Pure Dead Brilliant (5 page)

Scary Biscuits

A
fternoon tea on the lawn had evolved into supper, and despite the gnats and the slight chill in the air, the Strega-Borgias and their guests still sat outside round the table. The light in the sky had faded to a dusky lavender, so Latch had hung several lanterns from the lower branches of a flowering cherry tree. Tock and Ffup had combined their swimming and fire-lighting skills to send a flotilla of candles set on lily pads floating serenely across the moat. Black Douglas produced a three-quarter-sized violin from a small case and, tucking the tiny instrument under his beard, proceeded to draw from it a haunting melody. Round the table conversation ebbed and flowed, the music weaving in and out of the voices like an endless ribbon. Even Mrs. McLachlan relaxed her hawk-like watch over Damp and, closing her eyes, sighed with deep contentment.

“They played that tune at our wedding, didn't they, darling?” Signora Strega-Borgia said to her husband, wishing to
somehow lighten his mood. Luciano was not for cheering up, however. The hideous prospect of a week of wall-to-wall houseguests stretched out interminably ahead of him, and he declined to reply.

“Oh, Luciano, surely you remember this bit. . . .” And hoping that music might reach the parts that her words were failing to touch, Signora Strega-Borgia began to sing in harmony with the violin.
“Ae fond kiss, and then we sever. . . .”

Walking across the lawn with a lit candelabra in each hand, Latch stopped abruptly. That song . . . His eyes filled with tears as the music tugged at his memory. In childhood, his mother had sung the same melody to soothe him to sleep. . . .

Even Titus for once failed to be embarrassed by his mother's behavior. He'd always loved the sound of her singing and here, looking at the candlelit heads round the table, he knew that they, too, were caught in his mother's spell. All except Fiamma d'Infer were swaying in time to the music—but she alone sat rigid, her mouth curled in a sneer. Across the table, Damp appeared to be conducting Signora Strega-Borgia, using an unlit candle as a baton. . . .

Mrs. McLachlan suddenly snapped out of her reverie. Something had dropped into her lap and was scrabbling back up on the tablecloth. Peering down, she found a small gingerbread man, one of a trayful she'd baked that morning—now no longer inert cookie dough, but fully alive and, alarmingly, very vocal.

“
Nya
-nya-nya,
nyaa
-nyaa, you can't catch
me
!” it squeaked, adding somewhat redundantly, “I'm the Gingerbread Man.” As if to underline this, the animated biscuit ran a lap around the table, vaulting over wineglasses and clearing knives and forks with one bound. Sensing the disturbance, Signora Strega-Borgia trailed off in mid-song and looked to Mrs. McLachlan for understanding.

“Must be weevils in the flour,” muttered the nanny, reaching out to catch the running figure as it sped past her outstretched hand.

“I
don't
think so. . . .” Fiamma d'Infer expertly speared the Gingerbread Man on the end of her fork. To Mrs. McLachlan's horror, she brought the squealing little figure up to her mouth and, with a vicious smirk, bit its head off.

Damp dropped her conductor's candle and screamed. Instantly Mrs. McLachlan was by her side, plucking the baby off her seat and hugging her tight.

“Poor Damp. What on earth happened?” cried Signora Strega-Borgia, not having witnessed the beheading of the biscuit. Consequently she was somewhat in the dark as to why her youngest daughter was weeping. Mrs. McLachlan, hoping to avoid explanations, sought distraction. “Now, Damp, what have I told you about candles?” she chided, adding, “They're hot, hot,
burrrny
.” Since the candle Damp had been holding bore no evidence of ever having been lit, this statement might have caused some confusion had it not been for the appearance of Marie Bain at the head of the table.

The cook's shadow stretched crookedly across the tablecloth, and a strange volcanic rumbling came from the vast coffeepot she was clutching with both hands. She listed across the lawn, each step causing a hissing brown fountain to erupt from the spout. Signor Strega-Borgia stood up. “Are you sure you can manage? Here, Marie, let me—” But before he could take the pot from her, the cook lunged toward the table and dropped the pot in the middle with a muffled shriek.

“Ees hot,” she said, somewhat unnecessarily, since the tablecloth round the coffee pot was turning brown and beginning to smell like burnt ironing. “Now we haff coffee,” she said, making this simple statement of fact sound like a threat. She locked eyes with Black Douglas and demanded, “Meelk? Zoogir?” then tilting the pot at a dangerous angle, slopped a quantity of brown fluid into a nearby cup.

“What
is
that stuff?” Titus whispered as his father sat down again. “It doesn't smell anything
like
coffee. . . .”

The hapless Black Douglas, victim of Marie Bain's slitty-eyed scrutiny, brought the cup to his lips and took a tiny sip. For a split second his eyes registered shock, but just as quickly, realizing the cook was still monitoring his every gesture, he forced his stunned facial muscles into an approximation of a smile. “Mmm-hmm. Excellent,” he lied, reaching for the sugar bowl and spooning several heaped teaspoons of what he fervently hoped was brown sugar into his cup. Sweat broke out on his forehead and all the color drained from his face. Marie Bain smiled grimly and turned her attention to Signor Strega-Borgia, pouring out another cupful. Mrs. McLachlan hastily stood up, forestalling the cook's attempts to do the same for her. “No, thank you, dear. I must get this poor wee mite to bed,” she said, shifting Damp onto her hip. “Say good night to everyone, pet,” and she swiftly bore the baby off across the garden.

Much to Mrs. McLachlan's dismay, a figure slipped away from the table and intercepted her before she could reach the house.

“I didn't get a chance to say good night to the child,” said Fiamma d'Infer, stepping in front of Mrs. McLachlan and blocking her path. Damp gave a small howl and clung like a limpet to her nanny. But Fiamma persisted, standing too close and staring intently at the baby.

“What a
special
little girl,” she purred, reaching out to curl a finger under Damp's chin and bring the baby's head up to meet her gaze. Damp immediately squeezed her eyes tightly shut.

“I think she's a wee bit too tired to be sociable, don't you?” said Mrs. McLachlan briskly. “Come on, pet, let's run your bath.”

Fiamma was not to be put off so easily. “Oh, but I have some absolutely heavenly stuff for your bath, my dear. Mmmm, yellow bubbles with green glittery stuff in them—you would just love it, wouldn't you?”

“She's got sensitive skin,” hissed Mrs. McLachlan, hugging Damp protectively and attempting to step around this dreadful woman.

“That's not
all
she's got.” Fiamma's voice developed an edge as she whispered, “I'm sure you know exactly what I'm talking about,
Mrs.
McLachlan.”

The nanny shivered involuntarily. This ghastly woman
knew
. Somehow she'd worked it out. . . . Mrs. McLachlan felt short of breath, as if she were about to faint, almost as if hands were gripping her throat and squeezing—

“Look at me,” Fiamma commanded, bringing the full force of her will crashing down on top of the nanny. “Look. At. Me.”

To Mrs. McLachlan's horror, she felt as if invisible hooks were dragging her chin upward. Damp was keening—a high, thin sound that the nanny had never heard her make before; she sounded as if she were in agony. Fiamma d'Infer laughed mockingly. “Look. At. Me,” she repeated, the words echoing weirdly, as if spoken down a well.

“Heavens, do you have to be
quite
so demanding?” said a familiar voice from overhead. Giving a languid flap of her giant wings, Ffup glided down from the roof to land beside Mrs. McLachlan and peer at Fiamma with some confusion. “Okey-dokey, I'm here. I'm looking at you, seeing as how you asked, but, um . . . have you done something I should notice? Your hair? Your eyebrows?” The dragon frowned. “Nope, not the eyebrows. New makeup? You've had a nose job? Face-lift? Botox injections? Oh, come on, ladies, help me out here!” Realizing that no verbal clues were forthcoming, Ffup tried to fill up the silence with inane chatter. “So—where's the party? What's the haps, chaps? Why so glum, chum?” And with a little snort of flame, she dug Fiamma d'Infer in the ribs with her elbow, causing the woman to lose her balance and lurch into Signora Strega-Borgia, who had come running at full speed up to the house.

“Ooops, sorry, Fiamma,” she gasped. “I've just realized what that awful coffee was made out of. Do excuse me for a minute, I must make sure that poor Marie doesn't make another pot.” And without further explanation she fled indoors.

Taking this as an opportunity to escape, Mrs. McLachlan followed her employer inside. She ran upstairs to the nursery and locked Damp and herself in the bathroom. Not that one wee lock is any protection against that
fiend,
she thought, pulling Damp's dress off over her head and bending down to remove the baby's socks and shoes. She reached over and turned on both bath taps, finding the sound of running water strangely comforting, as if by its very domestic nature it could somehow wash away the terror of the previous five minutes. Whatever Fiamma d'Infer is, Mrs. McLachlan decided, she is most certainly
not
a student witch. As if she could read her nanny's thoughts, Damp wriggled round in her lap and peered intently into Mrs. McLachlan's face.

“Not like it,” she stated. “Nasty nasty yuck lady.”

“Absolutely,” agreed Mrs. McLachlan. “Stay away from her, pet. She's verrry, very dangerous.”

“Hot, hot burrrny?” the baby asked, her brow furrowed with the seriousness of the question.

“Very,” said Mrs. McLachlan, pouring a capful of bubble bath into the stream running out of the cold tap. The bathwater turned a delicate rose-pink, and the air filled with the fragrance of strawberries. Damp sighed happily and laid her head against Mrs. McLachlan's comforting chest.

Out of earshot of the guests on the lawn, Signor and Signora Strega-Borgia were having a hissed conference in the kitchen.

“Baci, you can't be serious. You mean to tell me that we've just been drinking coffee brewed from rodent droppings?”

“Um . . . not
exactly
rodent droppings, darling. Don't worry, they were just freeze-dried guinea-pig droppings that I'd stored in an old coffee jar. An understandable mistake—”

“An understandable mistake for Marie Bain, perhaps, but I'm not angry at
her
. How was she to know? It's
you
that's responsible. What were you thinking of? What sort of lunatic stores feces in her kitchen? And why?”

“It was for a tincture, Luciano. I didn't think—”

“That's the problem in a nutshell. You
never
think.” Unable to stop himself, Luciano launched into Italian opera mode. His chest swelled, his eyes glittered, and his gestures grew wildly expansive. Shamefully aware that he was behaving badly, he listened in horror as he heard himself continue, “You didn't
think
about your family when you invited all these weirdos to stay. You didn't
think
how we'd feel having our house taken over by incantation-muttering witches. You didn't
think
about our health when you filled our house with jars of biological hazards. I'm going to bed before I break out in boils from another of your exercises in magical incompetence.”

There was a crash as the kitchen door banged shut, and then came the thunder of footsteps stamping upstairs. Unobserved in the china cupboard, tucked away in a corner of the kitchen, Tarantella rolled her eyes and applied another coat of lipstick to her already alarmingly pink mouthparts. The tarantula peered out at where Signora Strega-Borgia sat sniffling and dabbing her eyes at the kitchen table. Such trauma and fuss, Tarantella thought. Far better just to eat one's spouse when he starts getting lippy.

Night Moves

S
itting bolt upright and fully dressed on her bed, Mrs. McLachlan was waiting for the household to retire. Given that twelve guests currently roamed the corridors of StregaSchloss, this was taking longer than usual. Water coursed along ancient copper pipes as toilets were flushed and baths drawn. The traffic of feet up and down stairs had gone on for hours. After a prolonged wailing session, Nestor had finally succumbed to slumber in his corner of the dungeon, allowing his fellow beasts to catch some sleep before the baby dragon woke for the four o'clock feed.

When all had been quiet for half an hour, Mrs. McLachlan stood up, checked that her bedroom door was locked, and took a small rolled-up rug out from its hiding place at the bottom of her wardrobe. Placing this in the middle of the bedroom floor, she unrolled it, carefully untangling its tattered fringe. The rug was ancient, woven by some unknown hand hundreds of years before, and now its silk threads were faded and worn, their complex pattern of interwoven stars and spirals nearly invisible with age. Drawing her bedroom curtains back and opening the window wide, Mrs. McLachlan looked out at the meadow beyond, noting with satisfaction that all was quiet and still. Patting her pocket to confirm that she had the magical Soul Mirror safely stowed away, she drew a deep breath.

“Right,” she said to herself. “Time for lame excuses and apologetic groveling . . .” And crouching down to kneel on the floor, she crawled across onto the rug feeling faintly foolish. She maneuvered herself carefully into the middle and wriggled into position, keeping one hand firmly on the floorboards. Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she snatched her hand off the floor and grabbed a handful of the fringe at her feet. The rug rippled and flapped, as if giant gusts of air were circling beneath it. Then, with a shudder, it rose swiftly into the air and hurled itself and its passenger through the open window at an indecent speed, causing Mrs. McLachlan's hair to come unpinned and stream out behind her.

She arrived at the library with minutes to spare. Placing her hand on the ground, she slid gingerly off the rug and rolled it up, tucking it under her arm as she pushed her way through a small bronze-paneled door.

“We're just about to close,” the librarian informed her, taking in the nanny's disheveled appearance and emitting a faint
tut
as he saw what she was holding out to him.

“I
wondered
when you were going to bring that back,” he said, drawing down his thick black brows till they joined in a furrow above his nose. “What's the excuse this time?”

Mrs. McLachlan sighed. The problem with borrowing things from the library was remembering to return them on time. “I'm so sorry,” she said simply. “I'll try to do better in the future—it's just I'm so busy, it's quite hard for me to find a moment. Actually, I almost forgot I had this.”

The librarian ran a handheld scanner across the returned artifact and pursed his lips. “Six
months
you've had this. I'm going to have to impose the maximum fine. There have been plenty of other wannabe mind readers wanting to borrow it. The soul mirror is one of our more popular items. . . . Take a seat while I dig out your file.”

Mrs. McLachlan sank into a low chair and watched, as the librarian clip-clopped across the floor to place the returned object carefully in one of the glass-fronted cabinets that lined the walls. The library consisted of this one stone-walled room, dotted here and there with small tables and deep, comfortable chairs. A fire glowed dimly in a large marble fireplace, and the room was lit by tall beeswax candles. Tiny oil-burners on the tables gave off the mixed scents of myrrh, rosemary, and juniper, and the calming sound of running water came from a lion's-head fountain in a corner by the door.

There wasn't a single book to be seen.

Remembering why she was here, Mrs. McLachlan cleared her throat and said, “Actually, I'd like to borrow something else.”

The librarian ignored this, busying himself with accessing her records on a wall-mounted screen. He was completely naked, as centaurs tend to be, but as a concession toward his role of librarian he wore a metal collar round his neck inscribed with the word
ALPHA
and had woven his chest hair into a single braid that swung heavily down to his hooves.

“I need a shield,” Mrs. McLachlan continued, her voice betraying some of her concern about the dangers of Fiamma d'Infer.

“They're all out on loan.” The librarian swished his tail for emphasis. “Terribly popular at the moment, shields. Last year it was laser lances, year before—”

“A Quikunpik, then,” Mrs. McLachlan interrupted, getting up and crossing the floor to stand beside the librarian. “Surely you've got one of those?”

“I'll look.” The little centaur scrolled down the list of items owned by the library until he came to the Q's. “Quark-espresso, Qualmudes, Quibbles, Quick-ees . . . Ah, here we are, Quikunpik. Nope, sorry, it's not due back until tomorrow.”

“Well, what
have
you got?” said Mrs. McLachlan with a faint edge of desperation, her eyes rapidly trawling the display cases around her. Her gaze fell on a small silver clock the size of a pocket watch, which appeared and disappeared with each passing second. Tick—there it was; tick—there it wasn't. The effect was oddly mesmerizing, and her thoughts drifted pleasantly for a few seconds until, recalling the urgency of her visit here, she gave a small shiver and turned back to face the librarian.

“What does that little clock do?”

“It's an update on our old Time Flies™—remember those horribly inaccurate bluebottles that dumped you at various unpredictable points in time? Such a pain . . . Anyway, this is the new and improved version, 24-hour clock with state-of-the-art Moebius drive, infinitely pre-programmable for accurate entry and exit. It's known as the Alarming Clock.”

“Not the most reassuring of names,” murmured Mrs. McLachlan, her attention caught by the flickering device as it winked into being and promptly disappeared again.

“I imagine they called it ‘alarming' because of the size of the instruction manual.” The librarian sighed, producing a large paperback book of similar dimensions to the telephone directory for Mexico City. “Now don't be put off,” he warned, passing this tome to Mrs. McLachlan and opening the display case to remove the Alarming Clock.

Mrs. McLachlan waited, leafing idly through the pages of dense print and wondering when, if ever, she would have time to get to grips with the complex volume of instructions. The librarian passed her the Alarming Clock, logged the withdrawal into his computer, and escorted Mrs. McLachlan out.

“Sorry to rush you,” he said, opening the door onto the night. “Normally I'd prefer to go through the instructions with you, but I simply haven't enough time. Just remember two things: always carry spare batteries wherever you go and, when you leave your destination, be it in the past or the future, be sure
never
to take anything back with you. No extra luggage, no tourist tat, and no souvenirs. . . . And a warning. If you're late bringing this back, it'll be a
far
more severe punishment than a mere fine.”

A chill gust of air blew through the library door, causing the twin shadows cast by the centaur and the nanny to dance in the flickering candlelight.

“Good luck.” The librarian stepped aside to let Mrs. McLachlan pass. “Bon
voyage . . .”