Caught out, Melissande felt herself blush. “No, of course not. Anyway, it’s none of my business.”
“Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it is silly,” said Permelia, shrugging. “But as I said yesterday, nothing is more important to me than protecting this company. Even if that means I must look a trifle foolish pursuing the theft of a few lead pencils and shortbread creams.”
Shifting in her chair, she stared reverently at her father’s portrait.
“My dear Papa dreamed that one day Wycliffe’s would be the premier airship company of the world. He loved airships, you know. Their grace. Their beauty. The way they glide through the sky like giant silver swans. He died a year ago, before seeing his dream realised, and on his deathbed I vowed to carry on his legacy. Since that dreadful day I have kept my word in the face of many difficulties and crushing disappointments. So surely you see, Miss Cadwallader, that I cannot stand by and allow some-some biscuit-pincher to tarnish his life’s work! To jeopardise the reputation of the company Papa lived for!”
There was no doubting the woman’s passionate sincerity. Melissande, watching Permelia closely, felt that inconvenient tug of sympathy strengthen. The woman’s loyalty to Orville and his company… her own loyalty to Rupert and the kingdom of New Ottosland… she and Permelia Wycliffe stood on common ground there, united by the need to protect from all harm what they loved the most.
Rats.
“ I understand, Miss Wycliffe,” she said with a sigh. “And you mustn’t fret. Miss Markham and I will do whatever it takes to keep your father’s legacy safe.”
Permelia Wycliffe turned, her expression easing towards hope. “Truly, Miss Cadwallader?”
“My word as a Royal Highness,” she replied. “Oh-except I’m not one, remember? And I’m not Miss Cadwallader either. I’m Molly Carstairs.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Permelia Wycliffe. “Although, if I might ask, why are you so determined not to be a Royal Highness? I’d have thought it would be something of an advantage in your line of work.” Her high-arched nose wrinkled. “The world is full of Eudora Telfords.”
It was none of the wretched woman’s business, but… “Because I love my brother, Miss Wycliffe,” Melissande said quietly. “And while His Majesty fully supports my desire to be an independent woman of means, his enlightened attitude isn’t shared by all his subjects. So while I forge my way in the world I try to remain inconspicuous, for his sake.”
Permelia Wycliffe smiled. “I understand. And let me say how much I admire you for taking such a bold stance in the face of what must be daunting opposition.”
Melissande felt herself smiling back, for the first time liking Permelia Wycliffe… which came as a surprise. “It would only be daunting if I gave a turnip what the old tossers thought,” she said. “But since I don’t…”
“Oh dear,” said Permelia Wycliffe, her lips twitching. “You mustn’t make me laugh. Miss Petterly will think I’m having a spasm.” She took a moment to rearrange her pens and pencils, then looked up. “Very well, Miss- Carstairs. As soon as I can contrive it I’ll see that you set foot beyond the office. In the meantime I presume you’ll continue to search for this thief among the gels.”
It was her cue to leave, so Melissande stood. “That seems like an excellent plan, Miss Wycliffe. And of course I shall keep you discreetly apprised of the investigation’s progress.”
Miss Petterly gave her a gimlet stare as she left Permelia Wycliffe’s office. “Your in-tray is full, Miss Carstairs. Did I mention that should it not be emptied in a timely fashion a penalty shall be deducted from your weekly wage?”
Melissande bobbed a curtsy in passing. I swear, before this is over I’m going to deduct you, Miss Petterly. “Yes, Miss Petterly. I’ll get right to it, Miss Petterly. Thank you, Miss Petterly.”
She minced back to her horrible little grey cubicle, passing all the other horrible little cubicles where gels clad head-to-toe in sober black bent over their abacuses and their typewriters and their paperwork, striving not to earn a deduction from their weekly wage. Not a single gel looked up as she passed, and the air beneath the high ceiling smelled ever so faintly of an anxious tedium. Clack-clack-clack went all those typewriter keys. Click-click- click went the wooden abacus counters. The office boy dragged his little cart up and down the aisles between the cubicles, its wheels creaking a protest. He never once looked up or smiled.
Probably there’s a penalty for smiling.
Even though this was fieldwork, even though this was a job, one that might well lead to other jobs and the saving of Witches Inc., Melissande shuddered.
Is this what it’s going to be like, then? From the ridiculous to the depressing? Exploding cakes one day, a grim office the next? Sliding in and out of other people’s lives, in and out of their unhappiness and stifled dreams and stunted ambitions, knowing that when I’m done I can leave but they can’t?
Maybe. But that came with the territory, didn’t it? No job was perfect. She just had to remember she’d opened the agency for a reason, to help people who needed helping. All right, so this assignment promised to be dreary. But dreary or not, she was helping Permelia Wycliffe protect her family’s business from a person-or people-who didn’t care who they hurt just so long as they got whatever they wanted. Yes, all right, biscuits… but even so. The principle was noble. This was a calling of which she could be proud. That was worth a little boredom and discomfort.
And let’s face it, Melissande. Life can’t all be interdimensional sprites and exploding chocolate logs.
As promised, her in-tray was now full to the point of overflowing. Swallowing a sigh she slid into her chair, selected a pencil, lined up her abacus and got to work.
Melissande returned to the agency after seven that evening, tired and hungry.
“Well?” Reg demanded from her ram skull. “What happened? Who’s guilty? How soon do we get paid?”
With a groan, still clutching her carpetbag, she dropped into the client armchair. “Too much paperwork, I don’t know yet, and just as soon as I do.”
“Was it awful?” said Bibbie, sympathetically, glamorous as ever behind her desk.
“Yes.”
“And what did you find out?”
She grimaced. “Not much.”
“You don’t even have an inkling of who might be the thief?” said Bibbie, patently disappointed.
“I told you. No. I didn’t have a chance to do any actual investigating. I was too busy processing orders for jalopy door-handles and velocipede tyres.”
“What?” said Bibbie, astonished. “But I thought-”
“It seems Wycliffe’s is diversifying,” she said, and swallowed a yawn. “Where’s Boris?”
“Who knows? Who cares?” said Reg, sniffing. Then she stared down her beak. “You look like a crow in that getup, madam. I almost think I prefer the bustle.”
With another groan Melissande levered herself out of the client chair, took the cat’s dinner out of her carpetbag and staggered towards her adjoining bedsit. “Yes. Thank you, Reg. That’s what I need after today-one of your trenchant fashion critiques.”
“Honestly, Reg,” said Bibbie. “That’s not very nice. The least you could say is that she looks like a royal crow.”
Melissande slammed the bedsit door behind her.
After stripping out of the hideous black blouse and skirt and carefully hanging them up so she could look like a royal crow again tomorrow, she pulled on her beloved tweed trousers and a pale pink blouse then hung out of the tiny window calling for the cat.
Just as she was beginning to despair, Boris leapt lightly through the open bedsit window, all long lean nonchalance, tail flicking, whiskers bristling, and butted her under the chin once or twice to say he was sorry. She unwrapped his fresh fish and put it on the floor, using the waxed wrapping paper as a plate. Then she returned to the office where Reg was sulking on her ram skull and Bibbie was making her share of the office paperclips dance like silver butterflies above the desk.
“I don’t know, Mel,” she said, looking up. “Maybe I should’ve taken the chance and gone to Wycliffe’s. I’d have tracked down the thief by lunchtime. Betcha.”
Melissande dropped again into the client armchair. “No, you would’ve tried to turn the office supervisor into a nanny-goat, which is just what she sounds like and richly deserves.”
Bibbie grinned. “Oooh! Can I?”
“No.”
