Pure Dead Brilliant Part 14

"I don't have a clue how old she is." The continuing mystery of Mrs. McLachlan's exact age remained a closed book, one that Pandora suspected would remain so for years to come. "But even if she wasn't old, I'm sure she would never marry someone like Uncle Lucifer, no matter how rich he might be." Pandora stood up and took the breakfast tray from t.i.tus. "Come on, you. Enough m.u.f.fin for now. Time for your swimming lesson."

"Do I have to?" t.i.tus collapsed backward onto his pillows. "Can't I have a day off? I mean, it is my birthday after all-"

Rolling her eyes, Pandora ignored him. Every morning was the same: a list of excuses, protests, and pleas for leniency, followed by t.i.tus's reluctant arrival on the jetty. Then she would turn a deaf ear to his endless complaints about the earliness of the hour, the freezingness of the loch, and the hideousness of his swimsuit-until, exasperated by this daily litany, she would push him off the end of the jetty. After that, t.i.tus was fine. Quite a willing pupil, in fact, she reminded herself, taking several thoughtful mouthfuls of the Multiplim.u.f.fin before tucking it into a napkin and hiding it behind a stack of computer manuals. She listened to the diminis.h.i.+ng sound of her brother's footsteps and waited till she heard his voice drifting up from the garden below. t.i.tus was ululating in a bad imitation of Tarzan as he ran across the meadow toward the loch, causing clouds of gnats to boil up into the still air, disturbed by his pa.s.sage through the long gra.s.ses. Scratching reflexively, Pandora grabbed her towel and headed downstairs.

Dusk had drained the color from the surrounding mountains as the Strega-Borgias p.r.o.nounced themselves replete. For a day in Argyll at the beginning of May, the weather had been positively Mediterranean, and thus the family and guests had lazed on the lawn and lochside after breakfast, nibbling until lunch, hung around for afternoon tea, and now, digesting dinner, were all too full to move. Even Signora Strega-Borgia had joined in, apparently overcoming whatever it was that had ailed her and devouring course after course of t.i.tus's birthday banquet-badly prepared by Marie Bain and surrept.i.tiously adjusted by Mrs. McLachlan.

There had been a few near-misses, the nanny thought, helping herself to a nectarine and remembering the tripe that she'd turned into trifle, not to mention the bacteria-laden sus.h.i.+ she'd been forced to transform into Sacher torte. . . . In addition to the cook's efforts, there had been bowls of tiny wild strawberries and dewy figs imported from the village of Luciano's birth, along with fat grapes to replace those destroyed by Fiamma d'Infer's wickedness in the greenhouse. A vast chocolate meringue cake had been reduced from its billowy heights to a tiny leftover sliver on a gla.s.s plate, and Knot was unashamedly licking the syllabub bowl clean, covering himself in primrose- yellow cream in the process. Hecate Brinstone had revealed a talent for baking bread, and her braided challah, marzipan-filled stollen, and crusty ciabatta had emerged from the depths of the range-causing Marie Bain to mutter bitterly into her soiled handkerchief as she ostentatiously b.u.t.tered herself a stale slice of store-bought white.

Tock had caught a wild salmon, and under Sab's instructions had employed Ffup's fiery exhalations to smoke it whole, serving it up on a water-lily platter. Even Black Douglas had provided a black bombe, firing this ball of frozen chocolate ice cream out of one of the cannons protruding from the flank of his beautiful boat. He aimed the edible missile at the meadow, where it floated down on a tiny parachute to be retrieved, regrettably decorated with a powdering of flailing gnats, by Knot, who had a.s.sumed the insects to be animated vanilla seeds.

"Coffee?" groaned Signor Strega-Borgia, loosening his belt to its final notch, and praying that the walk to the kitchen wouldn't cause his stomach to explode. "Coffee, and then your birthday present, t.i.tus?"

"We'll leave you to it," Black Douglas said, climbing slowly to his feet and yawning widely. "We have to pack up and get ready to sail tomorrow," and taking this as their cue, the student witches began to gather their belongings, bidding each other sleepy good-nights as they trailed effortfully toward the house in Signor Strega-Borgia's wake.

In the silence of the wine cellar, Luciano retrieved one of his precious bottles of Barolo and one each of elderflower champagne and peach nectar. He placed these in a waiting picnic hamper along with some crystal gla.s.ses and t.i.tus's birthday cake. Heading into the kitchen, he was rummaging in the cutlery drawer for a corkscrew when he became aware that he was being watched. Looking up, he noticed a strangely dressed woman peering at him through tottering piles of dirty dishes. Signor Strega-Borgia blinked. Had he missed one? Was this one of Baci's colleagues he'd somehow managed to overlook during the previous week?

The stranger smiled and removed her tricorned hat by way of greeting. "At last," she said, in evident relief. "Perhaps you can help-"

Luciano stared. The stranger was dressed like a coachman straight out of a fairy tale, with white wig and knee breeches adding to the overall effect.

"Um . . . I don't think we're interviewing for staff at the moment," he murmured, wondering where on earth this vision had appeared from.

"I don't want a job," the stranger sighed. "I want to go back to being a rat again." Seeing Luciano's expression instantly change from one of slight confusion to total bewilderment, she explained, "I'm Mult.i.tudina. You know? Your house-rat? Mother of mult.i.tudes, including Terminus? Pandora's trainer? The Illiterat? Oh, come on-"

"Lovely . . . ," Luciano mumbled, backing out of the kitchen, convinced that he was conversing with a madwoman. "Sorry, must dash-"

Eavesdropping halfway along the corridor, Astoroth was almost as confused as Signor Strega-Borgia. Upon arrival back at StregaSchloss, newly reincarnated as an insect, he'd been dismayed to find that the Chronostone was nowhere to be seen. He could have sworn it had been under the grandfather clock in the great hall; this sighting was backed up by the fact that he'd seen the dragon's blood fluoresce just before taking a bullet in his rear end. But now, to his dismay, not only was there no clock, but the stone appeared to have vanished, too. To add to his difficulties, the Boss hadn't lied about the presence of thousands of willing members of the opposite s.e.x. . . . Everywhere Astoroth went there appeared to be millions of leering males, baring their teeth and waggling their proboscises in a truly loathsome fas.h.i.+on. The promised pools of cool water turned out to be stagnant puddles-and thus far, the guaranteed food supply that had been part of the job description had failed to materialize, and Astoroth was ravenous. Caught in the draft caused by Luciano's hasty pa.s.sage along the corridor, the reincarnated demon found himself being swept out the front door and straight into the company of all the Strega-Borgias, beasts, and staff, who had a.s.sembled on the lawn to witness t.i.tus opening his birthday present.

"Most extraordinary . . . ," Luciano muttered, laying his hamper down on the gra.s.s. "Do you know I just found a complete stranger in our kitchen claiming that she's our house-rat, Mult.i.tudina? Not only that, but she appears to be dressed like a coachman out of Cinderella. . . . Baci, is she one of yours?"

Signora Strega-Borgia was staring at Damp. So, too, were Pandora and Mrs. McLachlan. Looking up from the pages of her picture book, Damp realized that she was the focus of their attention, and her bottom lip popped out in protest. Wis.h.i.+ng to avoid tears before bedtime, Mrs. McLachlan scooped her up and turned to t.i.tus.

"Right, laddie," she said. "Time for your blindfold."

"What?" groaned t.i.tus. "What's going on?"

The nanny produced a clean tea towel from the picnic hamper and bid t.i.tus tie it round his eyes. Once blindfolded, t.i.tus was carefully led by Signor and Signora Strega-Borgia across the meadow, down the bramble-clad path, and out onto the jetty, by which time he was growing understandably nervous.

"Please, not more swimming?" he begged. "Really. I've done my bit for today, haven't I, Pan?" He stood swaying at the end of the jetty until Mrs. McLachlan stepped forward to put him out of his misery.

"You can remove the blindfold now, pet," she whispered.

Fumbling with the knotted tea towel, t.i.tus wondered what his family was up to. Nearby he could hear the tide lapping at the pebbly beach and, from the sound underfoot, he knew he was standing on the jetty, but why was he here? He blinked in the light of the twilit sky, its lilac reflections scattered across Lochnagargoyle, the blindfold falling unnoticed at his feet.

"Oh yes . . . ," he breathed, catching sight of what waited for him, bobbing gently in the water. "Oh yes-oh YES-OH YESSSSSS!"

Forthcoming Attractions Astoroth leapt aside as two colossal bottles rolled toward her, halted, and then-for no obvious reason-reversed their direction and rumbled back in the direction they'd come. The deafening crashes as the contents of Luciano's picnic hamper rolled around were causing the demon to feel all too mortal. Squeezing through a gap in the wicker, she found herself once again in the open air-and, if she wasn't mistaken, within range of something edible. . . .

I can't believe I'm doing this, Astoroth said to herself, alighting on a vast chunk of pale raw meat. Inhaling deeply, all the better to savor its aroma, she plunged her proboscis straight into Damp's leg. Since gnat bites are rarely painful, Astoroth's young victim hardly registered the intrusion. Giving a quick squirt of histamine to make Damp's blood run freely, the demon-gnat settled down to the feast. So engrossed was the demon that she failed to register the presence of a spider bearing down on her. A spider with a distinctly murderous gleam in her eyes. A spider lurching in her direction with a less than full complement of limbs, which was more than made up for by her overabundance of spleen.

Tarantella paused, listening to the repulsive slurping noises coming from her enemy. She laid down a minuscule homemade crutch, with a finality that boded ill for Astoroth. It had been the stench of sulfur that had alerted the spider to the gnat's true ident.i.ty. Astoroth looked like a gnat, flew like a gnat, and certainly had the appet.i.te of a gnat, but the brimstone reek of Hades marked her out as a demon, albeit a very tiny one. Tarantella sighed with pleasure, produced a tiny lipstick from somewhere under her abdomen, and liberally applied this to her mouthparts, the absence of a mirror proving no hindrance to her skills at applying what was, in essence, war paint. Grooming her remaining legs with a bone comb, she a.s.sessed how best to dispatch the demon. Tear its legs off? No, no, no-way too simplistic. t.i.t-for-tat was such a mug's game. No, what was needed was a creative way to best exact her revenge on the monster that had amputated her eighth leg. . . .

Waving from the sh.o.r.e, Mrs. McLachlan was unaware that the Strega-Borgias were in such close proximity to the newly reincarnated demon Astoroth. Had she known, she wouldn't have hesitated to fling herself fully clothed into the loch and swim out to where the family floated in blissful ignorance of the demon in their midst. They rocked gently as t.i.tus plied the oars on the little rowboat that was the best birthday present he'd ever had in his thirteen years on the planet.

"Look," Pandora said, "your boat's so new that there's still sap oozing out of its planks. . . ."

Under one of these planks that formed a seat in the bow, Tarantella reached out a hairy limb and plucked Astoroth off Damp's leg. Before the demon could open her gnat's mouth in protest, she found herself overwhelmed by something sticky and suffocatingly redolent of pines. Whatever the something was, it crushed her antennae, flooded her staring eyes, seeped past her mandibles, and trickled into her gizzard-thus coating her, inside and out, in viscous glop. Tarantella regarded her handiwork with satisfaction before flicking the resinous droplet into Lochnagargoyle to jump-start its chemical transformation from pine sap to amber, the ultimate preservative. Amber-the substance in which insects dating back to the Stone Age have been found conserved, their tiny bodies imprisoned for eternity.

"I love that smell," Signor Strega-Borgia said, sniffing appreciatively. "Reminds me of the forests near my father's house when I was small. . . ." He reached into the picnic basket and withdrew a bottle and three gla.s.ses. "Elderflower champagne, or peach nectar?"

The diminutive figures of Latch and Mrs. McLachlan waving from the sh.o.r.e receded as t.i.tus sculled out farther into the loch. The sky had faded to a deep purple and the evening's first stars were beginning to appear. Overhead, Ffup and Sab circled, their wings hardly moving as they worked the thermals rising from Lochnagargoyle's surrounding hills. With a discreet pop, Luciano withdrew the cork from his h.o.a.rded Barolo, and poured a tiny mouthful for his wife and a gla.s.sful for himself.

"I'd, um-ah," he began, looking across to where Baci smiled encouragingly at him. "Yes . . . er, children. Raise your gla.s.ses to-er . . ."

t.i.tus and Pandora peered at their father in confusion. Damp, not understanding the importance of gla.s.ses full of peach nectar, hurled hers over the side of the boat. Recognizing the bottle of Barolo to be one of the pair her father had rescued from Fiamma d'Infer, Pandora's curiosity grew exponentially. She was at the point of asking what exactly they were celebrating when the answer arrived fully formed in her mind.

"No-NO, DON'T!" t.i.tus shrieked, as a gigantic head broke the surface of the water ahead, followed by several serpentine coils that reared alarmingly above their tiny boat.

"Dinnae get your knickers in a twist, son," the Sleeper hissed. "I've no capsized a boat yet, and I'm no about to start now." Then, clearing his throat with a sound like an industrial espresso-maker, the Sleeper began to serenade his distant girlfriend, Ae fond kiss . . . and then we sever.

I love youse and . . . och, whatever.

"That's not the version that I'm familiar with . . . ," Baci murmured, her eyes sparkling.

Bonnie little dragon-mither

Ae fond kiss . . . I'm yours forever.

So marry me, and dinnae dither.

Overcome with embarra.s.sment, the gigantic beast sank back beneath the surface of Lochnagargoyle and, to the family's delight, initiated the most stunning display of phosph.o.r.escence they'd ever seen.

"Okay, okay-I'm impressed!" Ffup shouted, arrowing down to the loch to retrieve her embarra.s.sed swain. She splash-landed with wings outspread and her jaws in a wide grin. The Sleeper's head reappeared, beet-red with mortification, and he immediately closed his eyes as Ffup launched herself across the loch to wrap her wings round his neck.

"I will!" she squeaked. "I do . . . I mean yes!" She flapped a paw in the direction of the watching Strega-Borgias. "And they'll be delighted to do all the catering, the flowers, the invitations, and all that stuff. Oh, I can't wait to tell Nestor. . . . I'm going to be a teenage bride-"

Overhead, Sab flew back to the sh.o.r.e to inform his fellow-beasts about Ffup's forthcoming nuptials. "What an airhead," he muttered, dreading the girly excesses to come, but pleased that someone, at last, was going to make an honest dragon of his colleague.

"Is that what we're raising our gla.s.ses to?" t.i.tus said, peering at the bubbles rising to the surface of his elderflower champagne.

"I don't think so," Pandora whispered, wondering when her father was going to stop staring off into s.p.a.ce and Get On With It. From the faraway sh.o.r.e came a round of applause and wild whoops as Sab delivered the glad tidings of Ffup's wedding to the waiting beasts. Damp crawled over t.i.tus's legs and into Signora Strega-Borgia's arms, gazing up at her father, who appeared to be about to say something, since he kept opening his mouth and then closing it again.

"So . . . ," he managed at last, his voice strangely hoa.r.s.e. "I'm, ah . . . we're, um . . . that is to say . . . er-your mother . . ."

Baci rolled her eyes. At this rate it would be dawn before Luciano managed to get the words out and, if she wasn't mistaken, Pandora knew already, judging by the huge smile on her face.

"Children"-Signor Strega-Borgia took a deep breath-"your mother and I are delighted-" He stopped, raised his gla.s.s to his lips, paused, brought it up to eye level, and looked into it, as if it alone understood what he was going through, then continued, "We've just found out . . . well, no, actually it was this morning when-the most amazing thing. . . . Next New Year there'll be a . . ."

Taking pity on her father, Pandora patted him on the arm and raised her gla.s.s, nudging t.i.tus with her foot. "A toast-to all of us, especially our new baby."

t.i.tus's jaw dropped, then, catching Pandora's eye, he immediately closed his mouth.

"Congratulations, Mum and Dad," Pandora continued. "Well done, both of you."

t.i.tus blushed. Stop . . . stop, please, he silently begged his sister. Too much information. He knew where babies came from, but he'd tried to forget exactly how they got there in the first place. Eughhhh. Grown-ups? Disgusting. However, he reminded himself, he had concrete evidence that one day he would be one, too. But not, thankfully, for ages yet. Cheered enormously by this thought, he raised his gla.s.s and toasted the new little stranger in their midst.

"What shall I wear?" Ffup muttered to herself, unable to settle to sleep in the dungeon. Beside her, Nestor snored faintly, his long tail coiled round himself, an old teddy of t.i.tus's tucked in one paw.

"Purple velvet? Red? Ugh, no, it would clash with my scales-um . . . blue? Oh, divine . . . perfect-blue velvet, with silvery details . . ."

"Shut up, would you?" groaned Sab, rolling over and stuffing his ears with straw in an attempt to block out Ffup's ravings.

"And my flowers . . . ," the dragon continued, oblivious to her fellow dungeon-mates. "Blue, I think . . . and white, um-"

"Forget-me-nots," suggested Tarantella.

"No I won't," declared Knot, outraged at the suggestion. "I'll never forget you."

"I wish," growled Sab, sitting up and glaring at Ffup. "How long are you going to drag out this wedding? How many more nights of broken sleep am I going to have to endure before you finally get married to your giant eel?"

"He's not an eel," Ffup squeaked. "He's a beast, just like we are."

"Speak for yourself," Tarantella muttered. "I'm an arachnid, myself. Although-" She dropped her voice to a whisper and added, "I'm not going to be by myself for much longer. . . ."

Down at the jetty, t.i.tus's birthday present rocked gently at anchor. Inside it, under one of the seats, hundreds of baby spiders hung suspended in an egg-sac waiting till the time was ripe for hatching. A little sign written in lipstick beside them read:

Gliossary.

ALLOPATHICA FOR ARACHNIDAE: This is a surgeon's manual of correct procedure when operating on eight-legged hairinesses. Nope, I don't know how to p.r.o.nounce it, either.

AND FIR WHIT?: Meaning, and for what? p.r.o.nounced exactly as it is written.

ASTON MARTIN: The car of this author's dreams. Made in England, by hand as opposed to machine, this car is so fast and so ridiculously expensive that only the seriously wealthy can afford one. When the engine is turned over, the ground around the car vibrates. The seats are covered in hand-st.i.tched leather hide, the dashboard is carved from a single piece of wood and burnished to a deep gloss by a wee man wielding a tin of beeswax and a cloth. It's the kind of car that makes heads turn, grown men weep, and petrol-heads the world over salivate uncontrollably. As driven by Mr. James Bond. p.r.o.nounced a.s.s-tin mart-in.

AVE: As in "Ave, Caledon." Not a reversal and contraction of Caledon Avenue, but a form of greeting employed by Ancient Romans. Meaning roughly, "Hi, Caledon." p.r.o.nounced ah-vey.

AWFY SAD, YON: Translates as "that's deeply tragic, that is," said with deep sincerity and accompanied if possible by eyes that are on the verge of "gaunny chuck it doon." p.r.o.nounced aw-fay sad, yawn.

AWW, COME OAN, HEN: Placatory Glaswegian phrase, always used by a male to a female. Hen is the female form of jimmy, which is a blanket term for a Glaswegian man. "Aww, come oan, hen," thus loosely translates as "don't give me a hard time, woman." p.r.o.nounced aw, come oh-ahn, hen (in a faintly whiny voice).

THE BOGS: Scottish slang for bathroom. p.r.o.nounced bawg-z.

BONNIE LITTLE DRAGON-MITHER: Compliments in Glasgow rarely come higher than this, with occasional use of pure dead brilliant as a long-winded addition to bonnie. Straight translation is "beautiful little mother to dragons." Awww, the Sleeper does love his wee Ffup. p.r.o.nounced baw-nay little dragon mih-theh-rr.

CARA MIA: Italian for "my darling." Aww, isn't that nice, Luciano does love Baci. p.r.o.nounced car-ah mee-ah.

A CASUAL CACK: Slang for a recreational dump/poo. Derived from the Italian caca. p.r.o.nounced to rhyme with snack. On second thought, perhaps not. Let's try to rhyme with sack.

CLUDGIE: Affectionate name for toilet. Although why one would want to refer affectionately to what is, in essence, a poo depository, is quite beyond the limitations of this glossary. p.r.o.nounced cluh-jee, to rhyme with budgie.

DINNAE DITHER: Literally, don't dawdle, get a move on. p.r.o.nounced dih-nay dih-theh-rr.

DOLL MADS: The correct spelling, according to locals on the Greek island of Crete, is "dolmades." Totally delicious (no, really) little parcels of minced lamb and mint wrapped in vine-leaves and oven-baked till ready. p.r.o.nounced doll-mad-ez.

ENGINE ILE: Dialect for engine oil. p.r.o.nounced igh-ill (who'd've thought such a wee word could have two syllables?) FIREBOX OF THE RANGE: Not a reference to firearms, or shooting ranges, but merely a nod to the Strega-Borgia's oven. Dear reader, imagine a vast range-type cooker/oven, in this case a cream enamel color, powered by a mixture of coal and wood that burns within the firebox, thus heating the following: four ovens behind four doors at the front of the range, a platewarming oven, a simmering oven, a baking oven, and a roasting oven. On top of the range are two vast, round, hinged lids, which when opened reveal a simmering plate and a boiling plate. To one side of these is a flat metal sheet known as the warming plate. Always on, always warm, the range is an essential part of Scottish country houses on the same scale as Strega-Schloss. Without it the Strega-Borgias would freeze to death.

FLOREAT AETHERUM: Arcane enchantment dating back to Roman times. A rough translation is "the continued health, happiness, and flowering of the etheric medium." Nope, I'm not going to tell you how to do it. What d'you take me for? A witch? p.r.o.nounced flaw-ray-at eeth-er-um.

GAUNNY CHUCK IT DOON: Translates roughly as "it's going to pour with rain." Said with unusual relish (especially to visiting tourists) in Scotland, which is unused to precipitation on such a grand scale. p.r.o.nounced gaw-nay chuck it doon.

IL GRANDE PARMIGIANO: Slang for the Boss, the C.E.O., he-who-must-be-obeyed. p.r.o.nounced eel gran-day par-meedj-eeh-ah-no.

IN NOMINE FLORIS-APERTE: Without giving too much away, this means "in the name of the G.o.ddess Flora [not Mrs. McLachlan, incidentally]-open." Frequently muttered by amateur Celtic gardeners during a wet summer, when one's flowers remain squeezed shut. p.r.o.nounced een naw-meen-ay floh-ris-ah-per-tay.

LEGLESS: In this case not a reference to a state of being without lower limbs, but to a state of being intoxicated by alcohol. Also known as puh-shhed, shlaughtered, shquiffy, and- boringly, tediously-drunk. p.r.o.nounced leg-lesh.

MAH: Not a blood relation, but merely Glaswegian for the possessive p.r.o.noun "my."

PANFORTE AND CANTUCCINI: Gosh, it must be getting close to lunchtime. PANFORTE (literal translation-strong bread) is a kind of Italian cake made from almonds, honey, candied citrus peel, and a tiny amount of flour to keep it all hanging together. p.r.o.nounced pan-for-tay. CANTUCCINI are little dry, dry, dryyyy biscuits studded with whole-sh.e.l.l almonds. p.r.o.nounced can-too-chee-knee.

POOR WEE BAIRNS: Translates as "the poor little children," said with maudlin sentimentality. p.r.o.nounced poor wee bay-rin-z.

PURE DEAD BRILLIANT: In common with this book's predecessors (Pure Dead Magic and Pure Dead Wicked), this Glaswegian phrase means "very fine indeed, verging on the excellent." A word of warning, however. If p.r.o.nouncing this t.i.tle in Glasgow, to avoid being slandered as a complete numpty, you might want to say it: pew-rr dehhd brull-yant.