by Debi Gliori
“A little hush, please, if you will,” she hissed. “I've reached a very delicate stage in my beauty preparations, and any sudden movements might have catastrophic consequences.”
“Say again?” Ffup advanced on the tarantula, her hot breath causing Tarantella to recoil toward the safety of the teapot.
“I'm plucking my eyebrows,” she said severely. “Not that it's any of your business, I might add, but I'd hold you personally responsible if I plucked out one of my eyes by accident.”
Ffup winced and immediately became statue-still. “B-b-but, how can you tell?” she whispered.
“Tell what ?” Tarantella snapped.
“Where your eyebrows begin and your… your…”
“Are you implying that I'm overendowed in the hairiness department?” Tarantella's voice was chilly in the extreme.
“Um, gosh, heavens, no, never, ah…er…” Ffup began to tiptoe backward, heading for the door to the kitchen garden.
“Because, you understand, I would take a very dim view of such slander,” Tarantella continued, raising the tweezers to her eyes and squinting at her reflection in one of the marbles below her body.
“Absolutely. Yes. No, I mean, I never meant…AUUK!” There was a colossal crash as Ffup's hind legs became entangled with her tail and she fell backward into a posse of empty milk bottles awaiting collection at the back door.
“Dear me,” said Tarantella conversationally. “There goes my favorite eyeball…. ”
Emitting stereo screams of utter horror, Ffup and Sab fled the kitchen, leaving the tarantula reclining languidly on the rim of the teapot, her tweezers gripping a small marble, a huge grin of victory spreading across her mouth.
Muddy Waters
eep in the murk of the StregaSchloss moat, Tock was in the throes of an interior-decorating crisis. As the temperature rose over the summer, the waters of the moat had slowly evaporated. Now, in the heat of early August, the moat was beginning to smell very peculiar. Strange bubbles rose to its surface and burst, releasing fetid miasmas and swampy gases. The water had turned an opaque shade of bile green and colonies of mosquitoes had moved in. Maddened by their continual whine and revolted by the stench of stagnant water, Tock decided he couldn't put it off any longer. Torn between effecting a moat makeover and simply redecorating and tidying up, the crocodile had finally settled on the radical solution. Groping blindly in the moat's silty depths, Tock's claws at last found purchase on a rusty iron chain, which, when pulled, proved itself to be attached to a vast iron plug. As he tugged and heaved on the chain, Tock wondered if he was making A Big Mistake. Emitting a distant thwungggggg, the submerged plug broke free from its moorings and obligingly allowed itself to be dragged several meters across the moat floor, before subsiding once more into the mud from whence it came. Too late, Tock thought, as the moat began to drain, slowly at first and then gaining momentum, faster and faster, the outgoing waters spinning in a slurping spiral into which was sucked the crocodile's entire water-lily collection, nearly followed by the crocodile himself.
“Aukkk!” Tock squawked, clinging to the moat's stone perimeter and watching in dismay as nearly all of his personal belongings were devoured by the gulping maw of the drain.
Half buried in the silt, stranded by the vanished water, was a collection of highly incriminating evidence relating to several unsolved disappearances in Argyll over the previous two decades. Blind skulls, gnawed femurs, embedded ribcages, half a rusting machine gun, and a drowned cell phone all bore mute witness to Tock's ability to guard StregaSchloss with extreme prejudice. As a willing but recent convert to vegetarianism, Tock was finding these all-too-visible reminders of his carnivorous past a little, well… close to the bone.
Did I really eat all those bodies? he wondered, appalled at such proof of his lack of good taste. And what a mess. What a complete pigsty. To think I've been swimming in the same water as those bones. But what a waste of good protein, he thought, eyeing a particularly bloated specimen of human thigh. Still a lot of good eating on that one. Tock dragged the waxy white thigh out of the mud and considered it thoughtfully.
Moments later, after rinsing the thigh in the kitchen sink, he placed it carefully in the meat drawer of the StregaBorgias' fridge and waddled back to the moat, feeling faintly virtuous at the prospect of his meat-free lunch. This had been thoughtfully laid out for him on the warm stone of the moatside, wrapped in muslin to protect it from gnats. Settling back with a watercress sandwich in each claw and one clamped between his teeth, Tock was the first resident of StregaSchloss to meet the prospective candidate for the job of temporary butler replacement.
At first there was the sound of a distant insect: an angry buzzing drone that swelled and grew until it sounded like a swarm of hornets, then a chain saw, and finally, ripping the air asunder, the scream of a supersonic fighter jet. The noise hammered at Tock's eardrums and echoed off the south face of StregaSchloss, the aural equivalent of assault and battery. Forgetting that he'd just drained the moat, Tock dived backward off its edge, expecting to plunge into the cool liquid silence of his home; instead, he found himself rudely slapping full-length into a patch of moat sludge which bore signs of having once been a reptile restroom.
“Oh, for Pete's sake!” he bawled, annoyed more with himself than with the source of the deafening din, which, having reached an unbearable pitch, confounded the crocodile by stopping. Dead. Huh? Tock was utterly confused. He listened to a silence now broken only by birdsong…. Then the sound of approaching footsteps on the rose-quartz drive reminded him of his guard duties and, shaking his head to remove the last fading echoes of the Mystery Din, he crawled over to the edge of the moat, teeth bared in greeting to whoever this might be visiting StregaSchloss.
“I simply cannot apologize enough.” Luciano's expression conveyed how utterly aghast he'd been to find his prospective butler locked in mortal combat with the overzealous Tock.
“A ghastly mistake,” he mumbled, his mouth pressed to the keyhole of the first-floor washroom, where Alexander Imlach was attempting to scrub off all traces of mud after rolling around in the moat with a ravening reptile.
“My fault entirely,” Luciano whispered, aware that it was hardly Tock's fault for chewing the leather-clad apparition that had climbed off its motorcycle and attempted to gain entry to StregaSchloss….
The bathroom door opened and Alexander Imlach limped out, his face dotted with Band-Aids and deathly pale despite a scalding shower to remove all traces of moat slime from his person.
“Come and have some tea,” Luciano said, taking the young man's arm and leading him downstairs to the kitchen.
“I'm fine, really,” Alexander said, smiling reassuringly at the gathered Strega-Borgias and taking a huge bite of carrot cake. “I took some herbal remedies, put my aromatherapy gel on the worst cuts, and boosted my immune system by applying rhythmic pressure around my seventh chakra.”
The Strega-Borgias stared blankly, aware that no matter what, they owed it to this young man to at least pretend to be listening as he spouted such incomprehensible nonsense. “Besides,” he added indistinctly through a mouthful of mashed cake, “I had a hunch something like this might happen. A sort of… crocodile vibe. Plus, my iridologist warned me about crossing the great water—”
“More tea?” Mrs. McLachlan interrupted, adding under her breath, “Or does that count as drinking the great water?”
Enthralled, Pandora gazed at Alexander, half hoping he would turn his attention on her, but simultaneously half dreading being the object of his wide blue stare. He appeared to be completely at home, relaxed and friendly, drawing all the Strega-Borgias into the circle of his charm. All, that is, except for Mrs. McLachlan, who was acting as if she suspected young Mr. Imlach of harboring something contagious and was regarding him with an expression composed of equal parts dismay and annoyance. Oblivious to the nanny's chilly stare, Alexander had turned his attention to Baci, who was visibly glowing under his scrutiny.
�
��Fascinating,” he murmured. “I've never had the privilege of meeting a real live witch before…. ”
Mrs. McLachlan closed her eyes briefly as Baci rose to the bait.
“Oh, not a real live witch yet,” Baci admitted truthfully, eyes sparkling. “Just a student. Well…a second-year student, actually.”
Across the table from her mother, Pandora gritted her teeth in annoyance. Her mother's knowledge of witchcraft, even after a year of cramming was… well, it was dangerous. Even now, somewhere near Glasgow Airport were several innocent frogs, temporarily transformed by Baci's inept magical practices into a group of naked and clueless royals, doomed to be thrown into prison for offenses against public decency, not to mention illegally attempting to enter Britain…. Honestly, Pan thought, rolling her eyes, why were parents so embarrassing ?
Titus, too, was wilting under the heat of Baci's enthusiasm for her craft. Please… stop, he begged her silently; no more; enough.
“Of course, Transformation was the main subject we studied last year,” Baci continued, producing, to Titus's horror, a Disposawand from the pocket of her linen shirt. “Shall I demonstrate?”
Mrs. McLachlan stood up and began pointedly to clear the table with rather more than necessary force.
“Let's see…,” Baci murmured. “What shall I use?”
“Please, take this.” Alexander groped beneath the collar of his shirt and produced a silver chain, from which dangled a chunk of quartz in the shape of a large tooth. “It was a twenty-first birthday present from my late parents—it's a dowser's crystal that I use to channel my psychic energy.”
Over by the sink, Mrs. McLachlan rolled her eyes and emitted an exasperated tchhh.
“It's also a charm,” Alexander blithely continued, “ensuring the wearer long life, riches, and fertility.”
Baci turned a deep shade of pink, but gamely accepted the offered crystal and placed it on the tablecloth in front of her.
“Mum—” Titus began.
“Not now, Titus.” Baci narrowed her eyes in concentration.
“One hundred and three,” Titus muttered under his breath, inwardly vowing to update his cliché chart accordingly, and slumping back into his seat with a loud snort.
Ignoring Titus, Baci began to spin her wand in a slow circle, her eyes squinched shut as she brought the Disposawand down on the crystal with a determined thwack.
There was a loud crash from the kitchen sink as the teapot slipped out of Mrs. McLachlan's hands, followed by an answering chingggg as the crystal flew out from under Baci's wand, bounced off the table, and rolled across the floor to disappear under the kitchen cupboard.
“Where's it gone ?” wailed Baci, dropping to her knees and groping blindly in the dust beneath the cupboard.
“Hold on, I'll get a flashlight.” Luciano stood up and headed for the wine cellar.
“Wait a minute,” said Pandora. “Does anyone actually know what we're looking for? I mean… what did you change the crystal into, Mum?”
“I…er…,” Baci groaned. “Um. It was the Orba Occultis, I think.”
“Huh?” Pandora frowned. “The what ?”
“The Hidden Globe,” Mrs. McLachlan muttered, drying her hands on a dishtowel. “A device that predicts the future life and eventual death of its owner and assorted dabblers too eaten up with curiosity to realize that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. Commonly known as a crystal ball. Although,” she added in an undertone, “why he'd want a crystal ball is quite beyond me. He's got the psychic skills of a lemming. …”
Mortified, Baci apologized profusely as Luciano, flashlight in hand, attempted to locate the missing object. He hauled out into the unforgiving daylight an assortment of long-lost items, all of which had vanished ages ago in the dust and hair balls beneath the cupboard. Deep in its shadows, Multitudina watched nervously as her favorite hiding place was invaded by a human hand.
“There goes the neighborhood,” observed Tarantella, scuttling up the back of the cupboard, only marginally hampered by the gleaming new marble she clasped under one leg. Reaching the safety of her willow-pattern teapot, she was just about to add the new marble to her fake-eyeball collection when she spotted herself reflected in its glassy depths. Peering into the marble, a small smile crossed her pink mouthparts.
“I see a tall, dark stranger…,” she intoned, adding somewhat prosaically, “Oh dear, it's the coal man. Oh well, never mind. You will cross the great water and…be wrapped in a fluffy bath towel. Great fortune will be yours—you will win at Monopoly. Heed the advice of the wise woma—” A shadow fell over the tarantula and she looked up into Mrs. McLachlan's eyes.
“The wise woman advises you to hand that over immediately,” the nanny whispered, extending a hand. Tarantella clambered aboard, catching a passing glimpse of Mrs. McLachlan's palm magnified in the glass of the marble.
“Wow. I've never seen a life-line like that before.”
“Indeed,” Mrs. McLachlan sighed. “That's probably why I never have my palm read. It's illegible.”
“Written in hieroglyphics, more like,” Tarantella breathed. “Are you quite sure you're human ?”
Mrs. McLachlan didn't dignify this with a reply. Instead, raising her voice, she announced, “Found it.”
“My goodness,” Baci gasped, astonished that, for once, one of her spells had actually worked.
“Bravo!” cried Luciano, relieved that his wife hadn't turned the young man's crystal into a frog—or worse.
“It's not very big, though,” Pandora said critically, peering at the tiny object.
“Maybe it's just a baby.” Baci patted her tummy. “After all, I am quite good at babies…. ”
“Well, I think it's quite marvelous,” gushed Alexander, reaching out to retrieve his transformed crystal. “In fact,” he added, “don't change it back. I think I prefer it this way.”
Eeughhh, thought Titus. What a crawler. He tried to catch his sister's eye to share a moment of teenage disgust at the mysteries of adult behavior, but Pandora's attention was elsewhere; to Titus's annoyance, she was gazing at Alexander with what could only be described as spaniel-eyed devotion. Revolted, Titus crammed the last slice of carrot cake into his mouth and headed for the wine cellar to reboot StregaNonna's computer.
Despite an alarming tendency to hurl china around and launch into full-on hysterics at the slightest provocation, Luciano Strega-Borgia had a heart of solid marshmallow, and thus found himself unable to resist the orphaned charms of Alexander Imlach. A scant two hours after his arrival at StregaSchloss, the young man found himself hired as Latch's temporary replacement.
“Please, call me Zander,” he said, shaking Luciano's hand so vigorously that the older man felt his teeth rattle.
Pandora, watching from an upstairs window as Alexander's motorcycle sped back along the track toward Auchenlochtermuchty, realized he'd got the job when the young man took both hands off the handlebars and punched the air victoriously before vanishing behind a dusty copse of ancient oaks.
Neither Fish, nor Fowl, nor Good Red Herring
he following day, in celebration of the arrival of Alexander into the StregaSchloss household, Pandora decided to cook dinner. However, what had seemed like a marvelous idea at ten o'clock in the morning was, by teatime, beginning to assume the proportions of a culinary nightmare. Evidence of Pandora's efforts lay all around the kitchen: teetering stacks of burnt pans, two sinks full of greasy baking dishes, and, mercifully hidden in the roasting oven, a leg of lamb that obstinately remained raw, wet, and utterly unappetizing. Moreover, some thoughtless person had lost the balloon whisk, leaving Pandora hot, cross, and close to tears as she attempted to whip egg whites with a bent fork. Through an open window she could hear a distant splashing as Tock continued his ambitious home renovations, which appeared at this stage to involve removing endless quantities of accumulated mud from the bottom of the moat.
Stopping to offer encouragement, Ffup peered over the edge of the moat down to where T
ock stood, his back legs submerged in ooze, his front legs clutching the battered shovel with which he was attempting to implement his transformations.
“Wouldn't a soup ladle do the job more quickly?” the dragon suggested as another shovelful of slime slapped onto the rose-quartz at her feet.
Tock paused and squinted up to where Ffup stood silhouetted against the evening sun. “I think I've accidentally strayed into a hippopotamus heaven,” he said, straightening up with a groan. “I mean, have you ever seen this much mud before?” He propped himself wearily against his shovel and waved a slime-encrusted claw about for emphasis. “What a dumb idea…. I wish I'd never started this.”
Pandora agreed wholeheartedly. The egg whites had steadfastly refused to turn into pillowy meringue peaks, preferring to remain in a liquid pool on a baking tray in the oven, dripping onto the floor and spot-welding themselves for all eternity in little blackened balls of burnt sugar. Meanwhile, the potatoes had boiled themselves to mush while she anxiously waited for the lamb to turn into something more akin to the glossy picture in the cookbook, and not like a chunk of raw roadkill….
Mrs. McLachlan entered from the kitchen garden and laid down a handful of fresh herbs on the table. Tactfully avoiding mentioning Pandora's tear-stained face, the nanny opened the oven door a crack, wondering if she dare assess the damage.
“It's just awful,” Pandora wailed. “I just know it's the worst meal anyone will ever have eaten. I'm a rubbish cook—even Marie Bain's never made food this disgusting. It's totally—”
“Hush, child.” Mrs. McLachlan pulled on a pair of oven mitts and handed Pandora a knife.
