“Are you kidding?” said Bibbie. “It kills me. But babies and cads and horoscopes are good bread-and-butter money.”
“Which pays the rent,” Reg added. “And that’s nothing to sneeze at.”
“Yes, I suppose so.” She stifled an enormous yawn. “Saint Snodgrass, I’m tired. Time for supper and bed, I think.” She rummaged again in the carpetbag and this time pulled out what was now a lukewarm pork pie, wrapped in more waxed paper.
Bibbie looked horrified. “What’s that?”
“I told you. Supper. I bought it from a barrow girl on the way home.”
“It looks revolting!”
“Maybe, but it’s cheap. And it’s doing my part for barrow girls.”
“Monk would feed you,” said Bibbie, fanning herself. “There’s no need to be a martyr.”
Melissande felt a blush creep over her cheeks. “Monk hardly ever remembers to feed himself, even when someone puts the meal on the table in front of him. I’m fine. You should head home. Good work today. But tomorrow make sure you find out something about the gels. I don’t want to be stuck in that place a minute longer than is necessary.”
After Bibbie departed, Melissande ate her pork pie-more pastry than pork, but it could’ve been worse-then spent an hour carefully writing up the day’s events for the Wycliffe case file. By then she could hardly keep her eyes open.
“Right. Now I am going to bed,” she announced. “What about you, Reg?”
“I’m off hunting,” said Reg.
Melissande held out her arm for Reg to hop on, then returned to the bedsit and stood by the open window. “Have fun. Be careful. I’ll see you in the morning. Don’t let me oversleep.”
“Hmmph,” said Reg, sleeking all her feathers. “I make no promises, madam. I’m a queen, not an alarm clock.”
With a snap of her wings, she flew into the night.
Melissande changed into her nightgown and crawled into bed. “And I’m a princess, not a gel. But we do what we must in this cold, cruel world.”
On which thought, as Boris draped himself over her knees, she promptly fell asleep.
The next morning, as she trudged through more grim piles of paperwork and resisted the urge to throw her abacus across the room, she jumped to find Permelia Wycliffe standing beside her cubicle.
“Miss Wycliffe!”
“Miss Carstairs,” said Permelia Wycliffe, her tone indifferent. “As Miss Petterly has stepped away from her desk I wish you to take these files down to Mister Ambrose Wycliffe in Research and Development.” She held out a sheaf of buff-coloured folders. “Each one must be perused and initialled and returned to me, in person.”
Clever. Very clever. Wait for Petterly’s morning tea break and pounce. She took the folders. “Yes, Miss Wycliffe. At once, Miss Wycliffe.”
“Cor, aren’t you lucky!” whispered Delphinia Thatcher, as soon as Permelia Wycliffe was safely out of earshot. “Getting to go downstairs, Molly. All those handsome wizards. Have fun!”
Melissande swallowed a smile, just in case one of the other gels was watching. She did like Delphinia. The young woman was a bit like Bibbie-relentlessly cheerful. Determined not to let life squash her.
Blimey, I hope she’s not the thief. That would be awful.
“ What’s the matter?” said Delphinia. “You’re not interested in handsome wizards?”
Melissande took a moment to make sure her blouse was tucked in and her hair tidy in its horrible bun. “Oh. Well. I wouldn’t say that,” she murmured, and left the office quickly before Miss Petterly returned.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Well, Dunwoody? Are we set?”
Gerald looked up from the gauges on the etheretic quantifier and nodded. “Yes, Mister Methven. Gauges are reading at zero.”
Robert Methven, First Grade wizard, thirty-six years of age, graduate of Tenlowe’s Private School of Thaumaturgics, no criminal record, no question marks in his Department file, second most senior wizard at Wycliffe’s, turned back to the model prototype Ambrose Airship Mark VI and raised his hand.
“Very well then, Dunwoody. On three. One-two- three!”
As Methven pressed his thumb to the remote control for the prototype airship, Gerald flicked the switch on the etheretic quantifier. As he watched, the model quivered and began to gently bump up and down in its cradle. A moment later the needles on the quantifier began to flicker, reflecting the thaumic resonance within the prototype’s experimental engine chamber.
“Readings, Dunwoody!”
“Four thaums, Mister Methven. Five-eight-thirteen-oh, dear.” He looked up. “Twenty thaums, Mister Methven. Perhaps we ought to-”
“No, no,” said Methven, impatiently. “We’re still within the tolerances. There’s no point pussyfooting around, man. This is a test, not a tickle.”
Third Grade wizards did not argue with their betters. Third Grade wizards were the equivalent of-of clerks, at Wycliffe’s. They twiddled knobs and filed reports and fetched mugs of coffee for their superiors. They didn’t, if they wanted to keep their job, contradict a senior wizard. Not even when that wizard was making a very big mistake.
And especially not when they’re only pretending to be a Third Grade wizard and shouldn’t be able to sense the thaumic imbalance in the experimental engine’s central chamber.
Gerald held his breath and closed his eyes. Any second now. Any second. Three… two… one…
“ Damn!” cried Methven, as the lovingly constructed prototype of the Ambrose Airship Mark VI lurched free of its confining cradle and shot up to the rafters of the laboratory like a bullet.
“Yes, Mister Methven,” said Gerald, staring at what surely was about to become a very expensive pile of useless spare parts. “Ah-is it supposed to be spinning like that, Mister Methven?”
The prototype Mark VI, all twelve shiny feet of it, had begun to revolve, bow chasing its stern, and was picking up speed even as they gaped.
“No,” said Robert Methven, slowly. “No, I don’t believe it is, Dunwoody.”
The shiny silver airship was glowing like a lantern now, the thaumic emissions from the experimental engine spilling into its empty interior.
Gerald felt his skin crawling. The wretched thing was going to blow. It was going to spectacularly explode and take half the roof with it, and possibly half the laboratory as well. Which meant all of Gerald Dunwoody and Robert Methven, probably. Unless they made a run for it right now, or said Gerald Dun-woody dropped his etheretic shield and obliterated his carefully manufactured cover with a spectacular display of thaumaturgic skill not “ Bloody hell, Dunnywood! What have you done now?”
For the first time in his life Gerald was pleased to see Errol Haythwaite.
“Nothing, sir, nothing,” he said, taking the opportunity to grab Robert Methven by the arm and drag him to the very back of the lab, which was as far as they could get from the Airship Mark VI without actually leaving. “I was only-”
“Looking to repeat your demolition of Stuttley’s!” said Errol, flicking him a contemptuous glance. He was holding his gold-filigreed First Grade staff tightly against its jittery reaction to the airship engine’s over-charged thaumic particles. “You bloody cretin. Methven, what did I tell you about letting this imbecile within fifty feet of anything important?”
Methven pulled his arm free, and took a prudent step sideways. “Ah-well-I needed someone to-”
“Bugger up the test? Well, good job, Robert. You picked the perfect man!”
“Sorry, Haythwaite,” muttered Methven, and took another step sideways.
“That’s Mister Haythwaite to you, Methven,” snarled Errol, glaring up at the wildly spinning model airship. “Now shut your trap while I save the day.”
Gerald and Methven watched, hardly daring to blink, as Errol pointed his staff towards the madly gyrating airship.
“Good lord, what’s he doing?” muttered Methven.
“Trying to siphon off the excess tetrathaumicles created as a by-product of the engine’s overheating,” said Gerald, without thinking. And when Methven goggled at him added, weakly, “Um. Isn’t he?”