“I doubt it,” said Reg with a derisive snort. “Not if they let that woman wearing the stuffed monkey stay. Now hurry up, because unless I’m mistaken those three fat men coming in now are the judges.”
“What? Where?” Melissande spun round. “How can you tell?”
“Well, for a start, it says “Judge” in six-inch high letters on their chests.”
Botheration, the bird was right. They were indeed the judges, solemn and sober in their black morning coats and boiled shirt-fronts, diagonally bifurcated by their gaudy crimson sashes of office, guarded by the Guild Invigilators as though they were visiting royalty.
The richly dressed and enthusiastically scented spectators broke into enthusiastic applause as the judges made their way from the doorway to the special “Judges Only” section of the chamber, which was also cordoned off by ropes.
“Quick, Mel,” said Bibbie. “Get this on while nobody’s paying us any attention.”
Depressed, Melissande stared at the birdcage dangling from Bibbie’s velvet choker. Then, with a surreptitious glance around the judge-absorbed crowd, she flicked on the etheretic normaliser.
“Ah-is it my imagination, or does the sprite look sickly?” she whispered, staring through the cage’s bars at the unlikely creature. Its bright blueness had definitely faded since yesterday, and even its odd, not quite certain little face looked forlorn.
“It’s fine,” said Reg, hopping over to Bibbie’s shoulder. “You’re imagining things. Now let’s get this over with! I’m about ready for my morning tea.”
Get this over with. Easy for Reg to say. Reg didn’t have to make a fool of herself by dangling a birdcage round her neck. Honestly, if she’d ever once thought that she’d be brought this low she’d never have approached Bibbie with the idea of opening Witches Inc. She’d have applied for a position as a governess first, even though other people’s children appalled her.
“Come on, come on,” whispered Bibbie, quivering with anxiety. “Before it’s too late!”
It was already too late. But I don’t have a choice, now. I’m committed… or I will be, once this madness is over. She gave the sprite one last worried look, switched off the etheretic normaliser and donned her lovely new necklace. The cage balanced precariously on her front, drawing embarrassing attention to her bosom. It was so in the way she was forced to rest her chin on it.
“Excellent!” said Bibbie. “Now, let’s get into position, quickly, before the judges start their perambulations.”
With ruthless courtesy, sublimely oblivious to glares and complaints, they pinched and pushed and weaselled their way back through the crowd of perfumed spectators until they’d reclaimed their prime ogling position directly in front of Millicent Grim-wade’s table. Upon spying their return to the fray, Eudora Telford immediately began flapping her hands and pulling alarming faces. Even Permelia lost a little of her iron-clad composure and began to lock and unlock her fingers in a nervous rhythm. Fortunately, before Millicent Grimwade or one of the prowling Invigilators could notice, they were both distracted by the polite yet insistent ringing of a tea bell.
“Ladies! Ladies!” cried a fluting, excessively modulated voice. “The annual Golden Whisk competition now commences to be adjudicated! Resounding applause, if you please, for this year’s revered, respected judges, Ottosland’s Mister Huffington-Smythe and Mister Pertpeach, and our very special overseas guest adjudicator, Mister Grilliski from Blonkken.”
Under cover of the obedient response, scores and scores of gloved hands patting each other with such restrained, ladylike enthusiasm it sounded as though a velvet-clad thunderstorm had struck, Melissande inched forward until she was pressed as hard against the scarlet boundary rope as she dared. In its cage round her neck the invisible sprite whined… but there was no reaction from Millicent Grimwade’s allegedly illegal cakes.
“Get closer!” hissed Bibbie, handily muffled by the continued applause.
Melissande glared at her. “I can’t,” she muttered. “Not without making a scene.”
The judges were already inspecting the first simpering contestant’s offerings. Ceremoniously they sliced into an oozing jam roll with a large silver knife supplied for the purpose, popped bite-size portions into their eager mouths and masticated solemnly, like judicial cows. There followed a great deal of nodding and eyebrow-waggling, and the furtive recording of notes in official notebooks. Next they partook of cherry tart, and after that blueberry scones. Judging concluded, they proceeded to the next contestant and began assessing the relative merits of a custard flan.
“This is no good, Mel. We’re running out of time,” whispered Bibbie, as the crowd commented and tittered and passed judgement on the cakes they were never going to taste for themselves. “I’m going to create a diversion.”
Alarmed, Melissande shook her head. She didn’t dare remonstrate aloud because the ladies crowded beside and behind them, many of whose silk-covered chests were decorated with enamelled chocolate eclair pins, were clearly irritated by the non-cake based conversation and were muttering and frowning and threatening an all-out protest.
Naturally, Bibbie paid no attention to that. Instead she closed her eyes, wiggled her fingers, and waited.
Nothing happened.
“Damn, my thaumics are fritzed,” she whispered. “It’s the sprite. Unlike Millicent’s cakes I’m too close to the little darling.”
“Then what are we going to do?” Melissande whispered back. She darted a glance along the row of tables. The judges, having finished with the second contestant’s offerings, were now sampling the third contestant’s vividly-hued pumpkin cheesecake. “Permelia looks ready to burst into flames.”
Bibbie flapped her hands, heedless of the annoyed “hushes” and “well, reallys” and “disgracefuls” being uttered all around them. “ I don’t know, Mel! You’re the organised one, you think of something!”
Think of something? Think of what? What could she possibly think of that would save them from this horrendous debacle? This was all Bibbie’s fault, volunteering the agency’s aid without consultation, practically promising that awful Permelia Wycliffe they’d save her from Millicent Grimwade’s unhinged machinations.
I never should’ve agreed to this. I should’ve known it’d go arse over teakettle.
“ Blimey,” said Reg, rattling her tail feathers. “So it’s up to me to save the day again, is it? That’d be right. Fine, you two. Listen to me. As soon as I’ve got everyone’s attention, someone shove that bloody birdcage under Millicent Grimwade’s table, right? That should get our invisible friend close enough to trigger the hex in the cakes. If there’s a hex in the cakes, that is. And if there isn’t… run.”
Before Melissande could stop her Reg uttered a piercing shriek and launched herself off Bibbie’s shoulder to fly in manic circles beneath the chamber’s ceiling. Still shrieking, she flapped round and round at speed, eliciting ladylike cries of fear and alarm from the startled contestants and spectators below.
“Quick!” said Bibbie. “While the old cat’s not looking at us!”
With a helpful shove from Monk’s mad sister, Melissande ducked awkwardly under the scarlet cordon-rope, one hand tugging at the birdcage round her neck. The velvet choker gave way and she thrust the sprite beneath the long lace cloth covering Millicent Grimwade’s table.
Mission accomplished, she staggered back under the cordon-rope and looked up. “Done!” she shouted, hoping Reg could hear her over the increasingly agitated cries from the crowd.
With one last piercing shriek Reg stopped imitating a crazed falcon and instead dived through the nearest open window. Three determined strokes of her wings and she was gone from sight, lost among the city’s prosperous rooftops.
“Gosh,” said Bibbie, eyes wide with repressed hilarity. “She’s better than a circus, isn’t she?”