Of course, trust Permelia to come up with the same plan. Basted with the same pastry brush, the pair of them.
Forever mindful that she was the plain, freckled face of Witches Inc., Melissande offered up a sympathetic smile. “I wish it were that easy, Miss Wycliffe, but the kind of incant you’re talking about is highly restricted. Government use only. And the penalties for unsanctioned thaumaturgical activities are extremely severe… as Millicent Grimwade is currently learning first-hand.”
Permelia Wycliffe stiffened. “Obviously I cannot be associated with anything illegal, Miss Cadwallader. That would hardly be appropriate for a firm of our prestigious reputation.”
“I agree,” she agreed promptly. “And it goes without saying that Witches Inc. is perfectly capable of resolving your dilemma without resorting to questionable tactics. Only without our clients’ full co-operation, well… success is likely to prove elusive.”
Permelia Wycliffe stared down her nose. “Are you implying I would be anything less than-”
Rats. “No, no, not at all. It’s just… there’s no way around it, Miss Wycliffe. In order to solve your problem I need my freedom. I can’t be restricted to my cubicle from eight till six every day.”
Not and stay sane, anyway, never mind cracking the case.
“ You’re convinced of this?”
“Absolutely,” said Melissande. “I’m sorry. In this instance you need to trust my expertise.”
Permelia Wycliffe frowned at her clasped hands. “Naturally, Miss Cadwallader, I don’t presume to do your job for you. I am, after all, paying a handsome fee for your services.” She looked up, her gaze penetrating. “And you think it ridiculous that I’d do so, don’t you? You think this a lot of nonsense. So much fuss over something so petty as… missing biscuits.”
Caught out, Melissande felt herself blush. “No, of course not. Anyway, it’s none of my business.”
“Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it is silly,” said Permelia, shrugging. “But as I said yesterday, nothing is more important to me than protecting this company. Even if that means I must look a trifle foolish pursuing the theft of a few lead pencils and shortbread creams.”
Shifting in her chair, she stared reverently at her father’s portrait.
“My dear Papa dreamed that one day Wycliffe’s would be the premier airship company of the world. He loved airships, you know. Their grace. Their beauty. The way they glide through the sky like giant silver swans. He died a year ago, before seeing his dream realised, and on his deathbed I vowed to carry on his legacy. Since that dreadful day I have kept my word in the face of many difficulties and crushing disappointments. So surely you see, Miss Cadwallader, that I cannot stand by and allow some-some biscuit-pincher to tarnish his life’s work! To jeopardise the reputation of the company Papa lived for!”
There was no doubting the woman’s passionate sincerity. Melissande, watching Permelia closely, felt that inconvenient tug of sympathy strengthen. The woman’s loyalty to Orville and his company… her own loyalty to Rupert and the kingdom of New Ottosland… she and Permelia Wycliffe stood on common ground there, united by the need to protect from all harm what they loved the most.
Rats.
“ I understand, Miss Wycliffe,” she said with a sigh. “And you mustn’t fret. Miss Markham and I will do whatever it takes to keep your father’s legacy safe.”
Permelia Wycliffe turned, her expression easing towards hope. “Truly, Miss Cadwallader?”
“My word as a Royal Highness,” she replied. “Oh-except I’m not one, remember? And I’m not Miss Cadwallader either. I’m Molly Carstairs.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Permelia Wycliffe. “Although, if I might ask, why are you so determined not to be a Royal Highness? I’d have thought it would be something of an advantage in your line of work.” Her high-arched nose wrinkled. “The world is full of Eudora Telfords.”
It was none of the wretched woman’s business, but… “Because I love my brother, Miss Wycliffe,” Melissande said quietly. “And while His Majesty fully supports my desire to be an independent woman of means, his enlightened attitude isn’t shared by all his subjects. So while I forge my way in the world I try to remain inconspicuous, for his sake.”
Permelia Wycliffe smiled. “I understand. And let me say how much I admire you for taking such a bold stance in the face of what must be daunting opposition.”
Melissande felt herself smiling back, for the first time liking Permelia Wycliffe… which came as a surprise. “It would only be daunting if I gave a turnip what the old tossers thought,” she said. “But since I don’t…”
“Oh dear,” said Permelia Wycliffe, her lips twitching. “You mustn’t make me laugh. Miss Petterly will think I’m having a spasm.” She took a moment to rearrange her pens and pencils, then looked up. “Very well, Miss-Carstairs. As soon as I can contrive it I’ll see that you set foot beyond the office. In the meantime I presume you’ll continue to search for this thief among the gels.”
It was her cue to leave, so Melissande stood. “That seems like an excellent plan, Miss Wycliffe. And of course I shall keep you discreetly apprised of the investigation’s progress.”
Miss Petterly gave her a gimlet stare as she left Permelia Wycliffe’s office. “Your in-tray is full, Miss Carstairs. Did I mention that should it not be emptied in a timely fashion a penalty shall be deducted from your weekly wage?”
Melissande bobbed a curtsy in passing. I swear, before this is over I’m going to deduct you, Miss Petterly. “Yes, Miss Petterly. I’ll get right to it, Miss Petterly. Thank you, Miss Petterly.”
She minced back to her horrible little grey cubicle, passing all the other horrible little cubicles where gels clad head-to-toe in sober black bent over their abacuses and their typewriters and their paperwork, striving not to earn a deduction from their weekly wage. Not a single gel looked up as she passed, and the air beneath the high ceiling smelled ever so faintly of an anxious tedium. Clack-clack-clack went all those typewriter keys. Click-click-click went the wooden abacus counters. The office boy dragged his little cart up and down the aisles between the cubicles, its wheels creaking a protest. He never once looked up or smiled.
Probably there’s a penalty for smiling.
Even though this was fieldwork, even though this was a job, one that might well lead to other jobs and the saving of Witches Inc., Melissande shuddered.
Is this what it’s going to be like, then? From the ridiculous to the depressing? Exploding cakes one day, a grim office the next? Sliding in and out of other people’s lives, in and out of their unhappiness and stifled dreams and stunted ambitions, knowing that when I’m done I can leave but they can’t?
Maybe. But that came with the territory, didn’t it? No job was perfect. She just had to remember she’d opened the agency for a reason, to help people who needed helping. All right, so this assignment promised to be dreary. But dreary or not, she was helping Permelia Wycliffe protect her family’s business from a person-or people-who didn’t care who they hurt just so long as they got whatever they wanted. Yes, all right, biscuits… but even so. The principle was noble. This was a calling of which she could be proud. That was worth a little boredom and discomfort.
And let’s face it, Melissande. Life can’t all be interdimensional sprites and exploding chocolate logs.
As promised, her in-tray was now full to the point of overflowing. Swallowing a sigh she slid into her chair, selected a pencil, lined up her abacus and got to work.
Melissande returned to the agency after seven that evening, tired and hungry.
“Well?” Reg demanded from her ram skull. “What happened? Who’s guilty? How soon do we get paid?”
With a groan, still clutching her carpetbag, she dropped into the client armchair. “Too much paperwork, I don’t know yet, and just as soon as I do.”
“Was it awful?” said Bibbie, sympathetically, glamorous as ever behind her desk.