Pure Dead Brilliant (16 page)

“Tarantella!” Pandora gasped. “What're you doing with
him
? Oh no. What's happened to your
leg
? Oh, you poor, poor thing.”

“Don't. Just
don't
.” The tarantula allowed Pandora to pick her up. “Don't
leak
all over me. Oh, for heaven's sake, I may as well save my breath—”

“Poor T-Ta—” Pandora choked and could go no further, as her nose began to run in sympathy with her eyes.

“She's okay, really.” Titus attempted to offer a small crumb of comfort to his sobbing sister.

“Oh,
am
I?” Tarantella glared at Titus. “And since when did
you
become an expert on arachnid well-being? Would you
stop
sprinkling me, girl? I am not fine, but I'm not about to pop my clogs either. I'm in constant pain and I'm probably going to limp for the rest of my life, but I beg you, don't add drowning to my list of woes.”

“But your poor l-l—” Pandora spluttered.

“Say it, don't spray it,” Tarantella snapped. “My poor leg is still jammed in the
hoof
of that monster downstairs. Forget my leg. If
I
can, so can you. Unless you wish even more terrible events to take place, you have to alert Mrs. McLachlan to the presence of a monster in our midst.”

“Pardon?” Pandora blew her nose and peered at the tarantula through red-rimmed eyes. “What monster? Did I miss something?”

“Give me
strength,
” Tarantella moaned. “For a supposedly superior species,
Homo sapiens
are a terrifyingly unobservant bunch. Titus, fill your sister in on the details—I'm pooped. I simply cannot summon up another ounce of energy. Before I keel over, would you please find me a safe place to sleep—one that doesn't tick or sound the hour like my last sanctuary did? I'm too ill to spin or even climb into a web and I cannot keep
my . . . eyes . . . open . . . a minute . . .” The tarantula slumped in Pandora's hands, her eyes closed and her mouth relaxing into a tiny pout.

From the hall downstairs, they could hear Mrs. McLachlan calling them.

“Titus, Pandora. Hurry
up
. Your dinner's growing cold.”

“I'll put her in the old doll's house,” Pandora decided, crossing her bedroom to the shelves where her favorite possessions from earlier childhood were displayed. The old doll's house was an antique, passed down from Signora Strega-Borgia to Pandora, and ultimately destined for Damp. Every item of furniture within had been made by hand, down to the tiny carpets that had been embroidered in silk by one of Signora Strega-Borgia's great-aunts—who, over the course of a decade, lovingly stitched tiny tapestries designed specifically for the interior of the doll's house. Pandora unhooked the front and carefully placed the slumbering Tarantella in the master bedroom, lifting the minute goosedown comforter from the four-poster bed and tucking the spider in before drawing the bed's curtains closed around her.

“Come
on,
” Titus urged. “I'm starving.”

“You have to tell me about the monster first.” Pandora turned out the light and opened the door to the hall just as Fiamma d'Infer strode past, giving the children not so much as a passing glance on her way back downstairs.

“Right. I think I'll just
lock
my door,” Pandora muttered, closing it gently behind them. Titus nodded his approval and began to explain in whispers about Tarantella's brush with death.

“That's her. She's the monster. The one who had the fight with Dad over the wine. The one who moaned about the rats. She tried to kill Tarantella and—”

“
What?
And no one has told her to pack her bags and go? I'll soon see to that—”

“NO! Pan, no
way
. Don't go near her.
Promise
me you won't. She's not what she seems. . . .”

They had reached the kitchen door and hesitated in the corridor outside.

“Pandora,” Titus pleaded, “I know you love your spider and anyone who harms so much as a hair on her body ought, in your opinion, to be torn limb from limb but—we're not dealing with just anyone here. That woman . . . she's a demon in human form. She's after far bigger prey than a wee spider. She wants Damp—and—and, um, me, actually.”

“Damp? And
you
? What, like a kidnapping?”

“No—uh, I'm not exactly clear about what bits of Damp and me she's interested in, but Tarantella seemed to think that Mrs. McLachlan would understand what is going on and would know what to do. So, we have to pretend nothing is wrong, go back and finish dinner, and then try to talk to Mrs. McLachlan without anyone overhearing, and tell her
everything
.”

Pandora's eyes filled with tears again.

“What? What's the matter?” Titus's stomach growled impatiently as he waited for his sister to reply. “Come
on
. We'll have to go back in there in a minute.”

“It's Mrs. McLachlan,” Pandora sniffed. “She practically tore my head off before dinner. I've never seen her so angry . . . she went absolutely ballistic, and her
eyes
— Oh, Titus, it was
awful
.”

“What about her eyes? Why was she angry? What—oh
no
—she found out about us borrowing her clock?”

Pandora nodded slowly as fresh tears tracked down her cheeks.

“Oh
heck,
” Titus groaned. “That means I'm in deep poo as well. Oh lord, I can hardly wait—”

“No,” Pandora whispered. “I took the blame. I told her it was just me ‘borrowing' it. I didn't mention you . . . or the trip to 2022 or . . . any of that. I decided I'd better leave you out of it, since you'd been so freaked out by what we saw in the future, and—oh, those terrifying e-mails, and—well, I figured you'd had enough.”

Titus gazed at his sister in amazement, stunned at her
magnanimity.

“Think of it as an early birthday present,” Pandora sniffed. “After all, there's no point in my buying you anything if you're about to inherit all that money, is there?”

Titus's jaw dropped. For the last hour his thoughts hadn't once strayed in the direction of his inheritance. Suddenly the whole tangled mess of the tainted money and his unappetizing future as a bloated plutocrat came crashing back in. “Pandora . . .
you're a—” he blurted incoherently. “I'm, um, not so—”

“Come on, Titus. I can hardly hear the call to dinner over the racket coming from your stomach.” Fixing a brave smile on her face, Pandora turned the handle to open the kitchen door, propelling her brother ahead of her and adding in an undertone, “Mmmm-hmmm, don't those onions smell . . .
burnt
?”

Written in the Stars

D
inner had been a huge success, Luciano decided, peering myopically at the dusty bottles in the wine cellar. He carefully replaced the two Barolos in their rack and, kneeling down, removed two half-bottles of Tokai for after-dinner consumption. From the dungeons downstairs he could hear Nestor wailing his protests at the earliness of bedtime, and, over that, the sound of Ffup racing through a bedtime story in order to return upstairs and join the company.

“And-then-the-handsome-dragon-opened-his-mouth-and-ate-the-ugly-princess-and-some-of-them-lived-happily-ever-after-the-end-good-night-kiss-kiss-lights-out-not-another-squeak-good-bye. . . .”

Luciano found himself holding his breath in sympathy with Ffup, remembering how he himself had gone through similar bedtime rituals when the children were babies. Night after night, he'd turn out the light and get halfway down the corridor from the nursery before a wail would summon him back crib-side.

“Wahhhhhhh,” came Nestor's response.

Luciano exhaled noisily. Poor Ffup, he thought.

“Oh, for heaven's sake, would you close your big yellow eyes and GO TO SLEEP?” the dragon hissed.

“Wahhhhhhh.”

Luciano could almost hear Ffup's resolve crumble, and moments later, he heard her sigh deeply and relent.

“If I read you
one
more story, will you promise me you'll go to sleep then?”

Smiling, Luciano stood up and carried the dessert wines into the kitchen. All family and guests had removed themselves to the comforts of the drawing room, leaving Marie Bain muttering balefully to herself as she washed the dishes. Choosing to ignore the fact that the cook appeared to be intent on smashing the china rather than cleaning it, Luciano piled a silver tray with tiny almond cantuccini biscuits, unwrapped a panforte and cut it into bite-sized morsels, and uncorked both bottles of Tokai.

Behind him, Marie Bain hurled empty tureens into the sink, pausing only to sneeze productively into the dishwater. Ffup appeared with Nestor clinging to her hip.

“Won't he settle down?” Luciano picked up the laden tray and smiled at the dragons.

“Eughhhh.
Babies
. What a complete
pain
.” In contrast to her words, Ffup planted a kiss on Nestor's head and shifted his weight in her arms. “He's worked himself up into a complete froth: utter hysterics every time I try to sneak back upstairs. He refuses to let me out of his sight for some reason. . . .”

“Come and join us in the drawing room.” Luciano opened the door onto the corridor. “Who knows, we might be able to
bore
him to sleep.”

A resounding crash from the sink indicated that Marie Bain had abandoned her attempts to clean the clay casserole in which the pasta sauce had simmered. Wincing as Ffup picked her way through pot shards, Luciano held the door open to allow her to carry Nestor safely out, then closed the door firmly on Marie Bain's dishwashing tantrums.

To Titus's frustration, an opportunity hadn't yet occurred for him to speak privately with Mrs. McLachlan about Fiamma, although he was beginning to suspect that the nanny was more aware of lurking dangers than he had given her credit for:
the salt-spilling at dinner had looked, to Titus, to be an act of magical terrorism, and the rapid disappearance of the demon from the dinner table seemed to confirm this. Fiamma had reappeared later, and even now was perched on a footstool by the fireplace, determinedly avoiding some of her colleagues' entreaties to join them in a game of charades.

She hooded her eyes and affected total ignorance of the fact that Nestor was trying to flame-grill her feet. Much to Ffup's embarrassment, her baby son now appeared to be unable to share a room with Fiamma d'Infer without trying to cremate her. Eventually the witch stood up, and on the pretext of having to make a few phone calls, headed upstairs to her room. To the relief of the assembled company, Nestor immediately fell fast asleep.

Before Titus could seize the opportunity to draw Mrs. McLachlan into a quiet corner, the estate lawyer came over to sit beside him, perching awkwardly on the edge of the sofa as if poised for flight.

Cramming a handful of cantuccini into his mouth, Titus attempted to look at least awake, if not very interested.

“Your father and I have laid out the relevant documents ready for your signature.” The lawyer drummed his long fingers on his knees and raised his eyebrows pointedly. “So, if you'd just take a minute to work through them, then I can be on my way.”

Across the room, Black Douglas muttered in Signora Strega-Borgia's ear, “What d'you call a lawyer who's been chained, gagged, and dropped in cement shoes into the sea?”

“A good start,” she replied. “More coffee, anyone?”

“Mmmfffle.” Titus hadn't quite realized how badly cantuccini need to be accompanied by liquid, preferably wine. His mouth felt as if it were crammed with dusty boulders, and crunch and swallow as he might, he couldn't manage to reduce the volume of masticated biscuit-rubble enough to allow him to speak. In despair, he heard his father excuse himself from the guests and invite the lawyer and Titus to join him.

Swallowing jagged lumps of biscuit, Titus followed the adults upstairs to the library, where someone had thoughtfully lit a fire and turned on the lamps, but had neglected to close the windows. Drawn by the light, a significant proportion of the insect population of Argyll was flitting across the ceiling, occasionally dispatching its more challenged members to their deaths by toasting on lightbulbs. Giant shadows of moths and daddy longlegs danced across the spines of the Borgias' collection
of thousands of books, and Titus inwardly gave thanks that Tarantella was no longer residing in his T-shirt. The prospect of having tarantula drool dribbling down his chest distracted him from the more immediate problem of how to avoid ingesting a lungful of gnats with each indrawn breath.

“Should we adjourn to another room?” the lawyer asked, praying that the answer would be affirmative.

“It's only a few
gnats
.” Being Italian, Luciano regarded the scourge of Argyll to be a watered-down version of the more macho mosquito; only a real lightweight would consider altering his plans to accommodate such a pathetic infestation. “Anyway, this shouldn't take too long, should it, Titus?”

Titus was miles away, struck by a particularly vivid memory from earlier childhood, happily replaying it in his head and thus deaf to his father's question.

. . . it had been a night just like this, same time of year, probably even the same number of insects. He'd been—oh, six, seven—yes, seven years old. His birthday, in fact, because he remembered helping Mum carry his birthday cake and a cooler full of bottles of lemonade and champagne. Pandora was on Dad's shoulders, giggling as he ran down the bramble-lined path to the lochside, bouncing her with each step, till her unself-conscious five-year-old's laughter rang out across the still water.

There had been an old rowboat moored at the end of the jetty, its peeling sides knocking gently against the steps in time with the waves that lapped the tide line of the pebble beach. They'd all clambered into the boat—Dad had rowed out into the middle of the loch, and Mum had lit the candles on the cake. He had a vague memory of feeling sad when the candles had been blown out and he'd consumed far more of his fair share of cake, and thus was lying back on the floor of the boat, bloated and anticlimactic, watching the stars pass by slowly overhead and feeling faintly depressed that he had a whole 364 days to wait until his next birthday.

Then had come the miracle.

A cry from his mother made Titus sit up and look to where her pointing finger indicated a patch of what resembled stars reflected on the water of the loch. A closer inspection revealed this to be a cluster of millions of points of light: tiny, luminous pinpricks just below the surface of Lochnagargoyle.

“What
are
they?” he asked, leaning over the edge of the boat, all the better to see.

“It's a form of phosphorescence,” Luciano said. “I've never seen it like
this
before.”

Something in his father's voice made Titus fall silent. He leant into Luciano's embrace and watched in awe as the entire loch came alive with flashes of light.

“Mummeeee!” Pandora exclaimed, jumping up and down and causing the boat to quiver in the sparkling loch. “Look, Mummy, the stars have fallen in the water!”

Titus plunged his hand into a dark patch of water to see if it
felt
different. It didn't—but to his delight, when he withdrew his hand from the chilly loch, it had been magically transformed. Each finger glittered and sparkled, and as the water ran down his wrist, it etched a blazing comet trail in its wake.

“Oh WOW!” Pandora had just made the separate discovery that by slapping her hand on the surface of the water, she could, in effect, hurl stars across the loch into the distant darkness. Fingers trailed in the water left a slowly fading line of stars in their wake. . . . Titus wrote his name in the loch and watched as the last starry “s” slowly faded to black.

“It's
gone
,” he sighed. “Why does it disappear like that?” He wrote his name again, as if by repetition it would remain engraved indelibly on the loch.

“Nothing lasts forever.” Signora Strega-Borgia smiled. “Titus, even if you wrote your name on stone, it would still vanish eventually.” Seeing her son's face fall at the discovery of his human frailty in the face of Time, the Ultimate Eraser, she sought to comfort him. “But think of this, Titus. Lochnagargoyle will remember your name: on some atomic level it was there, it
is
there, invisibly written on
the water.”

“It's like sand,” Titus said, remembering an afternoon spent drawing dinosaurs at the beach. “All those drawings we did in the wet sand, and then the tide came in and took them away out to sea. . . .”

“Exactly.” Luciano fitted the oars in the oarlocks and began to head back to the jetty, each dip of the blade causing a brief phosphorescent flare. Behind him, the silhouette of StregaSchloss grew out of the darkness, its lit windows golden against the night.

A white wraith flew across the meadow, its silence absolute; its identity unguessable until, with an inquiring
hoot
, it landed on an oak and waited there till an answering
toowit
released it to soar once again above the tree line. StregaSchloss beckoned and now, to Titus's delight, he saw a tiny figure outlined in each of its windows in turn as Latch pulled the curtains shut against the night, moving from room to room as if tucking the house in for the evening. For Titus, the sight of home, in all its solidity and permanence, was hugely comforting.

Unseen by the family, over a turret on the far western corner, a star blazed across the sky, winking out as it appeared to fall into the black mass of trees skirting the foot of Mhoire Ochone. The bottom of the little boat scraped along a submerged rock as Luciano shipped the oars, then reached out for the mooring rope to pull them gently alongside the jetty.

“But
Dad
,” Titus persisted, sensing bedtime drawing near and wishing to delay this by whatever means possible, “where did my name go? Where did the dinosaurs on the beach go when the water took them away?”

Suddenly longing to put the children to bed and curl up by the fireside with his wife, Luciano sighed. “They . . . ah . . . they went . . . they became part of a bigger pattern. . . . Oh lord, help me out here, Baci.”

Signora Strega-Borgia closed her eyes and concentrated, trying to frame an explanation that Titus could understand. “Titus . . . ,” she said at last, “we're all part of everything—we in our boat, the loch, the meadow, the stars—everything we can see and everything we can't. It's all kind of joined up like the biggest puzzle you could imagine. Just because we can't
see
something doesn't mean it's gone. . . . It's still there, but it has changed into something different. Sweetheart, it's awfully hard to explain, and I'm not sure that I even understand it properly myself, but think of it like this: I said ‘Nothing lasts forever,' but that's not the whole story. What I should have said was, ‘Nothing lasts forever unchanged.' Things change, Titus—they move on from one state to another.”

“Like Mortadella,” Pandora supplied helpfully.

“Um, yes . . . just like Mortadella,” her mother agreed, privately unsure if recalling Pandora's dead rat was such a good idea.

“She swole up and died,” Pandora said matter-of-factly. “Then she went moldy, so we buried her in the garden and she turned into
flowers
.”

“Bravo!” exclaimed Signor Strega-Borgia, standing up very carefully to avoid capsizing the boat, and grabbing hold of the ladder on the jetty. “I thought we'd all forgotten about her—”

“
I
hadn't,” Pandora said.