Pure Dead Magic (22 page)

“Four?” said Pandora hopefully.

“If I promise to tell you more when the time is right, would you please forget that we ever had this conversation?”

“Yes, I promise,” said Pandora, bursting with unanswered questions, “but—”

“No buts,” said Mrs. McLachlan in such a way as to indicate that not only was the subject closed, it was bolted, padlocked, and, in all probability, nailed shut.

With a thwarted snort, Pandora followed Mrs. McLachlan inside.

The Money Hum

F
rom as far back as anyone could remember, there had always been somebody mending the roof at StregaSchloss. A succession of roofers with good heads for heights had clambered over its slates, scaled its pointy turrets, and once, memorably, poured hot lead over a particularly leaky section. This had caused the attic to burst into flames and initiated a temporary diaspora of several thousand attic-dwelling spiders.

Like the Forth Road Bridge, the roof at StregaSchloss was never finished. No sooner had one tribe of tradesmen vanished into the surrounding hills clutching a large check than another would appear, bearing scaffolding and slates, a stack of small newspapers with large headlines, and several tartan thermos flasks. Two days after the incident with the slipping slates, the Strega-Borgias braced themselves for the arrival of yet another firm of roofing contractors.

There was a pattern to this, Titus observed, stepping around a brimming soup tureen placed strategically under a leak from the cupola of the great hall. First of all, the roofers would arrive and consult with Mum. There would be much sucking in of air through teeth (the ferocity of the inhalation indicating how expensive the work was going to be). This would be followed by the traumatic discovery that none of their cell phones would work this far into the wilds of Argyll. Next came the erection of a web of rusty scaffolding; this was Titus’s favorite stage, since his vocabulary of spectacular Anglo-Saxon curses had been garnered entirely from listening to these roofing tribes at work.

Titus practiced a few of these as his bare toes made contact with a particularly squelchy bit of rug in the great hall.

“I
heard
that,” muttered Mrs. McLachlan, who came striding along the corridor from the kitchen. “I’ve lost Damp again,” she said, “and I did hear the postman, but where’s the post gone?”

A distant flushing sound followed by a cacophony of StregaSchloss plumbing alerted them both to Damp’s whereabouts.

“FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE!” yelled Mrs. McLachlan. “DAMP! STOP IT!” And she shot along the corridor, expertly hurdling over brimming bowls and buckets in a futile attempt to divert the baby from her discovery that flush toilets can make all sorts of things disappear.

Titus ambled into the kitchen in search of breakfast. An alien reek of powerful aftershave assailed his nostrils. The source of this proved to be a balding man sprawled over the kitchen table across from Signora Strega-Borgia. Papers and glossy brochures
were spread out amongst coffee cups and breakfast detritus. Titus’s mother was frowning as she scribbled numbers on the back of an envelope.

Boring, thought Titus, scanning the shelves in the fridge. Yeuch, he amended, discovering a promising paper bag to be full of yellowing Brussels sprouts.

“Look at it this way, Mrs. Sega-Porsche,” said the balding man, waving his coffee cup expansively. “It’s like your dentist telling you that your teeth are fine but your gums have to come out.…”

“I’m not exactly sure that I understand,” muttered Signora Strega-Borgia, frowning even more deeply and looking up from her envelope.

“Your coffee’s wonderful, by the way,” said Baldy, taking a slurp for emphasis, “best I’ve had for ages.… Anyway, your roof’s fine. Great. Tip-top. Fantastic.”

“And?” sighed Signora Strega-Borgia.

Titus found what he was looking for and slipped it into his pajama pocket.

“Excuse me, Mr. Pile-Um,” said Signora Strega-Borgia.

“Pylum-Haight,” interjected the bald man.

“Indeed.”
Signora Strega-Borgia’s voice developed a marked windchill factor.

“Excuse me. Titus, put that back.”

“Mu-ummm, just a wee drop.”

“Put it
back,
Titus. I’m in no mood for an argument.”

“But I want to see if it works,” pleaded Titus, adding somewhat cuttingly, “None of your other spells ever do.…”

Signora Strega-Borgia stood up, sending brochures cascading to the kitchen floor. Titus sighed and handed her a small glass
vial. Signora Strega-Borgia sat down again and flashed her visitor a patently insincere smile as she placed the vial on the table in front of her.

Mr. Pylum-Haight could read the label on the side of the vial, magnified through the glass of the coffeepot.

Mentally logging this knowledge under Weird Things Clients Keep in Their Fridges, Mr. Pylum-Haight pressed on. “As I was saying, your roof is in great shape, but the beams supporting it …”—pause to suck in dramatic lungfuls of air—”rotten to the core, m’fraid. In fact, you’re really lucky the whole thing hasn’t collapsed on you, what with all the rain we’ve been having.…” Meeting Signora Strega-Borgia’s steely glare, he faltered and took a deep draft of chilly coffee to sustain himself.

“So … Mr. Pylum-Haight … what exactly
are
we talking about?” Signora Strega-Borgia folded her calculation-laden envelope into a small parcel and pushed it to one side.

Titus sat at the other end of the kitchen table and waited. Now, he guessed, was not the time to raise the question of an increase in pocket money in line with inflation.

“A rough estimate—ballpark figure, off the top of my head, can’t be too definite about this, not set in stone, but possibly in the region of, give or take a few … um …”

“How much?”
insisted Signora Strega-Borgia.

Pylum-Haight hastily scribbled a figure on the back of a business card and stood up. “Have a wee think,” he advised. “It’s a big job. Expensive business keeping on top of these old
houses. I know several clients who would be willing to take it off your hands. Get yourself something more manageable. More modern. Maybe your husband might like to give me a ring to discuss …”His voice tailed off as he busied himself with folding and packing the tableful of brochures and papers back into his crocodile-skin attaché case. “Nice to … um … thanks for the … er … We’ll be in touch,” he muttered, sidling in the direction of the kitchen door. “See myself out … um … thanks again.” And he tiptoed backward out into the corridor, leaving a trail of aftershave behind him.

Titus listened to the sound of footsteps fade into silence. The front door creaked open and, seconds later, slammed shut. Over the faint ticking of the kitchen clock came the sound of a car engine, a crunch of gravel under tires, and the valedictory honk as Tock the moat-guarding crocodile bid the parting guest farewell.

“Mum?”

“Not right now, Titus,” mumbled Signora Strega-Borgia, waving a hand absently around her head, as if to ward off a fly. She gazed at the business card in front of her as if it might be coated with plague bacteria. “I need to find your dad.” She reluctantly picked up the card and rose to her feet like a sleepwalker.

“He’s upstairs mending my modem,” said Titus. “Mum—what’s the matter? I’m sorry I made that comment about your spells. I didn’t mean it.”

Signora Strega-Borgia turned, her face pale and drawn. “It’s not your attack on my skills as a witch, Titus. No, it’s nothing”—she glanced hastily at the card in her hand—”nothing
that six hundred and eighty-six thousand, eight hundred and seventy-five pounds, seventy-two p plus VAT won’t fix.”

The kitchen door closed behind her as Titus was left staring bleakly at the tabletop in front of him. Picking up a discarded brochure and his mother’s pencil, he calculated that, at his current rate of pocket money, it would take him a mere three and a half centuries to acquire that kind of sum. The brochure showed a picture of an ideal family in front of their new home. There were a dog, a cat, a baby, and two grinning children flanked by their smiling parents. The new home behind them was built on a model that a five-year-old might draw: a front door, one window on each side, three windows above, and a perfect leak-free roof on top. The blurb read: “The Buccleuch family at home in Bogginview. Homes to depend on. Homes to raise your family in.
BOGGINVIEW
. Another quality build from
BELLAVISTA INC
.…”

Not even remotely like
our
house, thought Titus. If they’d decided to make a brochure about StregaSchloss, we’d be scowling on the moth-eaten croquet lawn: “The Strega-Borgias at home with their dragon, their yeti, their griffin, and … oh, yes, their moat-guarding crocodile. Behind them, you can just see their modest little STREGASCHLOSS, which looks like a cross between a fairy castle and the film set for
Vlad the Vampire Falls on Hard Times.…
”

Titus threw the brochure back on the table and stalked out of the kitchen. And I just
bet
that the Buccleuch fridge is full of pizzas and chocolate fudge cake, instead of moldy Brussels sprouts, he decided, skirting an overflowing chamber pot on his way upstairs. No wonder they’re grinning, he concluded.