Catering to the leprechaun was all Eve could do for the time being, as a person could argue until she was blue in the face and get nowhere with the wee stubborn man. "Well, since you've fooled them, could I request your arm in escorting me back to the Towers?" she asked politely, but her tone of voice spelled out that she would brook no argument. She would have to get Totter to attend to this hole as quickly as possible.
"Be proud to, Dr. Eve. You never know when one of them British spies might spirit you away and torture you to find out me secrets."
Eve gave a patently false smile and extended her arm. Fester took it, his itty bitty baldhead barely reaching her chin, and as they walked back to the asylum he began babbling more of his far-fetched theories. "I tell ye true, there ain't never been a war with them American colonies, since there ain't really any land called America. It's only British propaganda to trick people into moving to the middle of the ocean, where they set up towns like Venice..."
Through Fester's whole paranoid tirade, Eve kept a smile plastered on her face. Here at the asylum, she had perfected that look. And as they reached the marble fountain, she handed her patient over to Mrs. Fawlty, who took Fester's arm none too gently.
The leprechaun gave Mrs. Fawlty a kiss on her chin, knowing it would set the housekeeper off. Then, turning to Eve he said, "Me thinks our hausfrau is a double spy, pretending to be English when she really is German. She's not after me gold, but me jewels." He patted his pants with a leer.
Smacking the lusty leprechaun on the back of his bald-pate, Mrs. Fawlty snapped, "Humph! You should be lined up against the garden wall, shot, and buried in one of your holes, little man. I'm as English as the rain, and well you know it."
Fester laughed. "Don't be too rough with me, my English clover."
"English clover, my foot! I won't stand for your foreign ways. I'll plant you in the garden myself—six feet deep," Mrs. Fawlty warned. "And look how dirty you are, little man. Covered in filth. Now I suppose I'll have to give you a bath!"
Fester squealed in delight.
The housekeeper simply shoved the leprechaun forward, remarking knowingly over her shoulder, "Irishmen."
Shaking her head at the odd pair, Eve picked up her skirts and made great haste to her room.
Dressing and having her hair done in a fashionable style left Eve barely enough time to be downstairs to greet her guests. But she managed. And as she smiled up at them, hope beat like a caged bird in her chest. They just had to help her with her funding, and perhaps offer some advice on two of her patients who were not responding to her treatments as well as she'd like.
The members of the Supernatural Science Foundation entered in fine form: troll, warlock, and wereowl. Two of the three members—Dr. Sigmund and Count Caligari—had brought their wives, but Dr. Crane was a bachelor and attending alone.
After Eve greeted her guests, everyone adjourned to the blue salon for an aperitif. Eve found herself holding her breath, watching her six-foot-four butler towering among the guests, trying to do his duty and serve them each a glass of sherry.
Normally, Teeter would be a starched shirt, a paragon of proper English butlerdom. But the winds of change had recently blown through her asylum, and tonight found Teeter's hair in wild disarray, his clothing disordered, his cravat askew, and his homely face reflecting abject, stupid misery.
Silently, Eve cursed a blue streak. Apparently her butler and housekeeper had had another of their flaming rows. Their romance was of recent origin, and was causing chaos in her madhouse. Well, more chaos than usual, she reflected morosely. She had the overwhelming urge to vent her temper, to throw a fit to make her father proud, for it appeared her non-teetotaling butler had totaled a bottle of something that wasn't tea.
Wanting to tar and feather Teeter, she kept her face politely composed, hoping that anyone looking at her would miss that she had mayhem on her mind. Sending a warning glare at the inebriated butler, she decided that she really had to run a tighter ship—but she already had so much to do. Now she would have to add daily discipline for her staff, it appeared. How dared her butler get tipsy tonight of all nights? After dinner, she was going to bang a gong over Teeter's head that would put Hugo's capricious bell ringing to shame.
Wryly, she shook her head, wondering what could occur next to upset her nerves. First her father had discomfited her with his daunting demands, followed by the dustup with the damnable Hugo. One of the gardeners had fallen into one of Fester's holes while trying to fill it in, and severely cut his leg. Following that fiasco, her cook, Sybil, had burned the roast lamb in basil sauce, as well as the Barcelona hens, while the inebriated Teeter had dropped a bottle of port on the dining room rug. When the cock had crowed this morning at dawn, she should have stayed firmly ensconced in bed with the covers pulled over her head.
"Your drinkie, Doctorrr," the tipsy Teeter pronounced, clearly hoping to hide his besotted state. With his very long arm extended, he tried to hand Dr. Crane a glass of sherry. Unfortunately, he tipped the glass while trying to master his feet.
Eve gasped, feeling like a green recruit before her first battle, frozen, helpless to avert disaster. She wanted to cower, or at least to cover her eyes. Yet she kept her eyes open, and breathed a sigh of relief when the good doctor deftly righted the downward-dropping drink. He quickly took it from her butler's hands.
Pretending that she hadn't seen the incident, Eve approached Dr. Crane. "I am so glad you could make it tonight, Doctor," she said. Though he was in his mid-thirties, the slender wereowl's hair was a curious mixture of pale black and whitish silver. The smile he gave was both warm and speculative, with only a faint hint of lecherous intent.
She smiled back, noting vaguely that Dr. Crane was attractive in a bookish sort of way, and that he carried a truly distinguished air. If the rumors were true, he was a fine psychiatrist, if a bit pontificating in lectures, and he was an expert in the classics as well as the field of the supernaturally feathered fou. He was also reputed to have a taste for soiled doves.
He lifted her hand to his lips and bent low, kissing it and eyeing her assets with a connoisseur's delight. Eve managed to gracefully withdraw her hand with her smile still in place.
"By Jove, my little chickadee, I would have contrived to meet you sooner had I known how lovely you are." Dr. Crane gave her another appreciative glance, his big, yellowish-brown eyes glittering. He cocked his head and studied her with practiced ease. "I had not thought our hostess would be so stunning. It's as if Helen of Troy and Minerva, goddess of wisdom, are combined in your form. Even male peacocks must envy your splendor. How is it we have not met? Such a fowl trick, to be deprived of such an egg. Surely the Fates have been cruel."
"Perhaps your reputation precedes you, and Dr. Griffin prefers to keep herself tucked safely in her nest," Count Caligari remarked arrogantly, appearing and bowing to Eve. She could hear the stays creaking in the corset he was wearing. She made a curtsy with dignity and grace, keeping her features politely reserved. She had met the warlock before, at various medical lectures. He was not one of her favorite colleagues, this Italian doctor with a sly intelligence and an inflated sense of his ancestry.
"There's no need to be huffy, Caligari. You're still perturbed by my latest book's reviews. You know how they raved and flapped about my brilliant deductions on hen-witted chicken hawks."