She smiled at me hopefully, then snorted again.
“I’ll ask Finbarr to drop by and you can set up a time. When would you like to go?”
“No time like the present.” She picked up the nearest cage but wheezed when she realised how heavy it was.
“Why don’t you go inside and grab a drink in the bar while I get someone to help me with these?” I suggested.
She coughed hard before nodding and mooching towards me. “Alright. I’d better see what my mother is up to anyway.”
I swung the parakeet’s cage in front of myself to maintain some distance between us as she passed.
“Please take care of that bird,” she said, stopping to inspect it. “It’s my ah, my favourite.”
“I promise I will. See you soon.”
I gave her a head start before grabbing the nearest cat basket and following her inside. Ned hovered by the stairs. I stared at him, askance. “Are you hiding?” Realising I sounded a little fraught, I modulated my tone. “Be a darling, Ned. Please can you bring all those animals in for me? There’s a chance of rain and given how cold it is, we don’t want them to freeze to death.”
“Yes Ma’am,” he replied, ducking his head. Of all the spirits that inhabited the inn, he was the shyest by far. “Where should I—?” he started to say, and I waved a hand at him.
“Just bring them into the reception for now and try and stow them out of harm’s way. I’m going to speak to Gwyn and then we’ll find out where to place them all.”
I glanced around. “You haven’t seen her, have you?” I asked on the off chance.
“Are you looking for Gwyn?” Charity appeared behind us, her cheeks unusually red, her brow furrowed. “She’s holding forth in the bar among all her old cronies.”
“What’s up?” I asked. Charity was generally the most even-tempered person I knew, but right now she seemed flustered.
“Some of those women are—” she fought for a way express herself politely, “—impossible!”
Ned hunched his shoulders and slipped past me, heading outside to the drive. “In what way?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.
“I’ve had to reallocate three rooms already, because people have pulled me aside to whisper in my ear, asking to sleep as far away from such-and-such a person as possible.”
“One specific person?” I was thinking about Delia Cuthbert of course.
“No, someone different in each case.” Charity looked perplexed. “I’ve never had that happen before. Don’t any of them actually like each other?”
“I suppose we’ve never hosted this many people who actually already know each other before,” I said. “With the exception of the—” I pulled a face, “vampire wedding, and that doesn’t count because they were all in their coffins in the beer cellar.” I quivered in repulsion, a habitual reaction to the trauma I’d faced at the hands of those repugnant creatures. My right hand found its way into my pocket, seeking the reassurance of my wand. At such times I felt Silvan’s presence despite the fact he was away on business elsewhere.
It was a comfort.
“That’s true,” said Charity. “I’ve also got someone out there asking for some drink that I’ve never heard of. Zephaniah has, but we don’t think it’s been brewed in this country for at least a hundred years.”
That made me giggle. “But we have so much to choose from, can’t you just tempt whoever it is with something different?”
“We tried.” Charity swatted at her freshly dyed quiff, a deep ocean blue. “Honestly, boss. You wait till you get out there amongst them. They cackle like geese. They’re a gaggle of ghastly grandmamas.”
I snorted. “We need to keep them happy. I tell you what, why don’t we create a tray of brightly coloured cocktails in shot glasses, different sorts, and hand them out? I know everyone is supposed to be paying extra for food and drink this week, but let’s try and entice them with our goodies, loosen them up and mellow them out.”
“Alright, good idea. I’ll ask Zephaniah to do that,” Charity nodded.
My arms had started to ache, so I placed the parakeet on the reception desk and the cat basket next to it. The cat uncurled itself and pressed against the bars to study the parakeet more closely. The parakeet shrieked—an oddly ugly sound—and the cat shot backwards and cowered at the rear of its basket.
“Oh, what’s the matter, pussycat?” I asked, bending over to look at him. He ignored me. “It’s just a little birdie,” I sang, but I couldn’t coax him out of his funk. I stood and retrieved a little yellow label from behind the desk to stick to his basket. Cuthbert cat, I wrote. You never knew how many black cats would be coming into the inn today.
“There’s one more thing,” Charity said.
“Go on.”
“We have lots of older ladies in the bar, huddling around the fire and complaining about how cold it is.”
“Stoke it up,” I suggested. It was hardly rocket science, after all.
“That’s not the problem. The problem is we have some slightly younger ladies who are currently hanging out of the opened windows.”
“Open windows? They’re too hot?”
Charity nodded. “Menopausal.”
I opened my mouth, intending to offer a solution. Unable to find one, I closed it again. “Hmm.”
“Miss Alf? Oh, there you are, Miss!” Florence rushed into view. “Monsieur Emietter is going crazy. I thought I’d better try and find you.”
Oh no. What now? “Why?”
Florence skittered around, wringing her hands. “The water in the kitchen is running cold, Miss Alf. We’re struggling to wash the dishes.”
My stomach sank. “That’ll be the boiler again.”
“Do you think you could work your magick again with it, Miss? Only Monsieur Emietter is threatening to cut off your ears …”
“My ears?” I harrumphed. People seemed to have forgotten just who was running the show around here. “Leave it to me.” I raised my voice. “In fact, leave everything to me. Why not? I seem to be the only one capable of solving all the problems.” I stomped towards the bar. “While I’m at it, I’ll sort out global poverty and world peace. Would that be okay with everyone?”
“Oh, Miss Alf,” Florence called after me beseechingly.
“Leave her,” I heard Charity say. “She’s in one of her moods.”
“Is she hangry again, Miss Charity?”
“Always.”
I poked at the wires at the front of the boiler with the tip of my finger. Something sizzled and sparked and I jumped backwards, sucking on my injured digit. “That’s not nice,” I said. “Is it too much to ask that you play ball? Just for the next seven days? Let me get this week out of the way and then I’ll have a little bit of spare cash and I’ll get you fixed up again.”
I placed my hand against the side panel, feeling the warmth there. It hadn’t been off long.
“Come on,” I soothed. “You don’t want me to send for a man with a spanner again, do you? You know what men are like with their weapons. Act first and reflect later. We’re different, us women.”
I paused, cocking my head and studying the boiler. Something inside it ticked quietly. Why on earth did I think that the boiler was a woman? Maybe it was male. Logically, it didn’t have any gender at all. Unless it was a French or a German boiler. I slipped my hand down to feel the raised area that would have told me the name of the maker if I had remembered to have the paint stripped from there.
“You know, you and I … we’re at the heart of this inn. Without me it would still be shut up, gathering dust, with bats in the attic and mice in the thatch. Without you,” I stroked the panel, “everyone would be cold, the dishes would remain dirty and the sheets and floors unwashed. And we’d all freeze.”
I shivered, just to emphasise my words. “You see? You’re incredibly important to everyone. Especially me.”
The ticking stopped. I held my breath. I heard something mechanical clink from deep inside and then, wit
h a whoosh, the boiler started up again. The pipes that led away from the body rattled a little before settling down into a gentle hum.
I relaxed, just a little. “Thank you,” I said. “That’s one less thing for me to worry about.”
I edged away, frowning. “Are you going to be alright?” I placed my hand on the door. “Is it okay for me to go?”
The hum faltered noticeably.
Eek!
“I’ll be back,” I hastily reassured the boiler. “I just need to attend to a few things and then I promise I’ll check in on you again.”
The hum steadied and I laughed nervously.
“Alrighty then.” I edged slowly out of the room, quietly closing the door behind me. I leaned my forehead against the wall opposite.
“What am I doing?” I asked aloud.
“If you don’t know, Alfhild, I’m sure nobody does.” Gwyn bustled past me on her way to the kitchen.
“Grandmama?”
“Not now, my dear. I need to have a quick word with Monsieur Emietter.” Gwyn disappeared. I chased after her into the kitchen.
“Grandmama—”
“Alfhild—”
Monsieur Emietter slammed down a chopping knife. “Je n'ai jamais travaillé quelque part d’aussi absurde.”
I ignored him because I had no idea what he was saying. “I’ve got a problem with the familiars,” I told her.
“What do you mean? You knew our guests would bring their familiars if they wanted to.”
“S’attendre que je travaille dans de telles conditions … Incroyable!” Monsieur Emietter slapped a pan on top of the stove so hard it made my ears ring.
“Well of course I knew that,” I replied testily. “I just didn’t factor in that there would be so many.”
“When you say, ‘so many’, how many are you referring to?”
“Je suis un professionnel,” Monsieur Emietter insisted.
“Of course you are,” I threw over my shoulder, focusing only on the words I could really understand. Monsieur Emietter had been with me for eighteen months and he and I still struggled to communicate. I turned back to Gwyn. “Ned is currently bringing in several dozen animals of all shapes and sizes from the drive.”
“Stow them in the bedrooms out of the way, Alfhild.”
“You don’t get it, Grandmama. These all belong to one person.”
“One person?” Gwyn wrinkled her nose. “What is the attraction of so many?”
“Pas que quelqu'un ici semble s'en soucier.”
“I have no idea, but I need to co-opt a space and I figured I’d use The Snug if you don’t mind.”
“Of course I mind,” Gwyn protested. “I’ve set up those rooms as tournament rooms!”
“There is nowhere else,” I told her.
“Je suis absolument certain que je pourrais trouver un autre lieu ... de travail.”
“Oh, if you insist.”
“Sans aucun doute!”
“I’ll create a space somewhere in the main bar for you to set up your bagatelle table,” I offered.
“That will have to do, I suppose,” she sniffed.
I arched an eyebrow. “You’re welcome.”
“Vous êtes les bienvenus! Elle est la bienvenue! Tout le monde est le bienvenu! Et moi?! Où est mon accueil?”
“Calmez-vous, chef,” Gwyn turned her attention to our stressed-out cook. “Tout va être parfait.”
With no idea what they were rattling on about, I took a deep breath and headed back towards our guests.
“Do you have the availability of an elevator?”
The halting English of Agneta Caspersen, a slender white-haired witch from Skagen in Denmark, stopped me in my tracks just as I was about to lead her and her roommate, Jamella De Paggio, a witch from somewhere in northern Italy, up and show them their rooms.
The bar was buzzing. Zephaniah’s ‘short’ cocktails had been working their magick as more and more of our guests arrived. Gwyn, ably assisted by Archibald, greeted each and every newcomer as though they were a long-lost friend, while Charity reorganised a corner of the dining area in the bar to accommodate the bagatelle table. Ned and several of the other members of the Wonky Inn Ghostly Clean-up Crew brought in familiars and deposited them in The Snug, and gamely escorted the luggage upstairs to the bedrooms.
“An elevator?” I glanced back at Agneta. “Like a lift, you mean? No, I’m sorry.”
“No elevator?” Agneta repeated in surprise, and turned to her friend. “What sort of hotel is this?”
I reached out to take her bag. “It’s not really a hotel,” I reminded her. “Not in the modern sense. It’s an inn and it’s been here for around six hundred years. Maybe more.”
“And you’ve never considered adding an elevator?” Agneta queried. A small group of women had gathered around us at the foot of the stairs. Charity hovered in the background, eager to show her own group up to the second floor. A number of ghost lights darted around us, waiting for me to welcome them to the inn so that they could manifest into their translucent spirit form and get on with whatever mischief they had planned.
Ghosts need holidays too.
“To be honest, nobody’s ever asked me about installing an elevator before.” I glanced around, wondering where I’d put something like that. Most of the downstairs was open plan these days and had been ever since Jed and I had taken a sledgehammer to the walls to open up the bar area.
Agneta sniffed. “Well, you should do it. It’s an inconvenience in this day and age to have to climb up the stairs.”
Agneta certainly looked more than fit enough. Perhaps the Danish lived in bungalows? “I can assist you, if you wish?” I offered.
“Broom service,” the witch standing next to Charity offered, waving her own broomstick. “I can give you a ride up the stairs on my mean machine?”
“No, no, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I intervened hurriedly. I had visions of witches—some of whom had drunk a fair few mini-cocktails—whizzing around the stairwells and landings and knocking the Daemonne family portraits off the walls. That would upset a few of my ancestors.
“Flying carpet, then?” someone else suggested.
“I can just help you up the stairs,” I repeated. Agneta surrendered her bag and I offered my arm.
“You’d have thought there’d be at least one elevator,” she protested once more, her voice ringing around the narrow confines of the staircase.
“I’ll certainly think about having one fitted,” I said. Behind us, more voices lifted in support of the idea. I had no room for an elevator. Besides, just imagine the cost!
“I can’t be trudging up and down the stairs every day,” Agneta complained.
“If you need anything fetching from your room, you just have to let one of us know and we’ll see to it straight away,” I tried to placate her.
“Goodness, no. That would never do.” Agneta dropped my arm as though I’d burned her. “I can’t have you going through my drawers.”
I painted on a smile. I couldn’t imagine Agneta had anything in her drawers that I’d never seen before. “No, of course not,” I replied smoothly. “But in any case, you be sure to let me or my staff know if there is anything we can do that will make your stay at Whittle Inn more pleasurable, won’t you.”
“I most certainly will,” Agneta nodded firmly.
I had no doubt of that.
“You know, I’m sure that if my grandson had inherited an inn like this, he would have turned it into a going concern in no time at all.”
I glanced sharply across the dining area. Phyllis Bliss, her fingers dripping with gold and diamond rings, expertly shuffled a pack of cards. She occupied the large table next to the bay window along with Gwyn, Onnalee and Sybil and Mrs Cuthbert the elder. Of the snivelling Delia, there had been no sign for the past hour or so. Mrs Cuthbert, first name Isobel, appeared to be simply an older version of Delia. If anything she was even wanner than her daughter, her mousey hair hanging in long grey stri
ngs to her shoulders, her eyes barely alight with anything. The only thing she had going for her was that she didn’t sniff and cough as much as Delia.
“You must understand that Whittle Inn had been in disrepair for a number of years. My own grandson Erik, bless his heart, had bigger fish to fry than this.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Onnalee drawled. “If I recall correctly, you said he did something top secret for the Ministry of Witches.”
“He does.” Gwyn, sensing my stare, turned her head towards me. I narrowed my eyes. We weren’t supposed to talk about the Circle of Querkus and what my father spent his time doing. The less people knew about it, the better. “But I really mustn’t breathe a word,” she smiled politely at Onnalee.
“Oh honey, I totally understand. But you must be so proud of him!” Onnalee clutched at her heart as though it would burst.
I could have told Gwyn’s friends that as much as I loved him, Erik was just an overgrown child. He popped in to see me at the inn from time to time, but mainly—to my mind at least—so that he could hold cricket tournaments on the front lawn with the ghosts.
“We have such things in common, Alfhild, as you well know,” Phyllis leaned closer to my great-grandmother. “My grandson is constantly called away on top-secret missions too. It’s all totally hush-hush, so I completely understand why you can’t say anything.”
Phyllis flashed a withering look my way. I pretended not to notice and began wiping down the nearby tables in preparation for laying up the dinner settings. “The Ministry of Witches only recruits the best magicians and the most intelligent of witches. Erik most certainly took after his grandmother in that regard. What about your great-granddaughter? Does she take after her father? What did she do before she inherited Whittle Inn? Did she attend an academy? Go to university?”
“Erm …” Gwyn thought for a moment. “She sidestepped higher education. She worked in the City.”
I snorted. Good one, Grandmama. She’d made it sound as though I’d been a bigwig in the world of finance when actually I’d spent nearly twelve years working in pubs, clubs and hotels. I’d certainly earned my stripes in the hospitality world, but snooty Phyllis with her amazingly gifted grandson probably wouldn’t have seen it that way.
A Gaggle of Ghastly Grandmamas: Wonky Inn Book 9 Page 4
