from the end along the row of wound-up, waiting contestants. “There. Her.”
“Right,” said Melissande. “Then let’s prove she’s a rotten cheater and get out of here, shall we? Because if I have to stay in this room for much longer I’ll never be able to look a cake in the face and smile again.”
“Not a bad idea, ducky,” Reg muttered. “Your buttocks’ll thank you for it, believe me.”
Ignoring that, Melissande hefted Monk’s carpetbag and got to work.
CHAPTER EIGHT
They fought their way through the growing crowd, past the other contestants’ cake and pastry-laden tables, until they found themselves standing in front of Permelia Wycliffe’s nemesis, usefully camouflaged by two shifting rows of gossiping spectators.
Glimpsed between feather-crowned hats and silk-shawled shoulders, Millicent Grimwade lived up to her name. She was a tall, thin, hatchet-faced woman dressed head-to-toe in deep purple silk and basking in a premature aura of victory. A delicate lace cloth covered her display table right down to floor level, pinned in place by a cream-slathered gooseberry sponge, a primrose-yellow iced pound cake and a seductively glistening chocolate log.
Melissande considered the offerings, then sidled a little closer to Bibbie. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, mindful of eavesdroppers. “But I don’t see what’s so terrible about those cakes. They look like cakes you’d buy in a shop. In fact, they make Per-” She darted a glance around the jostling crowd. “ You-know-who look like a sore loser. Which means we’re in grave danger of making ourselves look like idiots if we start throwing about unsubstantiated accusations.”
“What? Are you blind?” said Bibbie, in a disbelieving undertone. “Those cakes are terrible, Mel. They’ve got no business being in the Golden Whisk finals. The cream on the sponge is over-whipped, there’s too much yellow in the pound cake’s icing and she’s used the wrong kind of chocolate for the chocolate log. I can only imagine what they taste like.” She shuddered. “Sawdust, probably. I can hear Great-aunt Antigone’s ashes now, whirling in their urn.”
Close around them the scented crowd swirled and shared its unfettered opinions. Everyone was praising Millicent Grimwade’s entries. Melissande considered the apparently ghastly cakes for a moment. No, she still couldn’t see what had woken Bibbie’s scathing contempt.
“Are you sure?”
Bibbie glowered. “Of course I’m sure.”
“Reg?” she whispered. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s a long time since I ate cake,” Reg whispered back, mournful.
“That’s very helpful, thank you.” She chewed her lip. “The thing is, Bibbie, how is it you can tell they’re so awful when nobody else can? If they have been incanted surely you’d be singing their praises too.”
Bibbie’s cheeks turned pink. “Oh. Um. That. Well, I zapped myself with one of Monk’s classified anti-hex hexes. It-ah-it only works if you’re thaumaturgically sensitive. Sorry.”
Ouch. Thrusting aside the sting of that, Melissande glanced again at Permelia Wycliffe’s smug opponent, who was presiding over her entries like a queen receiving homage. “So you’re saying there is definitely black market thaumaturgy in play?”
“After one look at those cakes?” Bibbie snorted. “I’d stake my First-Class diploma on it. Only it’s some of the slickest incanting I’ve ever met.” She opened her neatly gloved fingers, revealing a small green crystal. “This thing is supposed to turn black in the presence of an obfuscation or enhancement hex. Kindly note, girls, its conspicuous greeniosity. Whoever designed Millicent’s judge-fuddling incant is good. I mean, they’re bad, they’re very bad, but-”
“Yes, yes, we get it,” Melissande snapped. “All right. Let’s see if we can put an end to this farce, shall we? I’d like to leave with at least the dregs of my self-respect intact.”
Ignoring the molten glances and mutterings from their fellow spectators, they shoved and insinuated their way through the crowd until they were pressed against the scarlet cordon-ropes separating the public from the Guild’s illustrious competitors. Trying to remain inconspicuous, Melissande wafted Monk’s carpetbag to and fro before the table of suspect cakes. Any second now, surely, if Bibbie was right, the sprite’s interdimensional nature would disrupt whatever thaumaturgic influences had been placed on Millicent Grimwade’s entries and this ridiculous expedition could be successfully concluded.
The gooseberry sponge, the pound cake and the chocolate log refused to co-operate. Not a single culinary crime went kablooey.
“Psst!” she hissed into Bibbie’s ear. “Your brilliant plan doesn’t seem to be working. Don’t suppose you thought of an alternative, did you?”
“We’re a good twelve feet from Millicent’s abominations,” Bibbie hissed back. “I think you’ll have to take Monk’s little friend out of the carpetbag.”
“Oh, that’s a bright idea!” she whispered, staring. “I’ll just wave the interdimensional sprite around for all and sundry to see, shall I? I’m sure nobody will blink twice at the sight of a bright blue buzzing thing in a birdcage!”
“They won’t if you don’t activate the etheretic normaliser,” Bibbie retorted. “There’s no need for anyone to see anything except Millicent Grimwade being unmasked!”
“So you’re saying they’ll completely ignore the mad woman waving the empty birdcage about?”
Bibbie groaned. “No, Mel, I’m saying-”
“Oy,” said Reg, speaking out of the side of her beak. “Don’t look now, duckies, but we’re attracting the wrong kind of attention.”
Sure enough, Millicent Grimwade was staring at them in a less than friendly fashion. Her gimlet gaze raked them up and down, then darted suspiciously to Eudora Telford, who was doing her very best to ruin everything, it seemed: smiling and nodding at them, and wagging a finger at Millicent while Permelia was distracted by a question from the crowd.
Bibbie cursed under her breath. “Strategic withdrawal, girls, quick, before the Grimwade crone screams for a Guild Invigilator.”
“A what?” said Melissande, as they hurriedly retreated to the nearest stretch of empty wall.
“A who, not a what. Over there,” said Bibbie, jerking her chin. “There’s one. See her? The Guild appoints six of them altogether and trust me, we do not want them taking an interest in us. Guaranteed to cramp our style, that is, and get us tossed out on our well-padded posteriors.”
Safely withdrawn from Millicent Grimwade’s line of fire, Melissande stared over the heads of the milling spectators and saw an official-looking woman prowling the edges of the chattering crowd. Dressed in a severely plain blue gown covered in a capacious and crisply spotless white apron, and carrying a wooden spoon of office, she looked imposing enough to tame a ravening horde single-handed.
“Blimey,” said Reg. “Let her get near the cream and it’ll be clotted whether you want it clotted or not!”
“Oh, don’t be mean,” said Bibbie. “She’s just doing her job. Believe me, it’s a thankless task. Great-aunt Antigone got her start as an Invigilator so I know all about it.”
Holding their breaths, they waited to make sure the dreaded Guild Invigilator’s attention was focused elsewhere then went into a huddle.
“All right,” said Melissande. “What do we do now? We’ve been here nearly half an hour, the judging must be about to start and we’re no closer to proving Millicent Grimwade is a cheating cheater who cheats than we were this time yesterday. Suggestions?”
“What I already said,” said Bibbie, impatiently. “We’ve got to get the sprite in a direct line of sight with Millicent’s cakes. Which means like it or not, Mel, it’s got to come out of the carpetbag.”
“And then what, Bibbie? I’m telling you, the minute I start waving an apparently empty birdcage around the place those Guild Invigilators are going to-”
“What if it’s not empty? What if we put Reg in there?”
“Over my dead body, madam!” Reg almost shrieked. “Are you out of your tiny mind? Shove me in a cage with an interdimensional sprite, would you? I’ll bloody shove you, ducky, I’ll-”
