hunger…
She realised then that Permelia Wycliffe had stopped talking. Had hung up the telephone. Was sitting behind her desk like a woman carved from meringue, sugar-white of face with a hectic dot of strawberry jam on each sunken cheek.
“Miss Wycliffe?” she said, alarmed. “Miss Wycliffe, are you all right?”
Permelia Wycliffe was breathing with such harsh restraint she seemed in danger of bursting a blood vessel. “There has been,” she said, though her jaw was clenched to breaking point, “another portal incident, Miss Cadwallader. It is very distressing.”
Melissande felt herself go cold. “Oh. Oh, no. Oh, that’s awful. Has anyone been-”
“You must excuse me, Miss Cadwallader,” said Permelia Wycliffe stiffly. “My brother will be joining me shortly. A confidential business meeting.”
“Of course, Miss Wycliffe,” said Melissande, standing. “I’ll just-I’ll leave you to-I’ll go now. Thank you.”
As she reached the office door, Permelia Wycliffe said, “Miss Cadwallader?”
She turned, desperately hoping her face wasn’t betraying how close she was to tears. “Yes, Miss Wycliffe?”
“You must appreciate, given the current business climate, that the Wycliffe Airship Company cannot be expected to pay for your services indefinitely. Particularly when you seem unable to reach a satisfactory conclusion to your investigation. I believe the amount of your retainer covers one more day? Then you have one more day, Miss Cadwallader, to unmask the thief. After that your services shall no longer be required.”
“Oh,” she said faintly. “I see. Yes. Well. I’m sure Witches Inc. will do its utmost to provide satisfaction, Miss Wycliffe.”
“I certainly hope so,” said Permelia Wycliffe. “Because people do talk, Miss Cadwallader. It would be unfortunate if they were talking about you for all the wrong reasons.”
“Yes, Miss Wycliffe,” she said, and made her escape past horrible Miss Petterly, who looked at her with deep disfavour as she returned to her horrible little grey cubicle. Safely hidden she sat for a moment, willing the tears and nausea to subside, then mechanically reached for the next purchase order requiring her attention.
Another portal accident? So was last night a premonition? And was I wrong to let Gerald and Reg talk me into staying silent? Oh, Saint Snodgrass, if anyone has perished…
The spectre of leaving Wycliffe’s a failure paled before this latest dreadful news. Heart pounding, stomach churning, she tried to focus on the paperwork…
But all she could see were her dead and dying people sprawled on the palace forecourt, struck down by Lional, innocent in death…
Like fingernails down a classroom blackboard, Miss Petterly’s horrible handbell rang out. Melissande held her breath, knowing every gel in the office was doing the same.
“Miss Carstairs. Miss Carstairs. To me, if you please!”
Well… bugger. Biting her lip, she went to face Miss Petterly.
“What is the meaning of this, Miss Carstairs?” demanded Miss Petterly, brandishing a sheaf of paperwork. “You have been altering the customers’ purchase orders!”
What? Oh, yes. Tantivy Tourist Extravaganza’s order, from first thing that morning. “I’m sorry, Miss Petterly. I was just trying to help. They seem to have confused themselves and ordered the Gyrating Pandoscopic Side- mirror when what they really needed was the-”
Miss Petterly leapt to her feet. “ Miss Carstairs. No gel under my supervision presumes to tell a customer he is confused! Are you trying to cost this company business?”
“Well, no, Miss Petterly, I was trying to-”
“Don’t you talk back to me, young lady! No gel under my supervision shall-”
At the other end of the office, somebody’s silver handbell tinkled.
“Wait here,” said Miss Petterly coldly. “This conversation is not concluded.”
Miss Petterly stalked off to make someone else’s life miserable. Melissande pulled a face at her retreating back, then took the blue hex-detector from her black skirt pocket and surreptitiously waved it over the horrible woman’s desk. Sadly there was no reaction.
Bugger. How wonderful it would be if Miss Petterly was the thief.
In Permelia Wycliffe’s office, behind Miss Petterly’s guard-dog desk, Permelia Wycliffe and her useless brother Ambrose were deep in private consultation. Although the door was closed and the curtains before the internal window were almost completely drawn, she caught a snatch of raised voices.
“- I would take care of it, Ambrose! You must be mad to… such a foolish decision… quite despair! If Father were alive, he’d… clearly up to me to save the company. So this is what you’re…”
She didn’t catch the end of the sentence.
Trying to be nonchalant, trying not to attract unwelcome attention, Melissande inched her way around Miss Petterly’s desk, to see if she could overhear anything else.
“… not the success we’d hoped for, but… my fault I had to buy inferior equipment. There is a market for… need better quality wizards, Permelia… purse strings… had to do something!.. You haven’t saved us… shall prevail!”
And that was brother Ambrose, sounding petulant and henpecked. Probably Permelia was complaining about the awfulness of the latest Wycliffe City Scooter. If the number of purchase orders coming in were any indication, it was a lemon to outshine any previous citrus product Wycliffe’s had managed to produce so far.
“ Miss Carstairs! Do you mind?” demanded Miss Petterly, marching towards her. “No gel under my supervision stands on my side of the desk!”
Rats. She really wanted to know what Permelia and Ambrose were arguing about. “Sorry, Miss Petterly,” she murmured, leaping back to her proper place.
“Indeed,” said Miss Petterly, taking her seat. “I should think so. Never let me have to tell you again. Now, Miss Carstairs. Regarding these altered purchase orders…”
There was so much traffic snarled on the approach to the Central Ott General Post Office that Gerald had to abandon the souped-up scooter with a don’t-steal-me hex on it, and walk the last half a mile. Reg rode on his shoulder, scolding without bothering, it seemed, to take any breaths at all.
“-practically turned my feathers inside out, you raving nutter! If this is what being a rogue wizard has done for you, Gerald, all I can say is it’s a great pity you ever learned the truth of your condition! You are officially worse than that Markham boy and I never thought the day would come when I’d say that with a straight face! Well? Well? Aren’t you even going to apologise?”
“Not right now,” he said, scarcely paying her attention. The Central Ott streets were clogged with gawkers and police, so much shouting and whistle-blowing and shoving and pushing and clanging alarm bells. He was being poked by elbows, prodded by parasols: if one more person trod on his feet he was going to break down and cry. “Reg… we’re there. Can you please fly around a bit? See what you can see? Chances are they won’t let me get much closer than this.”
“ Well!” she spluttered. “If you aren’t the most impossible, the most outrageous, the most-”
“Thanks, Reg,” he said, and heaved her off his shoulder with one enormous shrug.
Swearing a blue streak she took to the air. Good thing there was so much noise and mayhem or somebody would have heard her, and that might have been awkward.
He put his head down and tried to forge his way through the wall of gathered onlookers, to get to the front of the crowd so he would at least have some hope of seeing what was going on.
No luck. The human wall refused to budge. Thwarted, Gerald let out a hard breath.
This is important. This is government business. I’m a government agent. If people won’t get out of my way I’ll just have to… nudge them. A bit. Not hard. Just enough.
He hadn’t switched his etheretic shield back on. Another breach of protocol, but by now who was counting? With a pang of guilt he whispered a hex beneath his breath, and heated a thin layer of air around him. Agitated the ether, making its thaumicles dance.
Without even knowing why, the crowd parted for him then closed up behind. Like a fish in water he swam to the edge of the street… and got his first look at the Central Ott Portal.
It was intact. At least, from the outside it looked intact. For a moment he was so giddy with relief he thought he might fall over. If there weren’t so many people in the crowd around him, practically propping him up, he
