by Debi Gliori
Titus found what he was looking for and slipped it into his pajama pocket.
“Excuse me, Mr. Pile-Um,” said Signora Strega-Borgia.
“Pylum-Haight,” interjected the bald man.
“Indeed.” Signora Strega-Borgia’s voice developed a marked windchill factor.
“Excuse me. Titus, put that back.”
“Mu-ummm, just a wee drop.”
“Put it back, Titus. I’m in no mood for an argument.”
“But I want to see if it works,” pleaded Titus, adding somewhat cuttingly, “None of your other spells ever do.…”
Signora Strega-Borgia stood up, sending brochures cascading to the kitchen floor. Titus sighed and handed her a small glass vial. Signora Strega-Borgia sat down again and flashed her visitor a patently insincere smile as she placed the vial on the table in front of her.
Mr. Pylum-Haight could read the label on the side of the vial, magnified through the glass of the coffeepot.
Tincture of Flup-tooth
to be diluted x 10
5 ml equivalent to 1 Battalion
Mentally logging this knowledge under Weird Things Clients Keep in Their Fridges, Mr. Pylum-Haight pressed on. “As I was saying, your roof is in great shape, but the beams supporting it …”—pause to suck in dramatic lungfuls of air—”rotten to the core, m’fraid. In fact, you’re really lucky the whole thing hasn’t collapsed on you, what with all the rain we’ve been having.…” Meeting Signora Strega-Borgia’s steely glare, he faltered and took a deep draft of chilly coffee to sustain himself.
“So … Mr. Pylum-Haight … what exactly are we talking about?” Signora Strega-Borgia folded her calculation-laden envelope into a small parcel and pushed it to one side.
Titus sat at the other end of the kitchen table and waited. Now, he guessed, was not the time to raise the question of an increase in pocket money in line with inflation.
“A rough estimate—ballpark figure, off the top of my head, can’t be too definite about this, not set in stone, but possibly in the region of, give or take a few … um …”
“How much?” insisted Signora Strega-Borgia.
Pylum-Haight hastily scribbled a figure on the back of a business card and stood up. “Have a wee think,” he advised. “It’s a big job. Expensive business keeping on top of these old houses. I know several clients who would be willing to take it off your hands. Get yourself something more manageable. More modern. Maybe your husband might like to give me a ring to discuss …”His voice tailed off as he busied himself with folding and packing the tableful of brochures and papers back into his crocodile-skin attaché case. “Nice to … um … thanks for the … er … We’ll be in touch,” he muttered, sidling in the direction of the kitchen door. “See myself out … um … thanks again.” And he tiptoed backward out into the corridor, leaving a trail of aftershave behind him.
Titus listened to the sound of footsteps fade into silence. The front door creaked open and, seconds later, slammed shut. Over the faint ticking of the kitchen clock came the sound of a car engine, a crunch of gravel under tires, and the valedictory honk as Tock the moat-guarding crocodile bid the parting guest farewell.
“Mum?”
“Not right now, Titus,” mumbled Signora Strega-Borgia, waving a hand absently around her head, as if to ward off a fly. She gazed at the business card in front of her as if it might be coated with plague bacteria. “I need to find your dad.” She reluctantly picked up the card and rose to her feet like a sleepwalker.
“He’s upstairs mending my modem,” said Titus. “Mum—what’s the matter? I’m sorry I made that comment about your spells. I didn’t mean it.”
Signora Strega-Borgia turned, her face pale and drawn. “It’s not your attack on my skills as a witch, Titus. No, it’s nothing”—she glanced hastily at the card in her hand—”nothing that six hundred and eighty-six thousand, eight hundred and seventy-five pounds, seventy-two p plus VAT won’t fix.”
The kitchen door closed behind her as Titus was left staring bleakly at the tabletop in front of him. Picking up a discarded brochure and his mother’s pencil, he calculated that, at his current rate of pocket money, it would take him a mere three and a half centuries to acquire that kind of sum. The brochure showed a picture of an ideal family in front of their new home. There were a dog, a cat, a baby, and two grinning children flanked by their smiling parents. The new home behind them was built on a model that a five-year-old might draw: a front door, one window on each side, three windows above, and a perfect leak-free roof on top. The blurb read: “The Buccleuch family at home in Bogginview. Homes to depend on. Homes to raise your family in. BOGGINVIEW. Another quality build from BELLAVISTA INC.…”
Not even remotely like our house, thought Titus. If they’d decided to make a brochure about StregaSchloss, we’d be scowling on the moth-eaten croquet lawn: “The Strega-Borgias at home with their dragon, their yeti, their griffin, and … oh, yes, their moat-guarding crocodile. Behind them, you can just see their modest little STREGASCHLOSS, which looks like a cross between a fairy castle and the film set for Vlad the Vampire Falls on Hard Times.…”
Titus threw the brochure back on the table and stalked out of the kitchen. And I just bet that the Buccleuch fridge is full of pizzas and chocolate fudge cake, instead of moldy Brussels sprouts, he decided, skirting an overflowing chamber pot on his way upstairs. No wonder they’re grinning, he concluded.
