Pure Dead Brilliant Part 13

"Oh my . . . ," he breathed, coming round the counter to stand beside the nanny. "Is this what I think it is?"

"I think so," Mrs. McLachlan said softly. "The Pericola d'Illuminem-the Perilous Light-" She drew a deep breath. "On the other hand, it might just be a fabulously valuable diamond, in which case I'd better put it back where I found it."

"Do you know how long this has been missing?" The librarian shook his head in amazement. "I can't believe it's actually here, in front of me . . . after all this time."

"Can you verify that it's the real thing?" Mrs. McLachlan tried not to betray her sense that time was running out. She was positive that Fiamma had been only the first emissary from Hades-her successor or successors might not prove so easy to subdue.

"May I?" The librarian picked up the crystal and gazed into its luminous depths. "I just want to be able to tell my grandchildren that I held it in my hands, just once . . . improve their opinion of librarians no end-"

"Actually, I'm in a bit of a hurry." Mrs. McLachlan placed Pandora on the countertop. "This wee thing needs to go home, preferably normal size, and that blasted cat glaring at us from the other side of the room needs to be turned back into a human."

"Let me get you a Quikunpik, then I'll run a test on the stone." Reverently placing the crystal on the counter, the librarian headed to the display cases to find what he needed.

"HE'S STARK NAKED!" Pandora yelled, trying to make her tiny voice heard. "What is he? And where are we? How did we get here?"

Mrs. McLachlan smiled wearily. Pandora had shrunk, but her appet.i.te for questions certainly hadn't. The centaur returned with a small tool, which he pa.s.sed to the nanny. Holding its coiled rubber handle firmly in one hand, she ran the other end of the device across the ball of her thumb.

"For a Quikunpik, it's extremely sharp," she murmured, examining the tiny pair of silvery scissors at the other end of what looked like an insulated wand.

"All the better to sever enchantments." The librarian removed his wrist.w.a.tch and placed it on the counter next to the Chronostone. Removing a set of cloth-wrapped watchmaker's tools from a drawer, he selected a tiny screwdriver and used this to undo the back of his watch. "Better get the child out of harm's way," he advised, indicating where Pandora stood, watching him in apparent fascination.

"Hold verrrry still, dear," Mrs. McLachlan advised, bringing the business end of the Quikunpik uncomfortably close to Pandora's head and making several swift cutting motions in the air.

"WHAT IS THAT THING? WHAT ARE YOU DOING? IS IT AS DANGEROUS AS IT LOOKS?" she squeaked, trying not to flinch as the nanny painstakingly snipped at something invisible near Pandora's stomach.

"Nearly there," Mrs. McLachlan muttered, her eyes narrowed in concentration. Snip, snip, sneck went the Quikunpik, its silvery scissor-head flas.h.i.+ng dangerously close to Pandora's eyes.

"NO!" the librarian yelled. "Watch out!"

There was a final glittery snick from the Quikunpik, and Pandora found herself falling off the countertop, her flailing arms causing the Chronostone to roll onto the librarian's wrist.w.a.tch. Mrs. McLachlan threw herself full-length on top of Pandora as, with a tremendous cacophony of clanging bells, ringing alarms, and chiming clocks, the Chronostone proved beyond a doubt that it was indeed the genuine article. The countertop imploded in a deafening crash of shattered gla.s.s and the Chronostone fell to the floor, bounced across the flagstones, and rolled across to where-ears flattened against his skull-Black Douglas was doing a pa.s.sable imitation of an enraged lavatory brush. Of the wrist.w.a.tch, nothing remained save a lump of fused metal and gla.s.s.

"Wow . . . ," Pandora breathed, struggling out from under Mrs. McLachlan. "What on earth-?"

"Um . . . yes," the librarian bleated, picking himself up from where he'd been flung across the room. "I guess it's the real thing then," he added reproachfully, gazing around at the wreckage.

"But it ate your watch," Pandora said.

"Not exactly." The librarian trotted across to the fireplace and, ignoring the malevolent hissing coming from Black Douglas, picked up the Chronostone. "What you saw was it reabsorbing the time-chip in my watch. All the library chronometers have a tiny bit of the original crystal embedded in their Moebius drive."

"What, like the Alarming Clock?" Pandora turned to Mrs. McLachlan for confirmation.

"Oh lord," the nanny muttered. "Drop me right in it, why don't you?"

The centaur frowned. "This child has seen the Alarming Clock?"

"Actually, I've used it," Pandora admitted.

"I can explain . . . ," Mrs. McLachlan began, but to her astonishment, rather than imposing a ma.s.sive fine for unauthorized use of library materials-or even banis.h.i.+ng her from the library for all time-the librarian was trotting across to his computer and beginning to type.

"Name?" he barked.

"Flo-Flora Mc-"

"Not you. The child." The librarian rolled his eyes.

"Pandora Strega-Borgia," Pandora whispered.

"Age?"

"Ten and three-quarters."

"Address?"

Pandora was about to reply when Mrs. McLachlan interrupted.

"You're enrolling her?"

The librarian turned round from the screen. "Look," he said kindly, "you've returned the most precious thing the library has ever had in its possession. D'you have any idea how long the Pericola d'Illuminem has been 'missing'? We'd completely given up hope of it being returned. Then you turn up, late as usual, with the stone lying casually at the bottom of your pocket. As far as I'm concerned, from today onward you can borrow anything you like, keep it for as long as you want, and I'll enroll anyone you suggest as a member. Er, d'you want me to start with the cat?"

Mrs. McLachlan burst out laughing. "I think not the cat. I'd better sort him out and return home before we're missed. But-does this mean the Chronostone is safe? No more psychotic demons coming out of the woodwork? No more dragons claiming it was their missing earring?"

"Absolutely." The librarian turned back to gaze at his screen. "Not only is it safe, it's never going out on loan ever again. Now"-he patted Pandora's arm-"if you'll excuse us? Your address, please?"

Water Babies Sitting on the jetty, t.i.tus watched dawn break over Lochnagargoyle. The surface of the loch was pitted with ripples as the Sleeper performed his morning ablutions under t.i.tus's watchful gaze.

"Is that better?" the beast roared, peering dubiously at a small sapling he'd been using to brush his teeth.

"Show me. Say ahhhhhh," t.i.tus said, suppressing a scream as the beast revealed a vast acreage of greenish fangs for his inspection. "Pretty good. I think that despite herself, Ffup'll be impressed. Now you have to practice what you're going to say to her."

The Sleeper groaned. "Dae I have to? It's aw soppy stuff. . . ." A faint blush crept across his scales, turning his vast head an alarming shade of purple. Realizing there was to be no escape, he cleared his throat, hawked spectacularly into the loch, and then mumbled, "I . . . I missed you, hen-"

"Not hen. She's a dragon," t.i.tus hissed.

"I missed you, dragon . . . I dreamt aboot you . . . um . . . I couldn't think aboot onything else. . . . I l- Ah l-l- Och no. I cannae dae it withoot feeling like a right numpty," and coiling himself up into something that resembled a house-sized pretzel, the Sleeper sank below the surface of the loch, the waters hissing as they closed over the beast's flushed cheeks.

t.i.tus waited till the loch was silent and still, then took the Alarming Clock out of his pocket. I'm only borrowing it for a moment, he reminded himself-in an attempt to justify the fact that he'd sneaked into Mrs. McLachlan's bedroom and s.n.a.t.c.hed the device, fully aware that the nanny would go ballistic if she found out. t.i.tus had been feeling positively saintly since giving his inheritance away. Saintly and utterly, dismally, irrevocably skint. No Aston Martins for this chap, he reminded himself. However, the loss of all those tainted millions seemed like a small price to pay if it meant that he wasn't going to die-fat, ugly, and unloved-at the relatively tender age of forty-two. He needed to check, to be absolutely sure that this was indeed the case. And so, taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and pushed the b.u.t.ton.

Hardly daring to inhale, he opened his eyes to find a small boy staring down at him.

"Where did you appear from?" the child gasped, backing away in alarm.

"Um . . . ah . . . I've just arrived. Don't panic-" t.i.tus reached out to rea.s.sure the little boy, but his gesture had the opposite effect. With a wail, the child fled along the jetty, his voice raised in a howl of terror, screaming, "Flora! FLORA! THERE'S A BIG BOY ON OUR BEACH!"

I'm going to have to be quick, t.i.tus resolved, giving chase. He hurtled through the brambles, skirted the edge of the meadow, and plunged into the shade beneath the rhododendrons, their thick foliage s.h.i.+elding him from the house. StregaSchloss glowed pink in the early-morning light, its continued existence the source of considerable relief to t.i.tus. No gla.s.s monstrosity, he noted, and no flash cars lined up on the drive, either. An elderly woman appeared at the front door, the wailing child in her arms. t.i.tus frowned, unable to see clearly at this distance who she might be, but nevertheless sure that it couldn't be Flora McLachlan. t.i.tus crept silently through the rhododendrons until he reached a vantage point from which he shamelessly eavesdropped. In the still air, the voices from the front door carried perfectly.

"Show me where you saw the man."

"Not a man. A big boy," the child insisted.

"A big boy, is it now? Och . . . you're talking nonsense. There's no big boys awake yet. They're all asleep upstairs."

At this, the child's wails redoubled and the elderly lady set him down firmly on the steps. "That's enough, pet," she said, hands on hips. "Hush now-you'll wake the house with your racket. . . ."

Another figure appeared at the front door, dressed in a sensible tweed skirt. The child wriggled out of the elderly lady's grasp and flung himself on this new arrival, who commented mildly, "Och, you poor wee chook."

Hearing the unexpectedly familiar voice, t.i.tus leaned forward to peer through the bushes. His mind reeled in denial. Mrs. McLachlan? Still there? She must be ancient.

"Don't you worry, pet," the nanny soothed. "I've made some pancakes for your breakfast and there are some of Grandpa's favorite raspberry m.u.f.fins ready to come out of the oven-"

Grandpa? Raspberry m.u.f.fins? t.i.tus clutched a rhododendron trunk for support. This was all too bizarre, he decided-but his traitorous stomach growled in happy recognition at the mention of its favorite food.

"Away you go back down to the loch, and let Grandpa know his breakfast's getting cold," Mrs. McLachlan continued, turning round and disappearing into the shadows inside the house. Obediently, the little boy ran back across the meadow, all fear forgotten in his haste to call his grandfather inside for m.u.f.fins. t.i.tus's stomach growled again. The elderly lady on the doorstep remained standing, apparently having a senior moment as she talked to herself.

"He's as obsessed about fis.h.i.+ng as he used to be with those computer things," she observed, apparently addressing the stone griffin that still graced the entrance to StregaSchloss. "And m.u.f.fins . . . I would have thought he would be sick of them by now." She bent down, stretching out a hand to something too small for t.i.tus to see.

Just then it all fell into place in his head. The ancient granny on the doorstep was Pandora, a fact he confirmed when a familiarly grumpy voice muttered, "Just because you're a geriatric doesn't mean you have to treat me as one."

t.i.tus saw a small black fur-ball scuttle up Pandora's arm and cling to her collar as it said helpfully, "D'you know . . . that lipstick . . . does nothing for you."

That could only be Tarantella, t.i.tus thought gloomily, still obnoxious as ever. On the doorstep his wrinkly sister turned to go inside, leaving t.i.tus to debate whether to follow her or not. On reflection not, he decided. If discovered, his presence at StregaSchloss would require explanations of such complexity that he doubted his ability to sound anything other than completely insane. However, he had to see himself just once in the future flesh before returning. Retracing his steps down to the lochside, he found he was growing more nervous at the prospect. He halted, rubbing his face with clammy hands and breathing heavily as if he'd been running. Through the brambles and scrub oaks that partially blocked his view of the loch, he could hear the child's voice calling for his grandfather.

Apparently the grandfather hadn't heard, for there came the sound of footsteps running along the jetty. Again, the child called, and this time came a distant, deeper voice, raised in warning. The silence was again broken by a harsh overhead squawk from a seagull, and t.i.tus peered through the brambles just in time to see the little boy lose his balance and fall with terrifying slowness into the deep water off the end of the jetty. For a split second that felt like a lifetime, t.i.tus froze, caught in an agony of indecision. He couldn't swim and had never learned. As he plunged through the brambles, ran across the beach, and hurtled along the jetty, he knew that all he was about to accomplish was two drownings, not one. Such reasoning, sensible as it was, gave him no comfort. Just out of reach-seventy years in the future-his grandchild was drowning and he could do nothing whatsoever to prevent it. Casting around desperately for a branch or a bit of driftwood to hold out for the child to cling to, he realized that he'd forgotten someone.

Ahead of him, out on the loch, came a yell accompanied by a ma.s.sive splash. Seconds later, t.i.tus saw a bobbing bald head swimming frantically across the gap between a distant rowboat and the ripples marking where the child had fallen in. What the bald swimmer lacked in aquatic finesse he more than made up for in the speed with which he plowed to the rescue. Reaching the ominously calm water by the end of the jetty, the swimmer trod water-ducking his head down in an attempt to see where the child lay beneath the waters of the loch.

"THERE!" t.i.tus yelled, able to see exactly where the child hung suspended, feet tangled in weed and little body horribly still. The swimmer dived downward in such a flurry of bubbles and foam that for one moment, nothing could be seen from above. Then, with a great gush of water, the swimmer broke surface, the child's body in his arms. He made for the jetty, where t.i.tus knelt with arms outstretched to receive the little boy.

In that instant, as their eyes met, there came a gleam of recognition in those of the swimmer. For t.i.tus, it was the strangest sensation to meet his older self, face to face. As he later explained to Pandora, the feeling was like a hammer blow to the chest, driving all breath from his lungs in an involuntary gasp, breath that was replaced by heat and accompanied by a dazzling s.h.i.+mmer at the corners of his vision.

"Wow," Pandora breathed respectfully. "Sounds weird . . . but what about the wee boy?"

"You mean my grandson?" t.i.tus said, rolling the words experimentally round his mouth. "He was fine. He threw up spectacular amounts of loch-water, burst into tears, but otherwise he was okay. I must say, though, for an old wrinkly I was the most amazing swimmer . . . and brave? Phwoarrrr. All in all, a real hero of a grandfather."

"And so modest, too," Pandora sighed. "Tell me, though . . . what did he say to you? I mean, what did the heroic wrinkly t.i.tus say to you? He must have wondered who on earth you were, and where you'd sprung from."

"Ah, yes . . ." t.i.tus looked embarra.s.sed. "I had thought he'd say something profound, something about the amazing fact that here I was, a living, breathing version of himself, only several decades younger . . . but instead he said, 'Time you learned to swim, laddie. Ignorance is no excuse,' and then he just turned his back on me and ran back to the house with his-my-oh heck, our grandson in his arms. Which brings me to my birthday present."

"Eh?" Pandora frowned. "I fail to see what your birthday has to do with-"

"Swimming lessons," t.i.tus interrupted. "Don't you see? I have to learn how to swim so that . . . well, um, so that I can be a hero like . . . um . . . well, like I'm going to be, so I'd like you to teach me how to swim as a birthday present."

"Fine by me." Pandora put her head to one side and stared at t.i.tus. "But-you know, I'm dead impressed that you gave away all that money. Still, I have wondered if, when it comes to your birthday, aren't you going to wake up and think, What did I do that for? All that money?"

"No," t.i.tus said firmly. "Who needs it? Besides-that old guy, me as a grandfather, in a funny sort of way he was seriously cool. Wrinkly and old, but . . . the kind of grandfather I wish we'd had. A grandfather who would have taken us out on his boat, who knew about fis.h.i.+ng, and who would probably have arm-wrestled me for the last m.u.f.fin in the pan. He looked . . . happy, Pandora. He looked as if his life had been pretty good to date and he was looking forward to more of the same. Nothing like that fat, lonely millionaire who lived in the gla.s.s house, and probably nothing like the grandfather who left me all his tainted millions. So," he concluded, staring out the window at Lochnagargoyle, "I know which one I'd rather become."

Pandora stood up and reached out a hand to t.i.tus. "Come on, then," she said, hauling him upright. "No time like the present for your present."

"What?" t.i.tus frowned. "Now? Right now? The loch'll be freezing. Can't we wait till my proper birthday?"

"No," said Pandora in a manner that made t.i.tus's heart sink. "Get your swimsuit. I'll meet you down by the jetty. Think of these lessons as a bonus, t.i.tus. I've actually already found you the most brilliant birthday present, but you can't have that till the day itself."

Pandora headed downstairs, leaving t.i.tus rummaging through his wardrobe, bleakly aware that unless he appeared at the jetty fully dressed, his sister was going to be treated to the sight of him sporting legs hairier than Tarantella's. Praying that Pandora wouldn't tease him about his recent p.u.b.ertal sproutings, he pulled on a pair of decently baggy shorts, dragged a T-s.h.i.+rt over his head to conceal the dozen or so chest hairs that were his secret pride and joy, and ran downstairs before he could change his mind.

Father of Lies Arriving back in Hades after his abrupt demise at StregaSchloss, the demon Astoroth was peremptorily debriefed, dumped in the limbo-tank for what felt like eons, and then rudely ejected to face the wrath of the Boss. Following meekly behind a lesser demon, the disgraced Second Minister from the Hadean Executive had plenty of time to consider exactly what form his punishment might take, and to hope fervently that his next incarnation wouldn't be a female one. Their labyrinthine pa.s.sage through the corridors of Hades had taken even longer than usual, checkpoints and barriers appearing at every turn-each requiring him to fill out endless forms and questionnaires before he could proceed onward toward the upper levels where the Boss had his domain.

With each stop the paperwork grew more finicky and time-consuming; Astoroth was obliged to answer the same series of questions he'd just completed moments before. Moreover, all too keenly aware that he was in deep poo, he couldn't allow his temper to erupt and thus had to endure the leaky ballpoints and poor-quality paper that each set of forms required him to deal with. As soon as he laboriously filled in each of these, they were promptly shredded-unread-as an exercise in complete futility. Finally, after completing a particularly pointless forty-two-page questionnaire printed on what appeared to be gray blotting paper-with a blunt turkey feather dipped in raw sewage- a distant door flew open at the end of the corridor ahead.

A blood-red figure emerged, crooked its finger at Astoroth, and said, "He's in a meeting, but if you'll just come in here and wait, I'll let him know you've arrived."

Astoroth took a deep breath and stepped forward, inhaling the homely smell of hot iron and sulfur that coiled invitingly from behind the open door. The red demon stepped aside to allow access to the Boss's antechambers, then returned to his position behind a large obsidian desk. Ignoring Astoroth, he lowered his eyes to concentrate on a laptop-which, together with a black telephone and a watercooler, const.i.tuted the only items of a nonorganic nature in the room. The walls and carpet were made of woven human hair; this, in all its rich tonal and structural variety, gave the bizarre illusion of being trapped inside a giant fur-ball. The transparent watercooler was filled with virulent green liquid and little signs everywhere read In obedience to this, the red demon extended a tray on which lay tobacco in all its various forms. Astoroth accepted a small cigar and bent his head to light it at one of the flames that burned continuously in little alcoves round the room. Coughing gratefully, he squatted on his haunches and waited to be summoned.

After what felt like several weeks, the black telephone rang and Astoroth found himself being ushered into the Presence. On trembling legs he walked through a door into a darkness so thick he could almost chew it.

"KNEEL," came a command, and Astoroth fell to the floor at once.

"GROVEL," the voice continued, adding, "MORE . . . LOWER . . . UP THE SELF-ABAs.e.m.e.nT FACTOR, WRETCH."

Taking this last for an instruction, Astoroth obediently retched, gagged, and threw up on the floor. Immediately the lights came on, and he found himself kneeling on a gla.s.s floor, beneath which were rumored to burn the eternal fires of the Pit. At a gla.s.s table in front of him the Boss pushed his lunch aside with a groan. Snapping his fingers, the First Minister summoned an underling to deal with Astoroth's ejected stomach contents.

"TELL ME, Sc.u.m, WHAT POSSIBLE EXCUSE DO YOU HAVE FOR LOSING MY PRECIOUS CHRONOSTONE?"

"Um." Astoroth swallowed. "Most Awesome Foulness, if you would just give me one more chance, I'll get it back for you. . . . Please, Master of the Pits, Earl of Earwax, allow me, your devoted slave, to perform this one last service for you-" Aware that he was groveling inexcusably, Astoroth grew silent.

"ONE MORE CHANCE?" The Boss considered this as he glared down to where Astoroth knelt, hands clasped in supplication. "ONE MORE CHANCE? YOU'RE FIRED, REMEMBER? THIS IS NOT NEGOTIABLE. YOU'RE NO LONGER SECOND MINISTER FOR THE HADEAN EXECUTIVE. YOU'RE NOT EVEN A MINOR DEMON WITHOUT PORTFOLIO ANYMORE. YOU'RE LOWER THAN A SUCCUBUS."

"I know," Astoroth whimpered. "I've got the firepower of a soggy match and the bite of a gummy grandmother, but-give me another chance and I'll prove I'm not finished yet. . . . Please? Plea.s.sssse? Pretty please?" He crawled across the floor and prostrated himself.

"OH, VERY WELL . . ." The Boss sighed. "ALTHOUGH, I WARN YOU, YOU'RE GOING TO FIND YOUR NEXT INCARNATION RATHER LESS LUXURIOUS THAN WHAT YOU'VE BECOME ACCUSTOMED TO OF LATE-"

"M-M-Minister?" Astoroth quavered. "D'you mean I'm to be reincarnated as a servant? Or as a woman, again? Or"-an awful possibility occurred to him-"or as a child? Oh please, no, not that-anything but that."

The Boss stood up, wrapping a fur-lined cloak around himself, apparently unconcerned that the ambient temperature was hot enough to roast meat. He bent over Astoroth, purring in his ear, "DON'T WORRY, Sc.u.m. I WON'T SEND YOU BACK AS A CHILD. YOU WON'T BE A SERVANT, EITHER. NO"-he gave a little mirthless snicker-"NO, NO. YOU'RE GOING BACK TO POOLS OF COOL WATER, A LIMITLESS FOOD SUPPLY, AND ENOUGH WILLING MEMBERS OF THE OPPOSITE s.e.x TO KEEP A RED-BLOODED CREATURE LIKE YOU HAPPY FOR A LIFETIME. . . ."

"Th-thank you, Minister," Astoroth stammered, unable to believe his luck. Shaded swimming pools, endless banquets, and bags of nubile attendants? Suddenly the future looked so bright he was almost dazzled. He struggled to his feet, eagerly antic.i.p.ating this promised incarnation-unfortunately forgetting that the prime requisite for becoming First Minister of Hades was the ability to lie through one's teeth.

4,748 Days Old Latch had removed Strega-Nonna from her freezer the night before t.i.tus's birthday, and consequently the old lady sat defrosting by the warmth of the range, hopeful of being sufficiently thawed in time to wish her great-great-great-great-great-great-grandson many happy returns. Pandora stepped carefully around her, laying a birthday breakfast tray for t.i.tus, the centerpiece of which was a large raspberry m.u.f.fin steaming tantalizingly in the middle of a blue china plate. The m.u.f.fin had remained deliciously warm ever since Pandora had borrowed it from the library a fortnight before, its name of Multiplim.u.f.fin giving some clue to its magical properties. Across the table, Signora Strega-Borgia nibbled at a piece of dry toast and willed her stomach to desist from its attempts to repel all boarders.

Mrs. McLachlan swept into the kitchen bearing an armful of dirty linen, mildewed black velvet corsets, gray bloomers, and dark stockings so full of holes they were unlikely to survive the laundering process. Damp followed solemnly behind, holding one decomposing sock at arm's length. The little girl halted in the middle of the floor, a wide smile appearing on her face as she caught sight of Mult.i.tudina, who was cleaning her whiskers at the open door to the wine cellar. The nanny dropped her bundle of grubby clothes on the floor next to the was.h.i.+ng machine and began to sort through what was in need of immediate laundering. Producing a small collection of coins and tissues from various pockets and folds, Mrs. McLachlan stopped to unfold a crumpled piece of paper. After a cursory glance, she gave a disbelieving snort and threw it into the coal scuttle beside Pandora, who stood waiting for the kettle to boil.

"So what did it say?" t.i.tus mumbled, spraying crumbs across his bed and watching in amazement as the Multiplim.u.f.fin spontaneously regenerated itself for the eleventh time, the gap where he'd taken a mouthful filling back in with warm and fragrant cake.

"It said something like, Marry me, Signora. Let's make beautiful bambinos together. I may have the face of a rodent, but I have the bank account of an emperor. I await your reply c/o Hotel Baglione, Bologna, Italy."

"Eughhh." t.i.tus gagged. "Disgusting . . ."

"Not the Multiplim.u.f.fin, surely?" Pandora frowned. "I was a.s.sured that it would taste heavenly no matter how long we kept it for-"

"No. Heck no, it's perfect," t.i.tus hastily rea.s.sured her, taking another bite for emphasis and watching the m.u.f.fin miraculously regenerate. "No. It's that note to Mrs. McLachlan from our dirty old beast of an uncle. How dare he proposition our nanny? Anyway, she's far too old for that sort of thing-" He paused, then pleaded, "Isn't she?"