“Oy! Do you mind?” Reg protested as her plumage tried to turn itself inside out.
Bibbie opened her eyes and frowned at the test tube. “You’re right, Mel. This ink is well and truly kablooeyfied.”
“ Yes, Bibbie, I know.” Honestly, much more of this and she’d grind her teeth down to stumps and then there’d be dental expenses on top of everything else. “The question is why?”
“Sorry,” said Bibbie, shrugging. “Haven’t a clue. All I can tell you is the inherent thaumaturgical substructure of the incant has somehow been degraded and deconstructed then retranslated from an eighth dimensional transvibration to a sixteenth.”
Melissande blinked. “And that’s bad, is it?” she asked eventually.
“Well, I don’t know about bad, precisely, but it’s certainly interesting,” said Bibbie. “How in the name of all things metaphysical did you manage it? I don’t think even Monk’s pulled off something as outlandish as this.”
“I don’t have the foggiest idea,” she said glumly. “I was hoping you would.”
Another shrug. “Sorry.”
“Don’t look at me,” said Reg. “I was catching up on my beauty sleep. At my age I need all the help I can get.” When nobody contradicted her, she subsided into offended silence.
“I suppose we could ask Monk to test what’s left of the ink in one of his Department’s labs,” said Bibbie. “He’ll be able to-” Breaking off as the phone on her desk rang, she reached for the heavy black receiver and answered it. “Witches Incorporated, No Job Too-Monk! Fancy that, we were just talking about you. Were your ears burning? — They were? Not literally, I hope.-Well, all right, but with what you get up to down in your Department basement, let alone in your attic, I never really know for sure. And there was that time in the nursery when you-”
As Bibbie squabbled with her brother, Melissande started filing the bills in their concertina folder. Where did they all come from? And why did it seem that life was easier when she was juggling the finances of an entire kingdom? How could it be that keeping the doors open to one insignificant little witching agency was proving to be a thousand times harder than keeping New Ottosland solvent?
She snuck a surreptitious glance around the shabby office. It wasn’t much, true, but it was theirs, and if after so much hope and effort the agency didn’t work out… humiliatingly, she felt her eyes burn and her nose start to run. She had to accidentally-on-purpose knock the bills to the floor so she could dive under the desk before the other two noticed she was cry-very upse-having an allergy attack.
“-argue about it any more,” Bibbie finished. “One more word out of you and we won’t come. Fine. Good.” She hung up the phone. “That was Monk. He needs to see us. Urgently.”
Melissande scuttled backwards out from under the desk and hauled herself to her feet. “Why? What’s happened? Has Great-uncle Throgmorton struck again? Or is this something to do with one of his wretched experiments?” She turned to Reg, staring accusingly. “I thought you said the house was still in one piece!”
“Eh?” said Reg, startled. “It is! Or it was first thing this morning. Whatever he’s gone and done now, ducky, he did it after I left so don’t you go giving me the mouldy eyeball.”
She turned back to Bibbie. “So what’s wrong? What’s happened?”
Bibbie pulled a face. “He wouldn’t tell me. All he’d say was that he wants to see us urgently in the Botanical Gardens. The Tropical Glasshouse, to be exact.”
“Oh, Saint Snodgrass’s bunions,” said Melissande, and banged the office window shut. “You should’ve let me talk to him.”
“You don’t suppose it’s Gerald, do you?” said Reg. Her voice wasn’t quite steady. “You don’t suppose something’s happened to my Gerald?”
Melissande exchanged a nervous look with Bibbie then picked Reg up off the client chair and settled her onto one shoulder. “No. I don’t suppose anything of the sort,” she said firmly, collecting her reticule. “Monk’s probably got another staffing crisis on his hands, that’s all. Probably he wants to talk us into pretending to be housemaids.”
“Yes, that’ll be it,” said Bibbie. “Something totally ridiculous like that. Bags I hit him first.”
Another exchange of nervous looks, then Melissande cleared her throat. “Well, there’s only one way to find out what he wants. Let’s go!”
The world-famous Ottosland Botanical Gardens stood in the exact centre of the city, and at a quarter to eleven in the morning of a working weekday the squirrels outnumbered the people five to one. Melissande, Reg and Bibbie hurried along the neatly tended paths, between immaculate flower beds and meticulously nurtured trees, to the Tropical Glasshouse on the Gardens’ west lawn, directly across the street from the looming Department of Thaumaturgy building.
“Urrggh,” said Melissande as they went inside. Four steps through the entrance and sweat was already trickling down her face. She didn’t need a mirror to know her cheeks were swiftly turning beetroot. “Why does he want us to meet him in here? This place is worse than a steam bath, honestly!”
The overheated air contained within the Glasshouse was heavy and wet, soaked in a melange of ripely exotic perfumes. An international cornucopia of tropical trees and flowers and vines and creepers flourished in profusion, brilliant greens, vivid scarlets, oranges and yellows, bright blues and shameless pinks, nature at its exhibitionist best.
Monk was waiting for them at the end of the tamed jungle’s main path, anxiously pacing back and forth in front of a towering Lanruvian Palm. Dressed in a sober blue suit, his hair ruthlessly combed into submission and his permanently potion-stained fingers hidden in his pockets, he looked like a banker. All he needed was the bowler hat.
Melissande mopped her face with an inadequate hanky. A pity he’s not a banker, really. He could’ve given us a loan. As usual her heart skipped a half-beat, seeing him, but she schooled her expression. This wasn’t the time or place for being girlishly coy.
“Ha!” said Reg, her claws clutching tighter. “There he is.” She took to her wings and hurtled ahead of them down the path. Melissande looked at Bibbie, sighed, and broke into a reluctant, unladylike jog to catch up.
Luckily it seemed they were alone in the Glasshouse, because Reg-having reached Monk first-was making no effort to be discreet. “Well? Well?” she demanded loudly. “Is he all right? Has there been another international incident? Does he need rescuing again?”
Monk looked confused. “What? Who?”
“ Who?” Outraged, wings flapping, Reg hovered in his face. “Who do you think, you thaumaturgical tosser? Gerald! Your best friend! Skinny fellow, brown hair, one silver eye, good with incants, works as a spy. Am I ringing any bells yet?”
“Reg, what are you going on about?” said Monk. “Gerald’s fine. I told you that last night.”
“ Then what are we doing here, you raving nitwit?”
“ Good question,” said Melissande, joining them, and offering Reg an arm to perch on before she flapped herself into asphyxiation. Acutely aware that she must appear absolutely hideous-even Bibbie looked less than exquisite for once-she scowled at her young man. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a good answer, have you?”
“He’d better,” said Bibbie, folding her arms. “Because romping around this steam bath was not on my list of Things To Do This Morning and there must be at least a dozen places to hide a body in here. I’ll just bet the tropics are full of flesh-eating beetles.”
Monk took a hasty step back. “Okay. Look. I’m sorry to drag you out here like this but I had to speak to you.”
“You were speaking to us, Monk,” said Bibbie. “That funny contraption you were talking into is called the telephone.”
Flinching, Monk darted a quick look around them. They were still alone. “This isn’t a telephone kind of conversation, Bibbie! Telephone calls can be monitored!”
“Then why not use the crystal ball?” Bibbie demanded. “Why make us huff and puff all the way-”
“Because I couldn’t trust that, either!”
Melissande transferred Reg from her arm to her shoulder. The urge to display girlish coyness was rapidly fading. “This is ridiculous. I thought Gerald was the one playing cloak-and-dagger games. Whatever you want to tell us, Monk, just spit it out so we can get back to the office. For all we know clients are lining up three deep in the corridor!”
“Heh,” said Reg under her breath. “Chance’d be a fine thing. But she’s got a point, sunshine,” she added to
