by Debi Gliori
There was a subdued whumph like an underpowered firework; then the kitchen filled with the smell of burnt offerings. Ffup burst into tears, hurled the red-hot bowl into the sink, and fled to the kitchen garden. In the ensuing silence there was a hissing sound as the bowl rapidly cooled down in the washing-up water, followed by a long ring from the front doorbell.
“More interruptions,” growled Sab, rattling the pages of his paper. “Get that, would you, Tock?” The griffin absentmindedly shredded a ballpoint pen as he considered the horoscope page, wrinkling his leathery forehead with annoyance as some thoughtless visitor rang the doorbell again. Where was that crocodile? “Tock? ”
“The crocodile is out,” said a languid voice from somewhere on top of the cupboard. “He is a not-in reptile. He's gone see-you-later-alligator. He's in an ongoing in-a-whilecrocodile situation.” The voice paused and its owner gave a deep sigh. “Actually, he's dredging the bottom of the river Chrone for quartz pebbles. Remember? Tock's moat renovations? He wanted lapis lazuli, but that was going to cost more than the house, so he had to downsize to quartz—” The voice broke off and emitted an exasperated “Tchhhh,” and when it spoke again, the sound came from nearer the floor.
“Though why,” it continued, its tone becoming increasingly shrill, “why anyone would see fit to construct a quartzlined channel and then fill it with w-wa— Oh, Lordy, I can hardly bring myself to pronounce the word, let alone think of it—fill a quartz-lined channel with water —gag, urk, yeurrrch—is quite beyond my understanding.”
This last comment was delivered at a deafening volume; then, apparently exhausted by the effort of projecting her voice so far, the owner limped across Sab's field of vision and dangled herself from his ruined ballpoint, positioning her tennis-ball-sized abdomen between the griffin and his newspaper.
“What star sign am I, then? Hmmm? Go on, guess”—the voice emerging from the tarantula's cherry-red mouthparts was once again languid, chilled, and ever so faintly smug— “oh, come on, team. You do know this one.”
“I have no idea,” Sab muttered. “I didn't even know spiders had star signs.”
“Rrreally.” Tarantella narrowed all her eyes simultaneously. “Well, you live and learn, huh? What did you think we had? Serial numbers? Bar codes?”
“Don't be so touchy.” Sab returned to the study of his paper, running a talon along the list of horoscopes and, to Tarantella's annoyance, ignoring her completely.
“For your information, I was born on a cusp,” she hissed, her mouthparts snapping shut after delivering this nugget of information.
“Hmm?” Sab managed to convey just how lacking in interest he found this bit of spider lore.
“A cusp,” Tarantella insisted. “Which, in case your studies in astrology haven't grasped such advanced concepts, means the point of overlap between two star signs; where the influence of both is equal—the word cusp coming from the Latin cuspis —”
“Was that the doorbell? Again?” Sab's voice was tinged with desperation. “No, Tarantella, don't get up. I'll go.” He leaped up and bolted out of the kitchen, the heavy slapping sound of his footfalls rapidly swallowed up by the vastness of StregaSchloss.
“—meaning point, as in the sharp bit at the end of a spear,” the tarantula continued to the empty kitchen. “Or, if you prefer Pliny's version, it's the pointy bit at the end of a bee; its sting, in other words—”
“I prefer Ovid, where cuspis refers to the sting of a scorpion,” piped a small rat, emerging blinking from the darkness under the dresser.
“Damn,” squeaked an older, fatter rat, squeezing out of the cereal box and wheezing with the effort. “Do you have to be so revoltingly clever, Terminus? I can't stand it when my kids make me feel like, feel like, like, duh—”
“Precisely,” muttered Tarantella, glaring at the whiskery rodent waddling out from the shadows. “I rest my case. Like, ‘duh'? What sort of sentiment is that ? And Multitudina, while we're assassinating your character, when did you last wash? You're covered in dust and furballs. Please. Do us all a favor. Go and ablute.”
“What?” The whiskery rat stopped in her tracks and scratched her bottom thoughtfully. “What's a bloot?”
Tarantella rolled all her eyes and was on the point of delivering the final crushing verbal coup de grace when from outside the kitchen came the sound of male voices raised in anger. Tarantella shut her mouthparts with a snap and scuttled for the safety of the dresser, from which she routinely eavesdropped on the household; occasionally calling in when she sensed the family had need of her wisdom.
Like now, for instance…
admits that she can't tone down her “gross and disgusting” nature, and her many fans love her for it. She also confesses a certain similarity between the passionate, colorful Strega-Borgias and her own family. She is the author of Pure Dead Wicked, Pure Dead Brilliant, Pure Dead Magic, and Pure Dead Batty and has written and illustrated numerous picture books.
Debi Gliori lives in Scotland and has at least five children and one golden retriever.
Published by Yearling, an imprint of Random House Children's Books a division of Random House, Inc., New York
Text and illustrations copyright © 2004 by Debi Gliori
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eISBN: 978-0-307-49744-4
v3.0
