Witches Incorporated

by K. E. Mills

  She groaned. “For free? Emmerabiblia! What did we say about handing out free samples!”

  Bibbie heaved a theatrical sigh. “We didn’t say anything. You said don’t, I said yes sir and I think Reg was eating a mouse at the time so she just burped.”

  “Exactly! I said don’t!” Melissande tugged at her stubbornly unluxurious rust-red plait. “Honestly, Bibbie, how can we expect to make ends meet if you keep on handing out free samples?”

  Bibbie patted her on the shoulder in passing, then stopped in front of her desk to stare down at the woeful results of the tamper-proof ink experiment.

  “Oh, stop fussing. Think of it as free—”

  “Don’t say it,” she snarled. “I’ve heard more than enough about free advertising for one day.” She took a deep breath and shoved her temper aside. Quarrelling wasn’t going to find them new clients. “Oh well. What’s done is done. And since you can’t very well go back downstairs and take back the locati locatorum we’ll call it your very last charitable act of the year and leave it at that. Agreed?”

  Bibbie shrugged. “Sure, Mel. Whatever you say.”

  “And don’t call me Mel!”

  “Bullseye,” said Bibbie, grinning.

  Ignoring Reg’s snickering, taking refuge in dignified silence, Melissande retreated to her own desk and started to sort the morning’s post. “Bill—circular—bill—” she muttered, flicking through the envelopes.

  “What does a circular Bill look like, I wonder?” mused Bibbie, still staring at the forlorn test tube and beaker on her desk. “Positively rotund or just pleasantly plump? What do you think?”

  “I think I’m going to smack you if you don’t work out why that ink won’t take a tamper-proof incant,” said Melissande, still mail-sorting. There was absolutely no sign of payment from Mister Davenport. Saint Snodgrass preserve them, if they didn’t make some money soon…

  Bibbie picked up the test tube. “So what happened?”

  “I don’t know. It just went kablooey. Three times.”

  “Kablooey?” Bibbie raised one impeccable eyebrow. “That’s a technical term, is it?”

  Melissande glowered. “It is now.”

  Holding the test tube up to the light from the window, Bibbie inspected it from every angle, her lips pursed in concentration. Then she waved it under her nose and inhaled the lingering stink like a wine taster at a festival. Finally she clasped the test tube gently between her palms and with her eyes closed hummed a strange harmonic under her breath. A stiff breeze sprang up out of nowhere, and Melissande had to clutch at her pile of bills to stop them blowing straight through the open window.

  “Oy! Do you mind?” Reg protested as her plumage tried to turn itself inside out.

  Bibbie opened her eyes and frowned at the test tube. “You’re right, Mel. This ink is well and truly kablooeyfied.”

  “Yes, Bibbie, I know.” Honestly, much more of this and she’d grind her teeth down to stumps and then there’d be dental expenses on top of everything else. “The question is why?”

  “Sorry,” said Bibbie, shrugging. “Haven’t a clue. All I can tell you is the inherent thaumaturgical substructure of the incant has somehow been degraded and deconstructed then retranslated from an eighth dimensional transvibration to a sixteenth.”

  Melissande blinked. “And that’s bad, is it?” she asked eventually.

  “Well, I don’t know about bad, precisely, but it’s certainly interesting,” said Bibbie. “How in the name of all things metaphysical did you manage it? I don’t think even Monk’s pulled off something as outlandish as this.”

  “I don’t have the foggiest idea,” she said glumly. “I was hoping you would.”

  Another shrug. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t look at me,” said Reg. “I was catching up on my beauty sleep. At my age I need all the help I can get.” When nobody contradicted her, she subsided into offended silence.

  “I suppose we could ask Monk to test what’s left of the ink in one of his Department’s labs,” said Bibbie. “He’ll be able to—” Breaking off as the phone on her desk rang, she reached for the heavy black receiver and answered it. “Witches Incorporated, No Job Too—Monk! Fancy that, we were just talking about you. Were your ears burning?—They were? Not literally, I hope.—Well, all right, but with what you get up to down in your Department basement, let alone in your attic, I never really know for sure. And there was that time in the nursery when you—”

  As Bibbie squabbled with her brother, Melissande started filing the bills in their concertina folder. Where did they all come from? And why did it seem that life was easier when she was juggling the finances of an entire kingdom? How could it be that keeping the doors open to one insignificant little witching agency was proving to be a thousand times harder than keeping New Ottosland solvent?

  She snuck a surreptitious glance around the shabby office. It wasn’t much, true, but it was theirs, and if after so much hope and effort the agency didn’t work out… humiliatingly, she felt her eyes burn and her nose start to run. She had to accidentally-on-purpose knock the bills to the floor so she could dive under the desk before the other two noticed she was cry—very upse—having an allergy attack.

  “—argue about it any more,” Bibbie finished. “One more word out of you and we won’t come. Fine. Good.” She hung up the phone. “That was Monk. He needs to see us. Urgently.”

  Melissande scuttled backwards out from under the desk and hauled herself to her feet. “Why? What’s happened? Has Great-uncle Throgmorton struck again? Or is this something to do with one of his wretched experiments?” She turned to Reg, staring accusingly. “I thought you said the house was still in one piece!”

  “Eh?” said Reg, startled. “It is! Or it was first thing this morning. Whatever he’s gone and done now, ducky, he did it after I left so don’t you go giving me the mouldy eyeball.”

  She turned back to Bibbie. “So what’s wrong? What’s happened?”

  Bibbie pulled a face. “He wouldn’t tell me. All he’d say was that he wants to see us urgently in the Botanical Gardens. The Tropical Glasshouse, to be exact.”

  “Oh, Saint Snodgrass’s bunions,” said Melissande, and banged the office window shut. “You should’ve let me talk to him.”

  “You don’t suppose it’s Gerald, do you?” said Reg. Her voice wasn’t quite steady. “You don’t suppose something’s happened to my Gerald?”

  Melissande exchanged a nervous look with Bibbie then picked Reg up off the client chair and settled her onto one shoulder. “No. I don’t suppose anything of the sort,” she said firmly, collecting her reticule. “Monk’s probably got another staffing crisis on his hands, that’s all. Probably he wants to talk us into pretending to be housemaids.”

  “Yes, that’ll be it,” said Bibbie. “Something totally ridiculous like that. Bags I hit him first.”

  Another exchange of nervous looks, then Melissande cleared her throat. “Well, there’s only one way to find out what he wants. Let’s go!”

  The world-famous Ottosland Botanical Gardens stood in the exact centre of the city, and at a quarter to eleven in the morning of a working weekday the squirrels outnumbered the people five to one. Melissande, Reg and Bibbie hurried along the neatly tended paths, between immaculate flower beds and meticulously nurtured trees, to the Tropical Glasshouse on the Gardens’ west lawn, directly across the street from the looming Department of Thaumaturgy building.

  “Urrggh,” said Melissande as they went inside. Four steps through the entrance and sweat was already trickling down her face. She didn’t need a mirror to know her cheeks were swiftly turning beetroot. “Why does he want us to meet him in here? This place is worse than a steam bath, honestly!”

  The overheated air contained within the Glasshouse was heavy and wet, soaked in a melange of ripely exotic perfumes. An international cornucopia of tropical trees and flowers and vines and creepers flourished in profusion, brilliant greens, vivid scarlets, oranges and yellows, bright bl
ues and shameless pinks, nature at its exhibitionist best.

  Monk was waiting for them at the end of the tamed jungle’s main path, anxiously pacing back and forth in front of a towering Lanruvian Palm. Dressed in a sober blue suit, his hair ruthlessly combed into submission and his permanently potion-stained fingers hidden in his pockets, he looked like a banker. All he needed was the bowler hat.

  Melissande mopped her face with an inadequate hanky. A pity he’s not a banker, really. He could’ve given us a loan. As usual her heart skipped a half-beat, seeing him, but she schooled her expression. This wasn’t the time or place for being girlishly coy.

  “Ha!” said Reg, her claws clutching tighter. “There he is.” She took to her wings and hurtled ahead of them down the path. Melissande looked at Bibbie, sighed, and broke into a reluctant, unladylike jog to catch up.

  Luckily it seemed they were alone in the Glasshouse, because Reg—having reached Monk first—was making no effort to be discreet. “Well? Well?” she demanded loudly. “Is he all right? Has there been another international incident? Does he need rescuing again?”

  Monk looked confused. “What? Who?”

  “Who?” Outraged, wings flapping, Reg hovered in his face. “Who do you think, you thaumaturgical tosser? Gerald! Your best friend! Skinny fellow, brown hair, one silver eye, good with incants, works as a spy. Am I ringing any bells yet?”

  “Reg, what are you going on about?” said Monk. “Gerald’s fine. I told you that last night.”

  “Then what are we doing here, you raving nitwit?”

  “Good question,” said Melissande, joining them, and offering Reg an arm to perch on before she flapped herself into asphyxiation. Acutely aware that she must appear absolutely hideous—even Bibbie looked less than exquisite for once—she scowled at her young man. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a good answer, have you?”

  “He’d better,” said Bibbie, folding her arms. “Because romping around this steam bath was not on my list of Things To Do This Morning and there must be at least a dozen places to hide a body in here. I’ll just bet the tropics are full of flesh-eating beetles.”

  Monk took a hasty step back. “Okay. Look. I’m sorry to drag you out here like this but I had to speak to you.”

  “You were speaking to us, Monk,” said Bibbie. “That funny contraption you were talking into is called the telephone.”

  Flinching, Monk darted a quick look around them. They were still alone. “This isn’t a telephone kind of conversation, Bibbie! Telephone calls can be monitored!”

  “Then why not use the crystal ball?” Bibbie demanded. “Why make us huff and puff all the way—”

  “Because I couldn’t trust that, either!”

  Melissande transferred Reg from her arm to her shoulder. The urge to display girlish coyness was rapidly fading. “This is ridiculous. I thought Gerald was the one playing cloak-and-dagger games. Whatever you want to tell us, Monk, just spit it out so we can get back to the office. For all we know clients are lining up three deep in the corridor!”

  “Heh,” said Reg under her breath. “Chance’d be a fine thing. But she’s got a point, sunshine,” she added to Monk, at full disapproving volume. “Flap your lips or get on your bike, boy. We’re busy women and we don’t have all day.”

  Monk cast another anxiously furtive look around the Glasshouse’s moist interior, then stepped closer again. “I just need to know if you’ve noticed anything… peculiar… since last night.”

  “That rather depends on how you define ‘peculiar,’ doesn’t it?” said Bibbie. “I mean—”

  “Put a sock in it, ducky,” said Reg, and fixed Monk with a beady glare. “All right, Mister Clever Clogs. I know that look, so out with it and no more messing about. What have you gone and done this time?”

  A rising tide of embarrassment flushed Monk’s face pink. “Er… well…”

  “Oh, Saint Snodgrass preserve us,” said Melissande, her stomach sinking. “You’ve invented something else, haven’t you? And we accidentally ate it at dinner last night, didn’t we? So any minute now we’re going to—to—sneeze ourselves into an alternate reality, aren’t we!”

  “Close,” said Monk apologetically, “but alas, no cigar.”

  Bibbie grabbed his right earlobe between thumb and forefinger and twisted. Monk yelped. “Just tell us what’s happened, brother dear,” she growled, “or you’ll be sorry.”

  With some difficulty Monk wrested his earlobe free. “All right,” he said, dropping his voice to a near-whisper and beckoning them even closer. “What’s happened is I’ve managed to invent an interdimensional portal opener.”

  “Of course you have,” Melissande breathed. “Isn’t everybody these days?”

  Monk winced. “I hope not. If they are the Department’ll go spare.”

  Taking a deep breath, she reached for the iron forbearance that had stood her in such good stead back home. “And did you invent it on purpose or was it an accident?”

  “An accident,” said Monk, as though he were admitting to some terrible wizardly crime. Then he brightened. “But you know what they say.” Lurking beneath his anxiety was a reprehensible flicker of glee. “Genius will out.”

  “So will blood,” said Reg. “After I’ve punched you in the nose.”

  “Reg, you’re a bird,” he sighed. “You can’t punch anyone.”

  “I’m talking theoretically,” said Reg, leering. “It’s called punching by proxy. Why do you think I keep these two bruisers around?”

  “Can we please not get sidetracked?” said Bibbie, stamping one foot. “Monk—”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” he said. “Mel, do you remember the portable portal I invented?”

  “Of course,” she said impatiently. “But what’s that got to do with anything?”

  Monk shoved his hands back in his pockets. “Well, a couple of nights ago I was at home, in the library, having a good hard think about a Department project I’m not allowed to discuss, and I was kind of… fiddling with it. The portal, I mean. Running the baseline etheretic harmonics through my back brain while my front brain was focused on this other project, you know, kind of like doodling, and I sort of tweaked the portal’s matrix. Not a lot. But just enough.”

  Melissande looked at him. He can’t be serious. “I thought the Department made you surrender the portable portal,” she said, amazed that she sounded so eminently reasonable. Politely disinterested, even. She wanted to hit him. Really make him yelp.

  “They did,” said Monk. “And I did. At least… I surrendered the final version, the one I used to get us to and from New Ottosland. And the prototype Mark A.”

  “Don’t tell me, let me guess,” said Reg, sweet as a song bird. “You kept the prototype Mark B all for your little self, didn’t you, you gold-plated twaddle-brained gormless unsanctified git!”

  Monk’s expression turned mulish and his voice rose defensively. “Well, why shouldn’t I? The portal was mine, wasn’t it? I bloody well invented it! Why shouldn’t I keep a copy of my own inventions?”

  Bibbie took a step sideways, leaned on the trunk of the Lanruvian Palm and banged her forehead against its purple bark. “I’d like to point out,” she announced to the world at large, “that any resemblance between me and the unmitigated moron on my left is purely coincidental and in no way implies that we are actually related!”

  “Hey!” Monk protested. “You’re supposed to be on my side!”

  “And I would be if your side didn’t give me a headache,” retorted Bibbie. “I got read the riot act after New Ottosland too, remember, and I wasn’t even involved! You kept me out of that little adventure just like I was a gel.”

  As Monk and Bibbie exchanged ferocious grimaces, Reg snickered. “Your superiors at the Department can’t know you very well, Mister Markham, if they don’t know you always work with parallel prototypes.”

  Monk immediately looked cagey. “I… might have forgotten to mention it.”

  “We can discuss your amnesia ano
ther time,” said Melissande. “Right now let’s stick to this crisis, shall we? Why should we care that you accidentally invented an interdimensional portal? It’s not as if—” And then the penny dropped. “Oh, for the love of—don’t tell me, let me guess. You used it, didn’t you? You opened the portal to another dimension.”

  “Of course he did,” said Bibbie with a scornful, inelegant snort. “Haven’t you worked it out yet? My genius brother never met a door he wasn’t willing to wrench so wide that it falls off its hinges!”

  “Oh, look who’s talking!” retorted Monk. “The girl who souped up Father’s etheretic distillation modulator so all the clocks ran backwards and the cat lost its—”

  “If we could please just focus!” said Melissande loudly. “Or I swear by all things metaphysical there will be a great deal of punching by proxy!”

  “Something’s come through, hasn’t it?” said Bibbie, arms folded again. “That’s what this panic is all about.”

  “I don’t know,” Monk muttered. He had the grace to look abashed. “Not for certain.”

  Reg rattled her tail feathers. “In other words, yes.”

  “What was it?” said Bibbie. “I mean, what dimension did the portal open onto, Monk? And what kind of things live in it? Are we talking microscopic creepy crawlies? Slimy tentacles? Alternate versions of ourselves? What?”

  “Actually,” said Monk, brightening again, “it turns out that I’ve made an important discovery. In fact it looks like I’ve debunked another popular misconception.”

  “Of course you have,” said Bibbie, rolling her eyes. “And which one have you debunked this time?”

  Monk was all lit up now, his thaumaturgical enthusiasm burning like a fever. “I’ve discovered that when you open a portal between dimensions it’s not as simple as stepping from one to the other. It’s not like—like going from the dining room to the parlour, say.”

  Bibbie frowned. “It’s not? Are you sure? Because Hepplewight’s Theorem distinctly postulates—”