“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!”
“Then you must’ve misremembered it,” said Reg.
“Nonsense. I’ve tamper-proofed so much ink in the last two years I could do it in my sleep.”
Reg tut-tutted. “Then I blame that Madame Rinky Tinky and her cut-rate under-the-counter flim-flam of a correspondence witching course. That’s who taught you the technique, isn’t it?”
Melissande groaned. So much for Reg’s newfound restraint. I should’ve known it was too good to last. “ There’s nothing wrong with studying metaphysics by mail. Gerald studied metaphysics by mail and look where he is now-a super special secret agent in a government Department that’s so hush-hush they’re not allowed to tell themselves they exist!”
“True,” Reg conceded, then looked pointedly down her beak. “But Gerald had me.”
Slumping against the filing cabinet, she glared at the test tube and beaker. “It’s got to be the ink. I’m going straight back to see Mister Cripps and give him a piece of my mind. He’s got no business selling substandard ink to unsuspecting customers. It may be his most economical brand but that’s no excuse for-”
“Now, now,” said Reg. “Only a bad worker blames her tools.” Staring at the residual mess in the test tube and beaker, she shook her head. “Deary deary dear. You really have cocked it up this time, haven’t you? Good lord, madam, what were you thinking? Gerald never-” And then she squawked as a pointed finger was jabbed between her eyes.
“I swear, Reg,” breathed Melissande, “on my honour as a princess, finish that sentence and I will shove your beak where the sun doth not shine!”
Reg sniffed. “You know what your problem is, don’t you, ducky? You can’t take a little constructive criticism, that’s your problem. You may be Her Royal Highness Princess Melissande in disguise but you don’t have the authority to shove my beak anywhere. And even if you weren’t in disguise and you owned up to being an HRH instead of prancing about calling yourself Miss Cadwallader and you did have that kind of authority, I’m a queen and therefore outrank you.”
“Once upon a time you were a queen, Reg,” she snapped. “Now you’re just a bird of no fixed parentage. And disguise or no disguise, if you think I’m going to be dictated to by an ambulatory feather duster with delusions of grandeur you can bloody well think again!”
From outside the open window a coolly amused voice said, “Now now, girls. How about a little decorum?”
CHAPTER FIVE
With a startled squawk Reg fell off the windowsill to land beak-first on the elderly cabbage-rose carpet. With an equally startled cry of “Reg!” Melissande leapt forward and scooped her up to make sure she was all right.
“Izz by deak brogen?” mumbled Reg, eyes rolling. “Id veels brogen!”
“No, no, it’s not broken,” she soothed, straightening Reg’s mussed feathers and sitting her gently on the seat of the client armchair. Then she whipped around and glared at the face in the window. “Bibbie! For the love of Saint Snodgrass, what are you doing? If anyone catches you levitating yourself we could lose-”
“Oh, relax,” said Bibbie, waving one hand. “I hexed a dustbin lid, not me.”
“Well don’t. Now get down! Or get inside! Quick, hurry, before someone notices!”
Monk’s appalling sister grinned, folded her arms along the windowsill and rested her elegant chin on her wrists. “Come on, Mel. Don’t be a spoilsport.”
“I am not a spoilsport, I’m trying to save our hides. If the landladies walk in and see you hovering out there
