Part 11 (1/2)

”Luck? Luck?” said Melissande, free to stamp about the office in an excess of temper. ”Luck's not the first word that comes to my mind, you raving nutter!”

”Why?” said Bibbie, amazed. ”What have I done wrong now?”

”You know perfectly well what you've done wrong!” she retorted. ”Promising those two nitwits we could solve this ridiculous case? And all that guff about Rupert! Reg on the royal coat of arms! Honestly, Bibbie, you know I hate using that royalty claptrap to impress strangers. It's crude and it's common and it's-”

”Going to help us pay the bills!” said Bibbie. ”Just like me being related to the saintly Antigone Markham saved us from your stupid insistence on wearing those ghastly tweed trousers! The least you could do is wear velvet, Melissande, at least velvet's got some cla.s.s! But no, you have to-”

”Shut up!” roared Reg, rattling her tail feathers so hard she nearly fell off the ram skull. ”The pair of you!”

Shocked silent, they looked at her.

”Mad Miss Markham's right,” Reg continued severely. ”We can't afford to tiptoe on our principles. Not if we want to avoid landing on our penniless a.r.s.es in the alley.” She bestowed upon Bibbie an approving nod. ”Nice work spotting the Guild pins, ducky.”

Bibbie dropped an ironical curtsey. ”Thank you, Reg.”

”But don't you see?” said Melissande, despairing. ”That dreadful Eudora Telford's going to run around telling everyone I've got a tiara stuffed up my blouse!”

Reg snorted. ”Down the back of your trousers, more like it.”

As Melissande advanced, Bibbie leapt between her and Reg's ram skull. ”Ignore her, Mel. You know she only does it to get a reaction.”

”And anyway, madam here didn't flap the Times under that silly woman's nose!” Reg added, hopping from the ram skull to Bibbie's shoulder. ”That was you, ducky.”

”Look, Mel, you need to focus on the big picture,” said Bibbie, impatient. ”Which is that the Baking and Pastry Guild is a really, really big deal. I'm talking about an upper-crust sisterhood full of women of affluence and influence. Women with excellent connections-and money. Once we've solved the mystery of Millicent Grimwade's cheating, trust me: we'll have more work coming in than we know what to do with.”

Melissande stared at her. ”Once we've solved-Bibbie, are you saying you think that dreadful Wycliffe woman's got a case against this Millicent Grimwade?”

”Of course.”

”Emmerabiblia Markham, are you telling me that a grown woman would stoop to dishonesty-if not downright illegality-just to win some cheap statue of a cooking utensil?”

”Mel, Mel, Mel,” sighed Bibbie, shaking her head. ”Don't you have a Baking and Pastry Guild in New Ottosland?”

”Probably,” she said. ”I know I used to get served up some pretty awful jam rolls when I was out and about on official duty. But I was never a member. I had better things to do!”

”Don't you let Permelia Wycliffe hear you say that,” said Bibbie. ”And stop being such a sn.o.b. I'll have you know the internecine warfare of the Baking and Pastry Guild makes international politics look like a kiddie's afternoon tea party. Trust me. Millicent Grimwade is up to no good.”

”Why? Because she's won a few cooking contests?”

Bibbie wagged a finger. ”Not a few, Mel. All of them. And all of them over the reigning Guild president. Trust me, it's just not possible. Not without some unorthodox a.s.sistance.”

Melissande blinked. It sounded utterly potty. But Bibbie seemed convinced, and she was the one with the presidential great-aunt.

I suppose I'd be mad to discount her expertise and experience. It just all sounds so dreadfully silly...

”Fine,” she sighed. ”So there's a legitimate case. But Bibbie, even if Millicent Grimwade is cheating, how are we supposed to prove it? I mean if a tribe of other witches and wizards have failed to uncover even the tiniest hint of thaumaturgic interference, what makes you think we'll fare any better?”

”Because,” said Bibbie, eyes s.h.i.+ning, ”Witches Inc. has a secret weapon!”

With a flourish she reactivated the sprite trap's etheretic field. In its small cage, the newly visible sprite buzzed and hummed.

Melissande stared at it, then at Bibbie, with a dawning horror. ”Oh, no. Emmerabiblia Markham, you cannot be serious!”

Bibbie picked up the cage and made coochiecoochie faces at the sprite, which sparkled and buzzed back at her.

”I can, you know,” she said. ”I've never been more serious. We've already established that this thing disrupts thaumaturgic vibrations. All we have to do is smuggle it into the bake-off tomorrow morning and let interdimensional nature take its course!”

”But what about Monk?”

She shrugged. ”What about him?”

”Bibbie, he needs to send this sprite back to where it came from! We need him to send the horrible thing home, it's a menace!”

”And he will send it back, Mel. Once we've used it to save the agency,” said Bibbie. ”Come on. Monk owes us. What's three tins of tamper-proof ink? We can buy that ourselves... or at least, we could if we had any money. But this sprite is priceless. This sprite is going to put Witches Inc. on the map, I can feel it in my bones. It's not going back to Monk until it's made us the heroines of Ottosland's internationally celebrated Baking and Pastry Guild.”

Melissande gnawed the edge of her thumb. ”I don't know. I don't like this, Bibbie. I've had enough unnatural creatures to last me a lifetime.”

”Really?” said Reg, staring down her beak. ”Well, thank you very much, I'm sure.”

Distracted, she smiled at the bird. ”Don't be silly, Reg. You're not unnatural, you're just irritating.”

”And so are you,” snapped Bibbie. ”Honestly, Mel. How can you be so short-sighted? Don't you see this sprite is a gift?”

A curse, more like it. But either she was going to trust Bibbie, or she wasn't. ”All right. Fine. But if this blows up in our faces-which is hideously likely-then I give you fair warning: I will swear with my hand on my heart that I don't know you from a hole in the ground.”

Bibbie put the sprite trap back on the desk and leaned over for the phone. ”And when my plan works brilliantly-which it will-I am going to take all the credit.” Picking up the receiver she dialled, then waited. ”h.e.l.lo, Monk? It's me.-Yes, we've got your stupid sprite but you can't have it back until tomorrow.-Because I say so, that's why.-Because something's come up.-All right, because if you don't stop yelling at me the next person I telephone will be Uncle Ralph.-Well, actually, I can. But I won't. Not unless you-Good. I didn't think so.-You're welcome. See you tomorrow night, for dinner.”

Melissande sighed. ”Don't tell me, let me guess. He's not happy.”

”Who cares?” said Reg. ”Bibbie's right. This is about saving the agency. So, Miss Markham. About this crazy plan of yours...”

”It's mad,” said Melissande much later, getting ready for bed. ”And I'm mad for agreeing to it. Honestly, Reg, if something goes wrong...”

Reg swallowed the last of her supper mouse, burped genteelly, then fluffed out her feathers. ”Most likely it won't. But if it does we'll deal with it, ducky. Now put a sock in it and turn out the light. I'm not the only one around here who needs her beauty sleep.”

Melissande concentrated on doing up her nightdress b.u.t.tons. The trick with Reg was to just... not react. No matter what she said, no matter how rude she was, reacting only made things worse.

Besides. It only hurts because she tells the unvarnished truth.

Swathed in sensible pink flannel she padded across to the sprite trap on her lone bookcase, lifted up the blouse covering it, then flicked on the activation switch. Metaphysically revealed, the doleful sprite moped in the corner of the modified birdcage, its blue brightness dimmed.

She frowned. ”It doesn't look very happy, Reg.”

”Well, don't you go trying to cheer it up,” Reg replied, cosily settled on the bedsit's sole rickety chair. ”No joyful ditties, for example. I'm still emotionally scarred from the last time I heard you sing.”

The last time she sang she'd been three-quarters full of Orpington whiskey, which was totally understandable given the dire prevailing circ.u.mstances. She glowered at the bird. ”That's not very nice, Reg.”

”Neither is your singing, ducky.”

Ah-ah-ah! No reacting, remember?