Melissande recognised the rock as a relative of the portable portal he’d used in New Ottosland.
“Oooh!” said Bibbie, twitching. “Feel that!”
Melissande stared at her. “What? Feel what?”
“ That,” said Bibbie. “Ewww, it’s like a thousand caterpillars crawling over my skin! Can’t you feel it?”
No. She couldn’t. Because she wasn’t a real witch. But that didn’t bother her at all.
Monk was grinning now, and Bibbie was grinning back at him, their nursery-squabbling forgotten. “Any second,” he murmured. “Wait for it… wait for it…”
The air surrounding the ailing sprite shivered. Sparkled in an impossible whirlpool of silver and gold. The sprite emitted a tiny, surprised squeak. Then, as though an invisible hand had reached out to grab it by the scruff of the neck, or what passed for its neck, it was sucked into the sparkling whirlpool… and vanished.
“ Excellent!” said Monk briskly and returned the rock to his pocket. “Now I’d best be on my way. Oh, and there’s no need for you to worry about Millicent Grimwade. Reg filled me in on her shenanigans, and I’ve passed along the particulars to the relevant Department. In fact-” He nodded as an official-looking black car pulled up in front of the Town Hall. “Here comes justice now.” He grinned as two stern-faced men spilled onto the pavement and started marching up the Town Hall steps. “So that’s the cake cheat and her black market chum taken care of. She’ll spill every last bean, I’ll bet, to make things easier for herself.” Still grinning, he shoved the birdcage at Bibbie.
“And what am I supposed to do with this?” she said, bemused.
“Hang onto it until the next time we have dinner?” he suggested, walking backwards. “Thanks!”
They stared after him, open-mouthed, until he was lost to sight amongst the city’s teeming pedestrians.
Then Bibbie laughed. “Never mind. All’s well that ends well.” She linked her arm through Melissande’s. “Now I want tea. Lots of tea. And scones with lashings of blackcurrant jam and cream.”
Melissande shook her head. The Markhams were totally incorrigible and utterly impossible. “Bibbie, no. We can’t afford — ”
“Oh, pishwash!” scoffed Bibbie. “We just solved the greatest crime in Baking and Pastry Guild history, sent a sightseeing interdimensional sprite home to its mother and put a black market thaumaturgist out of business! If that’s not an excuse to celebrate then I don’t know what is! Do you?”
“Well… no,” said Melissande, reluctantly. “Only we mustn’t go overboard, Bibbie. One celebratory scone each and a teapot between us. That’s it. And then we go back to the office and make sure we’re ready for round two with Permelia Wycliffe. Because if you’re right, and this ridiculous cake fiasco is the start of something big, then I want to be ready for it. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” said Bibbie, rolling her eyes. “Now come on, do. It’s time for some fun!”
CHAPTER NINE
The story appeared on page twelve of the next morning’s paper. This Year’s Golden Whisk Award Anything But A Cake Walk! the Times’ headline snickered. The accompanying photograph was of Bibbie, looking effortlessly beautiful even while covered in sprite-exploded chocolate log and holding a stupid birdcage.
“Ha!” said Reg, perched on the back of the client’s armchair and peering over Melissande’s shoulder. “What were you saying about the evils of free advertising?”
Trust Reg to remember that. “Nothing,” she muttered. “Shut up. I’m trying to read.”
But instead of reading she stared at Bibbie’s picture, her attention transfixed. It was petty, no, it was smaller than petty, to feel her throat close up and her eyes burn hot. It wasn’t Bibbie’s fault she’d still look glorious dipped head to toe in mud. That even under such kerfuffled circumstances as yesterday’s she could emerge at the end of the fracas looking cool, calm, unruffled and glamorous.
I really thought that horrible little man was photographing me. With Bibbie standing there? How silly could I get…
“ So?” said Reg, and tugged on a stray, escaped lock of hair. “Well? What does it say about us?”
“What?” she said, blinking hard. “Oh. I don’t know. I haven’t finished reading.”
“Then finish,” said Reg. “I don’t know, young people these days, no application, no discipline…”
With a concerted effort she banished treacherous self-pity and focused on the brief article about the previous day’s eventful Golden Whisk competition.
“It doesn’t say very much,” she said after swiftly perusing the two short paragraphs. “Only that some hanky-panky-unspecified-was thwarted at the Guild’s annual baking contest. And there’s a quote from Permelia Wycliffe about the organisation’s unsullied international reputation and dedication to transparent cooking practices.”
“You mean we’re not mentioned?” said Reg, scandalised. “And that Wycliffe woman didn’t give us due credit?”
“No. Which I admit is a little disappointing.” She frowned, thinking about that. “Although I wonder…”
“ Wonder? What’s to wonder, madam? We’ve been gypped!” Reg retorted, vibrating with outrage. “We saved the day, ducky, we rescued the Guild’s bacon from the fires of a public roasting and now we’ve been filleted, we’ve been fricasseed, we’ve been-”
“Oh, Reg, do calm down and think for a moment.”
“There’s nothing to think about!” Reg screeched. “We was robbed!”
She sighed. “No, Reg, we were gazumped.”
“ Gazumped? What’s that? That’s not even a word!”
“It’s a government thing,” she said, and tapped the newspaper. “I’ll bet you a week’s supply of mice that the whole story was kept vague because someone important had a word with the editor. Don’t forget, Reg, in the end this case boiled down to black market thaumaturgy. That’s not the kind of thing Monk’s Uncle Ralph wants splashed across the Times ’s front pages. From the little Monk’s told me, the less people know about the thaumaturgical black market the better off we’ll all be.”
But Reg was in no mood to be placated by anything so humdrum as reasonable common sense and sober government responsibility. Taking to the air, she flapped about the office in a rage.
“I don’t give a tinker’s cuss about your young man’s uncle! If that Sir Ralph’s so worried about black market thaumaturgy, I say let him knock it on the head without trampling all over our moment in the sun!”
Melissande shook her head. “Well, yes, Reg, it would’ve been nice if we’d been mentioned by name but-”
“ Nice?” Panting, Reg thumped onto her ram skull. “ Nice would be you not taking the bureaucrat’s side, ducky! You know what your problem is, don’t you? You still think you’re a bloody prime minister!”
What? “Oh, that’s rich coming from someone who’s been a bird for the last four centuries and still wants everyone to treat her like a queen!” Ignoring Reg’s sharp, offended gasp, she turned back to the Times. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to-”
“Girls! Girls! Did you see?” cried Bibbie, frothy in pink muslin and dancing into the office brandishing another copy of the Times. “We’re famous!”
“Famous? We’re not famous!” Reg retorted. “We’re ignored is what we are. And madam here can’t see it’s a disaster! She’s too busy applauding a government cover-up!”
Surprised, Bibbie stopped dancing and stared at them. “Ignored? What are you talking about, Reg? There’s an article and a photograph.” She shook the paper again. “Haven’t you seen it?”
Melissande lifted her own copy of the Times. “We saw,” she said, then glanced at the clock. Ten to nine: an early morning record for Bibbie. “Reg is upset because the agency didn’t get a mention. I’ve been trying to explain that-”
“But we did get a mention,” said Bibbie. “Didn’t you read the caption on the photo?”
Caption? No. She hadn’t wanted to look at the picture that closely.
With an impatient sigh, Bibbie lifted her paper. “ Miss Emmerabiblia Markham, co-proprietor of Witches Inc.,” she read aloud, “ after successfully unmasking the Golden Whisk cheat.” She looked up. “See? It’s all there in black and white. So there’s no need for Reg to be in a flap. Just you wait, the phone will be ringing off its hook
