by Debi Gliori
“What's that for?” Pandora demanded. “Should I use it on myself? HORROR IN ARGYLL AS LOUSY COOK STABS SELF AFTER RAW LAMB INCIDENT?”
“Being rude isn't going to put food on the table, dear,” Mrs. McLachlan advised. “Why don't you chop some herbs while I see if we can do something about your wee lamb?”
“Toss it in the bin, I think,” the thwarted cook muttered, turning her back on Mrs. McLachlan and applying herself to the herbs. It was the nanny's gasp of horror that alerted Pandora to the possibility that her cooking was even worse than she'd expected. Mrs. McLachlan stood back from the open oven door, her face completely drained of color, her hands fluttering at her throat.
“What's wrong ?” Pandora demanded, aware that something must be very amiss to cause the normally unflappable Mrs. McLachlan to react in such a fashion.
“Where… where did you get …this…this thing ?” the nanny whispered, her voice sounding half strangled.
Alarmed, Pandora laid down the knife and came around to view the evidence. “It was…it was in the meat drawer in the fridge,” she said. “I mean, I'm sorry I've made such a mess of it, but I'm sure I followed the recipe properly.” Turning, she fumbled for her cookbook. “Look. It was this one. Roast Leg of Lamb, here…”
Mrs. McLachlan removed the roasting tray and contents from the oven and dropped it onto the warming plate with a dramatic clanggggg. Pandora stared at her in some confusion.
“That is not a leg of lamb,” Mrs. McLachlan said through clenched teeth.
“Then what is it?” Pandora whispered, her skin breaking out in gooseflesh at the prospect of finding out the answer. To her mixed relief and frustration, the nanny didn't reply, but instead crossed the kitchen to open the fridge door and peer inside.
“What are you doing?” Pandora begged, by now somewhat unnerved, as Mrs. McLachlan sniffed once, twice, and then slammed the fridge door shut with a decisive thud.
“Pandora, my dear child…,” she began, and then, aware that the roasting pan and its grisly contents were still in evidence, crossed to the range and mercifully covered the mystery meat with a dishtowel. As she turned back to Pandora, it was immediately obvious that no answers would be forthcoming. Not now. Probably not ever, Pandora realized, recognizing Mrs. McLachlan's closed and nailed-down expression as one barred to all attempts at inquiry.
“Lamb is off the menu, I'm afraid,” the nanny said with a grim little smile. “So we're going to have to come up with something to replace it. I shall dispose of this…thing, and while I attend to that, perhaps you would be kind enough to grate some Parmesan, put a pan of water on to boil for pasta, and we'll put our heads together and come up with something we can use to make a sauce. …” Bearing the dishtowel-veiled roasting pan, Mrs. McLachlan headed out for a word with Tock, leaving Pandora none the wiser.
Later, sitting in pride of place at the head of the table, Pandora had cause to give thanks to her own lack of culinary talents meatwise, be it lamb, beef, or whatever. For, as Zander cleared his plate of his third helping of Pandora's hastily assembled penne bianche, he dabbed his lips with a linen napkin, raised his glass to the cook, and said, “With food as good as that, it's a wonder anyone bothers to eat meat.”
Pandora's breath caught in her throat. “Does that mean you're a vegetarian?” Luciano inquired, his voice betraying his dismay at the prospect of such culinary monotony.
“Absolutely,” Zander affirmed, adding self-righteously, “I never eat anything that has a face.”
Wondering if the three tins of anchovies in her pasta sauce qualified as faceless, Pandora blushed, hoping no one would take it upon themselves to enlighten Zander as to the ingredients of what he'd just devoured.
“What about fish?” Titus asked. “I hate fish. Can't stand all the bones…I never eat it.”
Please…no, Pandora begged silently, praying her father wouldn't rise to the bait.
“You just did,” Luciano said baldly.
“Did what?”
“You just ate fish, Titus. Loads of them. You too, Zander. Both of you with every evidence of enjoyment. Oh, for heaven's sake, don't look so stricken. Pandora has been working all day to make this meal; the least the pair of you can do is not pick it apart and accuse her of corrupting your sacred palates. Sometimes”—Luciano stood up and began to clear the table—“it's just far better not to know what you're eating.”
Amen to that, Mrs. McLachlan silently vowed, briefly allowing herself to imagine Zander's expression if Pandora had presented him with her original menu: roast leg of deceased gangster in a blood jus.
The Witness in the Moat
ver Argyll, apparently unaware that the weather forecast had promised weeks of unbroken sunshine, a vast blanket of gray clouds rolled in from the west, skidded to a halt over the peaks of Mhoire Ochone, and settled down to the business of soaking every square centimeter of land between Auchenlochtermuchty and Lochnagargoyle. Digging in his drained moat, Tock dropped his shovel, covered his eyes in despair, and moaned. Overhead, silhouetted in a lit window on the first floor, Mrs. McLachlan tucked Damp into bed and fleetingly observed that the patter of the rain outside sounded like a perfect lullaby.
Tiptoeing into the nursery to kiss her youngest daughter good night, Baci Strega-Borgia peered through the window at the gloom beyond and heaved a deep sigh. “So much for my plans for a picnic tomorrow,” she said wistfully. “Honestly, Flora, I only have to think picnic and the rain starts…. Horrible weather.”
Mrs. McLachlan looked up from sorting out Damp's clothes for the following day and smiled. “Some would say there's no such thing as horrible weather, madam—only inadequate clothing.”
Under the quilt, Damp stiffened. Mrs. McLachlan was placing a woolly cardigan on top of the pile of her clothes for tomorrow. This was not to be tolerated.
“Hobibble scratchy,” she decided, bringing her brows down with a finality that she hoped the nanny would understand to mean that no negotiations were possible cardiganwise. In case of misinterpretation, she added, “Don't like it, that one.”
Signora Strega-Borgia closed the curtains on the dismal evening outside and crossed the nursery to bend over Damp, enveloping the little girl in her familiar scent of lilies. Damp's arms came up around her mother's neck, hugging her so tight that Baci lost her balance, toppling over to land face to face on the bed with her daughter. Their breath commingled and their noses touched.
“Oh!” Baci gasped, her eyes widening in surprise.
“Madam?” Mrs. McLachlan turned and saw Baci sit upright, both hands on her stomach, her attention focused on something as yet invisible.
“I felt the baby kick,” she explained, a smile breaking out across her face. She hugged Damp and stood up, eyes shining. “I must go tell Luciano. He'll be thrilled…. ”
“Damp not frilled,” the little girl decided, her bottom lip quivering dangerously as Baci blew her a kiss and glided serenely out of the nursery.
Mrs. McLachlan sighed. Do I have to do everything around here? she wondered, hearing Baci's footsteps recede downstairs as she rushed off to give Luciano the glad tidings, blissfully unaware that she'd left Damp on the verge of tears. Oh pet, not tonight, the nanny thought, praying that the little girl might somehow telepathically understand that Nanny McLachlan was Otherwise Engaged on Important Business….
“Rrright, wee lassie, I'll make a bargain with you,” she said, plucking the offending cardigan off the pile of clothes and coming over to take Baci's vacated place on Damp's bed. “If you go to sleep right now, Nanny'll put this hobibble scratchy away.”
“New baby wear it?” Damp asked hopefully.
“Probably only once”—Mrs. McLachlan smiled—“then new baby will refuse to wear it ever again, just like you.” Wedging the vexed item of knitwear into the back of a drawer, Mrs. McLachlan restacked Damp's Russian dolls in ascending order of size, their painted expressions seeming to indicate that no way, not even in the depths of Siberia, would they be caught de
ad wearing a cardigan like that. Crossing the room, the nanny turned out the main light, wound up Damp's moon-and-stars mobile, and tenderly tucked a stray strand of hair behind the little girl's ear.
“Sleep now, pet. Sweet dreams.”
Popping the dingy paw of a much-loved small velvet fox into her mouth, Damp closed her eyes, falling into sleep secure in the knowledge that the Dread Scratchy would not be out there, lurking in the darkness, waiting for her to wake up.
In her bedroom adjoining the nursery, Flora McLachlan paced the floor, waiting for the house to fall silent. Footsteps sounded on the stairs and the sound of laughter echoed down the corridor. Just as the Strega-Borgias had been blissfully unaware of their near brush with cannibalism at the dinner table, so, too, were they ignorant of the real danger closing in on StregaSchloss. A very real danger that had crushed poor Latch, temporarily wiping his memory and leaving him comatose and reeking of sulfur.
Mrs. McLachlan shuddered. The smell of sulfur would have immediately alerted her to the presence of a demon, but Latch wouldn't have known what was going on. Not at first. And by the time he'd realized that he'd unwittingly invited a demon into StregaSchloss, it would have been too late…. He wouldn't have been able to protect himself. Until the butler recovered sufficiently to confirm what had happened to him, Mrs. McLachlan had to assume the worst and take measures to protect StregaSchloss from further demonic visitations. Locking the doors was pointless, as was phoning the police. Telling the Strega-Borgias that they were under threat of invasion by the powers of darkness was likely to achieve little other than hysteria, followed by denial that such things were possible. Mrs. McLachlan gazed unseeing at the darkness beyond her windows. She had to act now. Swiftly and secretly, she needed to use all her skills to protect those she loved.
Rain smeared the windows, pattering on the leaves of an ancient chestnut tree, the roots of which resembled a tangle of pleading, outstretched fingers reflected in the vast puddle at the bottom of Tock's moat. The rush and babble of rainwater pouring through gutters and downpipes sounded like distant voices; to Tock's ears, the water sounded more like a mocking gabble, wet and gleeful as it rose steadily in his no-longerdrained moat.
Normally, on a night like this, the crocodile would have pulled his lily-pad comforter over his head and swum away to the dark and reedy end of the moat in order to sleep. Normally, the moat would have been three meters deep in water….
Two centimeters of muddy slime dotted with marine hazards do not a cradle make, Tock decided, gripping a borrowed golf umbrella in one forepaw and glaring up at the house, where Mrs. McLachlan's bedroom window shone its solitary light into the darkness. Please, Tock begged silently, his eyes slitted against the unaccustomed brightness, turn that light off. Without the lightless sanctuary of water lapping all around, the crocodile felt as if he were stripped of a layer of protection. Water, for Tock, was pillow, sheet, and quilt in one. Mud and rain were simply not the same at all. Wondering if the Strega-Borgias would mind if he spent the night in one of their bathtubs, he folded the umbrella, picked his way across the bone-strewn moat floor, and was halfway out when a noise from above caught his attention.
Mrs. McLachlan's window opened a crack, then, very slowly, was drawn carefully upward until it stood wide open, spilling light into the darkness. The light attracted the attention of some of the insect population of Argyll, which, despite the rain, never could resist such an invitation. Then the light was abruptly extinguished and something large flew out of the window, hovering over the meadow just long enough for Tock to identify what he'd seen before the object appeared to gather such speed that it literally dematerialized over Lochnagargoyle.
“Whaa…?” Tock honked in alarm. Had he really seen that? Surely not, his rational reptile mind decided—must've been something you ate giving you nightmares. Oh, but Tock, a small snappish voice informed him, you're not asleep. You're awake. You're knee-deep in primal ooze and you certainly could use a bath but trust me, you're not dreaming.
“But…but…but,” Tock squeaked, dropping the golf umbrella in alarm.
No buts, Tock, the small inner voice continued. Face it, you did just see Mrs. McLachlan, She-who-must-not-be-eaten, sitting on top of a flying carpet, long silver hair spilling out in the slipstream; and yes, she did fly out over the meadow; and, yup…she's gone.
“Waughhhh,” wailed Tock, diving headfirst into the safety of his moat and remembering half a picosecond before his snout embedded itself painfully in the mud that the concepts of “moat” and “safety” were, in all probability, history.
The Witness in the Ashes
rs. McLachlan was unaware that she had a stowaway on board until she touched down outside the library and began to roll up her flying rug. A peevish voice squawked, “Do you mind ?” and a tiny hairy leg poked out from between the knots of the rug's fringe.
“Oh, for heaven's sake,” Tarantella complained, scuttling up the nanny's arm and halting on her shoulder. “Don't look at me like that and don't give me a hard time. I was doing you a favor, actually. If it wasn't for moi, your precious carpet would have more holes in it than a colander. …” Holding up a partially digested moth as evidence, the tarantula continued, “I cannot begin to tell you how disgusting these things taste. And fattening? Eurghhh, they're right off the scale. Anyway. Here we are. Wherever here is. Not exactly a home away from home, is it? I mean, for goodness' sake, what sort of a neighborhood is this?” She waved a dismissive leg at the darkened street in which they stood. All around lay torn scraps of paper, broken glass, and discarded cigarette butts, as if someone had emptied their dustbin outside the library. This squalor was illuminated by a single gaslight burning over the graffiti-daubed door that stood ajar in front of them.
“Tchhhh,” Tarantella tutted disgustedly. “Look at that. DETH 2 CENTRES. Lordy, if only vandals would learn to write properly, we'd get a far better class of graffiti. ‘Death' isn't spelled like that.”
“Nor are ‘centaurs,'” muttered Mrs. McLachlan. She took a deep breath before pushing the door fully open and entering the ruins of the library.
Her shadow stretched crookedly ahead, swallowed by the deeper darkness of the farthest corner of the room where, in a marble fireplace, flames had burnt ever since she could remember…. The fire had turned to cold ashes now, as had everything it had consumed, for the entire library appeared to have been gutted by flames—charred timbers and fused metal lay zigzagged from floor to ceiling as if tossed carelessly about in a vile parody of pick-up sticks. The little lion's-head fountain had been shattered, leaving a naked metal pipe spewing water over the ashes, turning the floor underfoot into a carbon-flecked porridge of devastation.
“Tell you what”—Tarantella broke the silence—“this was no accident. Check out that wall over there.” Spray-painted in something red and viscous, glittering in the shards of light filtering through from the door, was the message:
Mrs. McLachlan closed her eyes, as if to erase the words from her memory. Darkness rose up inside her mind as the significance of the message struck home. You're too late, it gloated. Whoever had written those words had known she'd be along to read them.
“Eurrrghhh,” Tarantella complained. “Writing on walls. How tacky can you get? It's a sign of a culture on its last legs, when they resort to debasing the language. Speaking as a disinterested witness, I'd say the writing's on the wall for mankind…. Think about it: when the ancient Romans started scrawling C U L8R @ C. MXMS sort of thing, it was time to pack up the chariots and kiss your kids vale. …” She peered at the wall, concentrating furiously. “What does it mean ? ‘You're too late for…a cory'? What's a cory ? C'mon, team.”
Mrs. McLachlan's eyes snapped open and she glared at Tarantella. “There are times, dear, when your flippant attitude is singularly inappropriate. This is one of them. ‘A' is for Alpha, the first letter of the Greek alphabet; ‘C' is ‘cent,' that's Latin for a hundred, Alpha Cent-ory.”
“Alpha Centauri? The star?
”
“Also the name of the centaur, Alpha, who used to guard this library.”
“You're talking about him as if he's dead,” Tarantella observed, looking away from the gloating epistle on the wall. “D'you think he was murdered? Here?” She gulped, and edged closer to the collar of Mrs. McLachlan's blouse, her voice dropping to a wobbly whisper. “Um… tell me, how exactly do we know that the murderer isn't still around? You know, lurking wild-eyed in the shadows, ax in hand, that sort of thing? Not that I'm worried, speaking for myself, but who would look after my clutch of spider eggs if I were to meet with an unfortunate end…?” This last query emerged as a squeak from somewhere around Mrs. McLachlan's armpit, since Tarantella had disappeared from sight down the inside of the nanny's blouse.
Carefully picking her way through the wreckage, Mrs. McLachlan searched for some clue as to what had happened to Alpha. Of the thousands of artifacts once held in safekeeping in the library, little remained. Gone was the meticulously cataloged seed collection harvested from every plant that had ever grown on earth. Gone, too, was the DNA locked in amber from every species that had ever lived here. The drawers and cabinets housing the library archives had been wrenched off their hinges and upended on the floor, as if whatever had swept through the building had discovered that what they sought was too precious, or too secret, to be listed in the library catalog. With a feeling of approaching dread, Mrs. McLachlan tried to recall the list of several items that the library would never allow to go out on loan, items that were simply too potent to be displayed in locked glass cases: the Portal Ankhs of Nemesis IX; the nine Ring Binders of Darkness; the Brazen Head; and the Pericola d'Illuminem, commonly known as the Chronostone, the Stone of Time….
“You've gone all goosefleshy,” complained Tarantella. “Please… can we go home now?”
Ignoring this, Mrs. McLachlan crossed the room until she came to the fireplace, her attention caught by a small movement in its feathery ashes. Casting around, she found a charred table leg and used this as a poker, prodding systematically through the ashes until she met a slight resistance. Something gave a stifled sneeze and, hearing this, Mrs. McLachlan crouched down and blew gently into the fireplace, as if attempting to rekindle the flames. With each puff, ashes blew aside until a small shape was revealed, curled up into a little ball of terror, its brassy scales untarnished by the fires that must have recently blazed around it.
