“Never mind him,” said Reg. “He’ll need a sight more help than the likes of us can provide, the silly old fogey. Try the social pages. With any luck one of our Miss Markham’s old school chums has lost an expensive bracelet and needs us to-”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, turning to the back section of the paper. “Why would one of Bibbie’s friends need us? Any graduate of Madam Olliphant’s would be perfectly capable of-oh no!”
“What?” said Reg, and flapped from her ram skull to the arm of the client chair. “What’s wrong?”
Mortified, Melissande stared at the photograph in the paper’s breathlessly overwritten social section. “What do you think?”
“I think that bustle was a big mistake,” said Reg, peering at the offending picture. “You’ve got more than enough bum to be going on with, madam. No need to go enhancing it.”
Melissande gritted her teeth. “Yes, so you said at the time, Reg. But-”
“ Her Royal Highness Princess Melissande of New Ottosland,” Reg said aloud, reading the photograph’s caption, “ only sister to the King of New Ottosland and co-proprietor of Witches Inc., the capital’s newest thaumaturgical agency, escorted by Monk Markham, Esquire, younger son of celebrated thaumaturgist Wolfgang Markham, attending a performance of “ The Shepherd’s Revenge ” at the Opera House. What’s wrong with that? That’s free advertising, that is. Even if most of you that isn’t bustle is hidden behind that Markham boy.” She chuckled. “Although he does scrub up quite nicely, doesn’t he?”
Yes, he did, very nicely, but that wasn’t the point. “I could’ve sworn I managed to fritz that wretched man’s camera!” Melissande fretted. “He’s always lurking around public events hoping to photograph me. Next time I’ll get Monk to fritz his camera. Better yet I’ll get Monk to fritz him.”
“Oh, no you won’t, madam!” said Reg. “Not when he’s giving us free advertising, you won’t!”
She threw the paper on the floor and shoved out of the armchair. “I don’t care about the free advertising. I care about Rupert seeing this and thinking I’m exploiting him for my personal gain! He’s been so wonderful about what happened at Madam Olliphant’s, and me starting up the agency even though it’s got the potential to embarrass him. They’re still wittering about it back home, you know, all those fuddy-duddy aristocrats. Lord Billingsley and the rest. I’m flying in the face of Tradition, Reg, and they’re not impressed. But Rupert’s standing firm. The last thing I want is for him to think I’m taking him for granted. Using him.”
“If you think he thinks that, ducky,” said Reg, surprisingly gentle, “you’re daft. That brother of yours adores you. In his short-sighted eyes you can do no wrong.”
Which was precisely the problem. Rupert’s loyalty was limitless, so she had to place the limits for him. Otherwise he could get himself into trouble. She’d have to write him a letter, and bother the expense of postage home. If his feelings were hurt he’d never tell her. He’d just brood and look sad…
Oh, Rupes. I’m sorry. Maybe coming to Ottosland was a mistake after all.
“ Mister Cripps will be at his shop by now,” she said abruptly, glancing at the tinnily ticking clock on the wall. “I’m going out to buy that ink. In the unlikely event a client should turn up while I’m gone don’t do anything, just let them fill out the enquiry card and pop it through the door-slot and I’ll deal with it when I get back.”
Reg immediately looked outraged. “Do you mind? I’m perfectly capable of-”
“Pretending to be an etheretic answering machine, getting into an argument with a client and sending them away in a huff?” she interrupted. “Yes, Reg, I know. Last week’s demonstration was flawless. You could give tutorials. Which is why I’m saying don’t do anything.”
And on that trenchant note she picked up her slightly faded velvet reticule and swept out of the office, banging the door firmly closed in Reg’s offended face.
It took her not quite three-quarters of an hour to walk to Mister Cripps’s Office Supply Emporium, which was nowhere near as grand as its title suggested, make a purchase of his cheapest black ink, convince him she was perfectly capable of carrying the tin back to her office unassisted, and do so.
Reg, determined to remain offended, pretended to be asleep on her ram skull. Knowing perfectly well the dreadful bird was just aching to be appeased, Melissande pointedly ignored her. After setting up her test tube, conductive tubing, large beaker and etheretic condenser on Bibbie’s desk, since Monk’s sister wasn’t there to object, she started the process of tamper-proofing the first batch of ink.
Task completed, she returned to the client armchair with a book about the impact of cosmic rays on the etheretic field, which she’d borrowed from Monk. Her practical skills might leave a lot to be desired but there was no reason why she couldn’t be a theoretical expert. And who knew? Maybe if she read enough of his books some of his genius would rub off. A forlorn thought, most likely…
But there’s no law against dreaming.
Twenty minutes later the percolating ink on Bibbie’s desk hissed then evaporated in a belching of noxious orange smoke.
Melissande stared at it. “What? How did that happen?”
Reg sniggered.
“Huh,” she said, still ignoring the bird, and started the tamper-proofing process again with a fresh lot of ink.
Fifteen minutes after that, just as she staggered to the end of chapter five, the ink fizzed, turned bright yellow and condensed into a scum of froth around the lips of both test tube and beaker.
She let Monk’s book drop into her lap. “Oh, please. I know it’s Mister Cripps’s cheapest ink but this is ridiculous.” Muttering under her breath, she cleaned the test tube and beaker again, replaced the conductive tubing, triple-checked the etheretic condenser, poured her third batch of ink-good job she hadn’t succumbed to the temptation of a more expensive brand-and settled back into the armchair.
Seven laborious minutes into chapter six, the third batch of ink erupted into bubbles. Incredulous, Melissande looked up, saw the ink morph in a flash from black to emerald and made a frantic dive for test tube and beaker.
Too late. With a last despairing fizzle the ink expired in a cloud of damp green mist. She sneezed, then broke a cardinal rule and threw Monk’s book to the floor.
“Oh-oh, buttocks!”
The cry roused Reg from her pretend doze on the ram skull. “ Language, madam.”
“Language yourself,” she retorted, tugging off her glasses so she could clean the green mankiness off them. “You’ve said much worse, I’ve heard you.” Having ruined the tail of her blouse, she shoved the glasses back on and turned. “Buttocks, buttocks, buttocks, so there.”
Instead of scolding, Reg stared into the distance, a reminiscent gleam in her dark eyes. “I had buttocks once,” she said dreamily. With a ruffle of feathers she hopped from the ram skull to the open window, because the drifting green mist smelled like a men’s locker room whose cleaners had gone on a workers’ picnic. “They were lovely. All tight and firm and round like a fresh young peach.” Another remembering sigh, and then a considering glance at Melissande’s trouser-clad behind. “I could show you some exercises if you like.”
“I really wouldn’t,” she said, teeth gritted.
“Well, you should,” said Reg. “Tight buttocks can take a girl a lot further than you’d think.”
She closed her eyes. Count to ten, count to ten, get to ten and keep on counting… “ Look,” she said, snatching up her glass potion stirrer and waving it for emphasis, “why don’t you make yourself useful for once and help me work out what’s gone wrong with the stupid stuff this time.” Gingerly she poked the rod into the beaker and stirred the teaspoon-worth of green sludge at the bottom; the end of the rod promptly melted.
“Whoops,” said Reg, with another snigger.
“Oh bu — ugger it!” she shouted, one wary eye on Reg, and stamped about the tiny office to relieve her feelings. Thanks to the wretched bird she was aware of a slight but definite wobbling sensation in regions she had no intention of mentioning ever again. “It just doesn’t make sense,” she fumed, still stamping. “I followed the incant exactly. Every time!”