she’d borrowed from Monk. Her practical skills might leave a lot to be desired but there was no reason why she couldn’t be a theoretical expert. And who knew? Maybe if she read enough of his books some of his genius would rub off. A forlorn thought, most likely…

But there’s no law against dreaming.

Twenty minutes later the percolating ink on Bibbie’s desk hissed then evaporated in a belching of noxious orange smoke.

Melissande stared at it. “What? How did that happen?”

Reg sniggered.

“Huh,” she said, still ignoring the bird, and started the tamper-proofing process again with a fresh lot of ink.

Fifteen minutes after that, just as she staggered to the end of chapter five, the ink fizzed, turned bright yellow and condensed into a scum of froth around the lips of both test tube and beaker.

She let Monk’s book drop into her lap. “Oh, please. I know it’s Mister Cripps’s cheapest ink but this is
ridiculous
.” Muttering under her breath, she cleaned the test tube and beaker again, replaced the conductive tubing, triple-checked the etheretic condenser, poured her third batch of ink—good job she hadn’t succumbed to the temptation of a more expensive brand—and settled back into the armchair.

Seven laborious minutes into chapter six, the third batch of ink erupted into bubbles. Incredulous, Melissande looked up, saw the ink morph in a flash from black to emerald and made a frantic dive for test tube and beaker.

Too late. With a last despairing fizzle the ink expired in a cloud of damp green mist. She sneezed, then broke a cardinal rule and threw Monk’s book to the floor.

“Oh—oh,
buttocks
!”

The cry roused Reg from her pretend doze on the ram skull. “
Language
, madam.”

“Language yourself,” she retorted, tugging off her glasses so she could clean the green mankiness off them. “You’ve said much worse, I’ve heard you.” Having ruined the tail of her blouse, she shoved the glasses back on and turned. “Buttocks, buttocks, buttocks, so there.”

Instead of scolding, Reg stared into the distance, a reminiscent gleam in her dark eyes. “I had buttocks once,” she said dreamily. With a ruffle of feathers she hopped from the ram skull to the open window, because the drifting green mist smelled like a men’s locker room whose cleaners had gone on a workers’ picnic. “They were lovely. All tight and firm and round like a fresh young peach.” Another remembering sigh, and then a considering glance at Melissande’s trouser-clad behind. “I could show you some exercises if you like.”

“I really wouldn’t,” she said, teeth gritted.

“Well, you should,” said Reg. “Tight buttocks can take a girl a lot further than you’d think.”

She closed her eyes.
Count to ten, count to ten, get to ten and keep on counting… “
Look,” she said, snatching up her glass potion stirrer and waving it for emphasis, “why don’t you make yourself useful for once and help me work out what’s gone wrong with the stupid stuff
this
time.” Gingerly she poked the rod into the beaker and stirred the teaspoon-worth of green sludge at the bottom; the end of the rod promptly melted.