Melissande pinched the wretched bird’s beak shut before someone noticed that her exotic shoulder ornament was having a fit. “She’s too big to squish into the cage, Bibbie. Besides, it says quite clearly on the door: No Pets Allowed.”
“Good point,” Bibbie admitted, and lapsed into furious thought. “All right,” she said after a moment. “How about this?”
“How about what?” said Melissande suspiciously, watching as Bibbie removed the velvet choker from around her neck and carefully unthreaded the exquisite cameo dangling from it. “Bibbie, what are you doing?”
Bibbie dropped the cameo into her reticule then held out her hand. “Give me the birdcage, Mel, quick.”
Baffled, she took the cage out of Monk’s carpetbag, handed it over and watched as Bibbie threaded the velvet choker through its handle. Then, in a blinding bolt of horrified comprehension, she realised what Monk’s mad sister was doing.
“Oh, no. No, Bibbie. You cannot be serious!”
“I can, you know,” said Bibbie, testing the weight of the cage as it dangled from her velvet choker.
“It’s out of the question! You can’t wear a birdcage around your neck, it’s far too conspicuous!”
Bibbie glanced up. “Well, no, of course I can’t. But you can.
“ Me?”
“Yes, Mel. You.” Bibbie rolled her eyes. “I know this might come as a shock but women wear jewellery all the time.”
“Jewellery, yes. But since when is a birdcage a fashion statement, you raving madwoman?”
“Since Her Royal Highness Princess Melissande of New Ottosland makes it one,” said Bibbie, with her most anarchic grin. “Royalty always sets the trend in fashion, didn’t you know? After today, Mel, I’ll guarantee you that an empty birdcage around the neck will be the must-have accessory of the season! Or the week, at any rate. Even a day will do, provided it’s today.” She looked around the crowded room. “I wonder if that photographer from the Times is here…”
Melissande tried to ignore Reg’s strangled laughter. “I hope so!” she hissed, glowering. “I’ll bet he’d just love to photograph a woman swallowing a birdcage whole!”
“Now, now, you two,” Reg chided, her voice still choked. “We don’t have time for girlish romps.”
“But-”
Reg tightened her claws, warningly. “Like it or not she’s right, ducky. We’ve got to get that sprite close to Millicent Grimwade’s tricked-up nosh, and hanging it round your neck is our best bet.”
“But it’ll never work!” she protested, even as the clammy waters of inevitability closed over her head. “I’ll be a laughing-stock! One of the Invigilators will throw me out!”
“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
