Witches Incorporated (21 page)

“Girls! Girls! Did you see?” cried Bibbie, frothy in pink muslin and dancing into the office brandishing another copy of the
Times
. “We’re
famous
!”

“Famous? We’re not famous!” Reg retorted. “We’re
ignored
is what we are. And madam here can’t see it’s a disaster!
She’s
too busy applauding a government cover-up!”

Surprised, Bibbie stopped dancing and stared at them. “Ignored? What are you talking about, Reg? There’s an article
and
a photograph.” She shook the paper again. “Haven’t you seen it?”

Melissande lifted her own copy of the
Times
. “We saw,” she said, then glanced at the clock. Ten to nine: an early morning record for Bibbie. “Reg is upset because the agency didn’t get a mention. I’ve been
trying
to explain that—”

“But we did get a mention,” said Bibbie. “Didn’t you read the caption on the photo?”

Caption? No. She hadn’t wanted to look at the picture that closely.

With an impatient sigh, Bibbie lifted her paper. “
Miss Emmerabiblia Markham, co-proprietor of Witches Inc.,”
she read aloud, “
after successfully unmasking the Golden Whisk cheat
.” She looked up. “See? It’s all there in black and white. So there’s no need for Reg to be in a flap. Just you wait, the phone will be ringing off its hook after this.”

Feather by feather, Reg let her ruffled plumage settle. “Oh. Well. That’s more like it. Of course it’s not the same as being mentioned in the actual article, but it’s better than a slap in the face with a stunned mullet.”

Bibbie dropped a swift kiss on the top of Reg’s head then perched on the edge of her desk. “It’s a lot more than that,” she said. “It’s utterly fantabulous. We could never have afforded this kind of publicity.”

Melissande sat back in the client’s armchair and brooded at the photo.

The little cogs and wheels of her imagination were clicking, stirring up a definite sense of unease.

“Oh-oh,” said Bibbie, noticing. “I know that look. Come on, Mel. Out with it. What’s wrong now?”

She tapped a finger on the picture of Monk’s triumphantly smiling sister. “What’s wrong is I’m not entirely certain this kind of attention really is going to do us any favours.”

“Whatever do you mean?” said Bibbie, astonished. “We’re going to be run off our feet after this. Saving the Baking and Pastry Guild’s day is going to put us on the map!”

She shook her head. “I don’t have a problem with the agency appearing on a map. I’m just not convinced that us being turned into topographical features is a good idea.”

Bibbie stared at page twelve in her own copy of the
Times
. “Being photographed, you mean? But Mel, it was your picture with Monk at the opera that got us the Guild job. How can that be a bad thing?”

“It wasn’t,” she admitted. “But Bibs, really, think about it. Ottish society’s already forgotten that photo of me.
You
, on the other hand, are an entirely different boatload of monkeys.”

“Oh, please, don’t start on that,” Bibbie muttered, squirming. “You know I hate it when—”

“Too bad,” she said firmly. “Like it or not, Bibbie, the fact is that
you
don’t have a forgettable face.”

Bibbie scuffed the carpet with the toe of her pink kidskin slipper. “Possibly,” she said grudgingly. “But I fail to see what that’s got to do with anything.”

“Oh, come now. You
must
. I mean, we were successful yesterday because Millicent Grimwade didn’t have a clue who we were. But how successful are we going to be next time, do you think, if we need to be inconspicuous and you’ve been turned into a walking advertisement for the agency?”

Bibbie tossed aside her paper and slid off her desk. “That’s not fair, Melissande! I didn’t
ask
for my picture to be taken.”

She held up one placating hand. “I’m sorry, Bibbie. Of course you didn’t. This isn’t your fault. I just think we need to be careful, that’s all. The last thing we can afford to do is limit the kind of jobs we can accept. We need to
grow
Witches Inc., not prune it while it’s still practically a seedling.”

“Mel, honestly, you worry too much,” said Bibbie, pouting. “Why are you always looking for the silver cloud’s dark lining?”

Reg rattled her tail feathers. “Now, now, ducky. Madam’s got a point. Being famous is all very well for five minutes. After that it tends to get inconvenient.”

Astonished, Melissande swivelled round in the client’s armchair. “You’re
agreeing
with me now? You know, Reg, I do wish you’d make up your mind.”

“She must be sickening for something,” said Bibbie, with a teasing smile. “Take her temperature, quick.”

“Yes, yes, very amusing,” said Reg, rolling her eyes. “But you mark my words, Mad Miss Markham. There are far worse things in this world than being anonymous.” She sniffed. “Trust me, I speak from personal experience.”

Now it was Bibbie’s turn to roll her eyes. “And nobody’s had as much personal experience as you, we know.”

“Well, nobody has,” Reg snapped. “And you’d do well to remember that instead of—”

Reg’s familiar scolding refrain was interrupted by the telephone, ringing. Bibbie picked up the receiver. “Good morning, this is Witches Inc. No thaumaturgical task too large or too—I’m sorry?—Yes, this is Miss Markham.—Yes, that’s me in the
Times
.—Why yes, I am Aylesbury Markham’s sister.—Distinguished? Well, that’s one word for him.—Really? How very distressing for you, Miss Martin. Perhaps you’d care to stop by the agency so we can discuss your situation in person? Just a moment and I’ll look in our appointment book…”

“Reg,” said Melissande, keeping her voice down, “tell me not to get my hopes up, would you? Remind me that it’s still very early days. Lecture me on not counting my chickens while the eggs are still being laid.”

Reg’s dark eyes gleamed. “I don’t need to, ducky. You’re far from perfect but you’re a sensible girl… and a little bit of dreaming never hurt anyone.”

“
Well
!” said Bibbie, grinning, as she hung up the phone. “Whoever would have thought Aylesbury could come in handy? Wonders will never cease.”

Melissande took a deep breath, trying to steady her unsteady heart. “A new client?”

“Prospectively,” said Bibbie. “The Honourable Miss Letitia Martin. She saw the story in the paper
and
she knows Aylesbury. Thinks he’s charming, what’s more, which means either she’s a noddycock or she can’t have known him very long.”

“When is she coming in?”

“After lunch.”

“And what’s her problem?”

Two dimples danced in Bibbie’s cheeks. “Aside from the fact she thinks Aylesbury’s charming? She’s lost some valuable jewellery and wants us to find it. Tactfully. No public hue and cry.”

“Oh? Well. That doesn’t sound too hard.”

“Not hard at all,” said Bibbie, openly grinning again. “It’ll be money for jam. We’ll be rolling in dosh soon, just you wait and see!”

“At this point, madam, allow me to remind you about unhatched chickens,” Reg said severely. “One new client does not a bursting bank account make.”

Bibbie groaned. “You’re such a spoilsport, Reg. Why don’t you go catch a mouse or something so Mel and I can celebrate in peace?”

“I might just do that,” Reg retorted. “Because for all your overconfidence, ducky, a mouse might be the only thing standing between the three of us and starvation before long!”

“
Honestly
, Bibbie,” Melissande sighed, watching Reg flap across next door’s rooftop in high dudgeon. “You know she’s only trying to help.”

“Trying to burst my balloon, you mean,” Bibbie grumbled. “Just
once
you’d think she could be encouraging.”

Yes. Well. Probably it was time to change the subject. “Look at the time!” she said brightly. “Permelia Wycliffe will be here soon. We should spruce up the office, I think.”

But instead of sprucing, Bibbie slumped against her desk, arms mutinously folded, her brow scrunched in another scowl. “Reg should stop treating me like a—a peahen. I mean, you’re not the only one who’s been losing sleep lately, Mel. This place is all I have that’s
me
. If it doesn’t work out I’ll have to go back to being a
gel
. It’s all right for you. You might not much like being a princess but at least it means nobody dares tell you what to do.”

“Ha,” said Melissande. “That’s what you think. There’s an entire herd of lords back home who do nothing but witter on about my frivolity and make formal demands that I come home and be decorative.”

“Yes, but you don’t have to pay attention to them,” said Bibbie, impatient. “You can tell them to shut up and they have to listen because you’re the king’s sister and they’re not.”

Bibbie really did look unhappy. “What’s going on, Bibs?” she said, pushing out of the client’s armchair to perch beside her on the edge of the desk. “Who’s been filling your head full of rainclouds? Not Monk?”

“No, of course not Monk,” said Bibbie. “He’s the only one who really understands.” She shrugged. “But everyone else seems to think that all I should care about is making a brilliant marriage. Even Father, and he’s forever boasting about me to his wizard chums. I tell you, Mel, you may get away with wearing trousers in public but the world is still full of Great-uncle Throgmortons. I don’t care if I
never
get married. I want a
large
life. A life that has
purpose
. I mean, truly, what’s the point of being a thaumaturgical prodigy if I never get to be prodigious?”

Melissande cleared her throat. “Yes, well. Not that I’d know anything about being a prodigy, of course, but—”

“Oh, Mel, I’m sorry,” said Bibbie quickly. “I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t thinking.”

She bumped Bibbie with her shoulder. “Never apologise for speaking the truth. You
are
a prodigy, just like Monk. Almost like Gerald. And I’m not.”

“No, you’re not. Far from it,” said Bibbie, with more honesty than tact. “But you’re a genius at being practical and organised and that’s nothing to sneeze at.”

Possibly not, but it hardly compared. Still. No point pining after the impossible. “The thing is, Bibbie,” she said firmly, “that I
do
wear trousers and I
don’t
get hauled off the street. Slowly but surely things are changing. So you’re not to lose heart, do you hear me? Married or not you
will
have a large life
full
of purpose. In fact it’s my belief you’re going to take life by the scruff of the neck and shake it into trembling submission. We
both
are. Starting with Witches Inc., which is going to be the most successful witching agency in the history of Ottosland.
Agreed
?”

Bibbie straightened out her slump. “Yes. All right.
Agreed
.”

The phone rang eight more times while they were dusting and rearranging and getting ready for Permelia Wycliffe’s arrival. Three of the callers were eager young men pretending to require assistance from Miss Markham. They were given short shrift. But the other five were genuine enquiries for agency help, and were duly noted in the appointment book. Bibbie managed to restrain herself from saying “I told you so,” but her eyes shone like blue stars and her lips remained curved in the faintest of smug smiles.

Melissande didn’t begrudge her.
The more clients the merrier. And it’s always possible I’m making grapefruits out of lemons. Bibbie’s right: I am a worrier by nature… and Lional only made things worse. Perhaps I need to start looking on the bright side first instead of last.

At precisely ten o’clock Permelia Wycliffe arrived, this time without Eudora Telford in tow. “Good morning, Emmerabiblia,” she said grandly, sweeping into the office like a duchess on a goodwill tour. Her costly mourning attire was elegantly restrained, as before, her discreet sapphire necklace quietly expensive. “Miss Cadwallader,” she added, almost as an afterthought.

So… in the absence of Miss Telford’s staunch royalism she’d been emphatically demoted. Hiding her amusement, Melissande nodded. “Miss Wycliffe,” she murmured, and indicated the freshly plumped client’s armchair. “Please, do have a seat. Might I offer you some refreshment?”

Permelia Wycliffe thawed the merest fraction. “Thank you. Yes.”

Further relegated to the role of maidservant—a good thing Reg hadn’t come back or she’d be blue-faced on the floor with suppressed laughter, feathers and all—Melissande busied herself with brewing a pot of tea and setting out some freshly bought macaroons on their only unchipped plate. While she toiled, Bibbie and Miss Wycliffe exchanged animated reminiscences about late lamented Great-aunt Antigone. Clearly, as far as Permelia Wycliffe was concerned, Melissande Cadwallader didn’t exist.

But that doesn’t matter
, Melissande reminded herself.
It’s her money I’m after, not her undying friendship.
An unflatteringly mercenary attitude, to be sure, but hearts-and-flowers didn’t pay the rent.

Once the tea and cakes had been served and consumed it was time to get down to business. Permelia Wycliffe withdrew from her gold-embroidered reticule a sealed envelope and gave it to Bibbie. “Payment for services rendered, Emmerabiblia, as agreed. Your performance yesterday on the Guild’s behalf was most impressive.
So
impressive that I have no qualms at all in entrusting to you an even more serious and sacred task.”