Pure Dead Brilliant Part 2

"Mmmm. Yummy," lied Signora Strega-Borgia, trying to edge past without inhaling. "Gosh, Marie, how, um . . . inventive."

The cook frowned and shrugged modestly, causing the sea slugs to quiver revoltingly. "Ees doll mads," she muttered. "For the Seenyora's veezitors."

"Super," gasped Signora Strega-Borgia, hoping she could squeeze past into the great hall before she had to draw breath.

"Ees verr hard to cook, zis." Marie Bain propped the tray against the kitchen door handle and sniffed wetly. "Ees no vine leafs, zo I use nettles instead. Ees no mince lamb, zo I find some ox-liver in freezer and use zat. Ees no meurrrnt in z'erb garden, zo-"

Trying to stem this ghastly tide of culinary horror, Signora Strega-Borgia interrupted. "Golly. Heavens. How resourceful, Marie. But goodness, must dash, guests arriving-" She pushed past the cook and bolted along the corridor to the great hall, but not before she heard Marie say, ". . . zo I find ze citronella and use zat instead . . . ," followed by a resounding crash as the tray slipped off the door handle and mercifully tipped its entire contents over the floor.

Citronella? Signora Strega-Borgia shuddered. Citronella was what the family used as their last bastion of defense against the gnats. Citronella was the evil-scented oil with which one slathered one's skin prior to braving the infested air of Argyll. The little bottle of citronella oil was still in its accustomed place in a niche by the front door, but Signora Strega-Borgia found it to be empty. She opened the door and looked across the drive to where the balloon hovered at head height above the meadow, surrounded by beasts, all yelling helpful instructions to the pa.s.senger in the gondola, who was obscured by clouds of insects and clearly in need of some help.

"Hold on!" called Signora Strega-Borgia, shrouding her head in a length of black silk to keep the gnats off her face. "I'm coming. Don't panic!"

To Ariadne Ventete, the vision of Signora Strega-Borgia hurtling across the meadow toward her was not comforting. Maddened by gnat bites, deafened by yelling dragons and griffins, utterly confused by waving crocodiles and giant sulky dogs, she a.s.sumed that she had stumbled into a Caledonian version of h.e.l.l. Furthering this impression, she saw the figure-swathed in deepest black, lacking only the skull and sickle of popular imagery-of the Grim Reaper, racing across the meadow to greet her. Raising her wand above her head, Ariadne stammered out what she fervently hoped was the correct incantation to ward off her fate.

With a flash and an accompanying crash of thunder, the hapless balloonist was instantly surrounded by a vast circle of fire. The beasts took several leaps backward out of harm's way, and Signora Strega-Borgia tripped over a trailing length of black silk and fell flat on her face. Then came an immense crack as all eighteen ropes suspending the wicker gondola under the balloon charred, blackened, and snapped. With a shriek, Ariadne plunged to the ground as the balloon, free of all restraint, shot up into the sky.

The Coven Cometh The sight of a vast pink tent-thing ascending through the air over Lochnagargoyle caused Signor Luciano Strega-Borgia to floor the accelerator and race for home. In the rear of the car, t.i.tus and Pandora pressed their faces to the windows and gazed out in awe. Sadly, their father was less impressed.

"For heaven's sake, Baci," he hissed, swerving perilously along the bramble-clad track that led from the village of Auchenlochtermuchty to StregaSchloss. "What madness is this?"

"Yup," said t.i.tus, inwardly wincing. "That looks like one of Mum's dodgy spells."

"Giant pink pants floating across Lochnagargoyle?" groaned Pandora. "How embarra.s.sing."

Their car drew closer to StregaSchloss, a break in the trees allowing them a brief view of the waters of the loch. In the distance they saw a s.h.i.+p in full sail, with its wake cutting a perfect line through the reflection of the floating balloon. The sails filled with wind, and a line of white foam was etched in the wake. t.i.tus could just make out a skull and crossbones flying from the top mast.

"What an amazing boat . . . ," murmured Pandora. "Wonder where it's going?"

Their view of the loch was again obscured by a clump of densely planted chestnut trees. Signor Strega-Borgia stopped in front of a car parked across the ornately carved bronze gate that barred the drive to StregaSchloss.

"We appear to have a visitor," he remarked, pulling on the hand brake and opening his window. The car ahead was a s.h.i.+ny black convertible with its roof firmly closed. The driver's door gaped open and a woman could be seen peering through the gate with the aid of opera gla.s.ses. She turned to greet them, smiling uncertainly as she tucked a tendril of her unruly black hair behind one ear.

"It's locked," she said apologetically, indicating the gate. "And I'm afraid I was expected at the house by . . ." She paused, rummaged in a pocket of her leather jacket, and produced an exquisitely fas.h.i.+oned silver pocket watch, at which she peered through her gla.s.ses. "Oh dear. Ten minutes ago."

"It's not locked," said Signor Strega-Borgia, opening his car door and stepping out to explain. "It's just jammed shut. Look, I'll show you."

"Thank you so much," said the woman, peering in at t.i.tus and Pandora through the windows. "I'm sorry. How rude of me-let me introduce myself. I'm one of Baci's colleagues from the inst.i.tute-name's Hecate Brinstone, but most people call me Heck. . . . And you must be Luciano, t.i.tus, and Pandora. Baci has told me so much about you."

Signor Strega-Borgia hauled open the rusty, screeching gate and secured it to a stone pillar with a frayed bit of baling twine.

"There," he said. "Not locked at all. Just showing its age like most things in these parts." He held out his hand to Heck and smiled. "Welcome to StregaSchloss."

It was at this precise moment that they all became aware of a distant whinnying sound. Around where they stood, the tops of the chestnut trees whipped and tossed, as if being bent aside by some colossal force.

"What the-?" Signor Strega-Borgia threw himself full-length on top of the astonished Heck just as something rocketed past overhead, displacing so much air that for an instant their ears popped-and then it was gone, leaving broken twigs and leaves swirling behind. t.i.tus craned forward in his seat to afford himself a better view.

Thundering toward StregaSchloss came thirteen ink-black horses, their eyes blinkered, their hooves thirty feet above the drive. Steam poured from their nostrils with the effort of pulling a windowless carriage behind them, its wheels spinning wildly out of control. Climbing slowly to his feet and helping Heck to stand, Signor Strega-Borgia brushed dust from his clothes and squinted into the distance. As the carriage neared StregaSchloss, they could all hear the horses scream as they slowed to take the curve onto the rose-quartz courtyard in front of the house.

"What a show-off," muttered Heck, picking twigs and leaves from her hair. "She threatened to pull a stunt like this."

Pandora opened her door and climbed out gingerly. "What was that?" she asked, pointing to StregaSchloss, where the carriage had pulled up in front of the house, still at treetop height, the peaks of Mhoire Ochone eerily visible through the bodies of the horses.

"That was Fiamma d'Infer and her precious hea.r.s.e," Heck stated, investing each word with as much contempt as she could muster. "Fiamma, our very own rich witch, heiress, society beauty, ex-model, ex-musician, ex-sculptor, and probably, if she keeps on with her dangerous practices at the inst.i.tute, ex-witch as well-"

"Look-the boat!" interrupted Pandora. "It's dropped anchor opposite the house. And there's an inflatable dinghy tied up at the jetty . . . it must belong to another of Mum's guests."

"Yup," agreed Heck. "That belongs to Black Douglas, our only male cla.s.smate-used to be a publisher on one of the big London papers, but he decided to chuck it and enroll at the inst.i.tute. Nice boat . . ."

"Who are all those people on board?" Signor Strega-Borgia's voice betrayed just the faintest hint of apprehension.

"I can't see too well," said Heck, gla.s.ses pressed up against her nose, "but I imagine that'll be the rest of our cla.s.s. . . ." She sighed. "And as usual, I'll be last to arrive."

"How many students did you say were in your cla.s.s?" Signor Strega-Borgia batted a cloud of gnats away from his face as he spoke.

"I didn't say, but in total there are one hundred and sixty-nine-thirteen groups of thirteen."

"Honestly, I do wish your mother was a little less vague about arrangements sometimes." Signor Strega-Borgia addressed the retreating figure of Pandora, who was heading back to the car in an attempt to avoid the gnats. "She told me she'd invited a few colleagues over for a couple of nights' study leave."

"Oh dear," said Heck, her eyes sliding away from Signor Strega-Borgia. "Um, not exactly. My impression was that Baci has invited all twelve of us over here for about a week's study leave, actually. . . ." Her voice trailed off and she added, "But we could put up at the local hotel if you don't have enough room."

In front of them lay the turreted ma.s.s of StregaSchloss, its ninety-six rooms, wine cellar, dungeons, and sprawling attic looking as though it could easily offer hospitality to a small country without feeling too stretched. Signor Strega-Borgia sighed. It would be churlish to turn Baci's colleagues away. Undoubtedly there was ample room for all the guests; there was probably enough food; Latch would manage to sc.r.a.pe together a quant.i.ty of linen and bedding to ensure sweet dreams for everyone, but- Pandora had reached the car and discovered that t.i.tus had activated its central locking system. He was stretched out across the backseat, headphones clamped to his ears, eyes shut, arms flailing as he played an imaginary set of drums in time to some internal rhythm. In an attempt to draw his attention to her gnat-bitten plight, she yelled, "Open up-I'm being devoured out here-t.i.tus!

"t.i.tUS! Open. The. DOOR!" Pandora scratched frantically with one hand, hammering the winds.h.i.+eld with the palm of the other. t.i.tus's eyes sprang open and he abruptly stopped playing air-drums. A puzzled expression crossed his face as he opened the door for his sister. He removed the headphones from his ears and frowned at them.

"Weird," he muttered, looking out of the window to where Heck and his dad stood. The student witch met his eye and winked. Just once, but unmistakably a wink meant just for t.i.tus.

"What's weird?" asked Pandora, flopping onto the seat beside him.

"My CD stopped in mid-track," said t.i.tus, "and just for a second or two, I could hear a woman saying, 'Open the car door, t.i.tus-your sister's waiting'-and then the music started up again."

"Big deal." Pandora waved a dismissive hand in Heck's direction. "She's a witch. They're all witches. They'll all be pulling weird kinds of stunts while . . . while . . ." Her voice trailed off and she blinked, rubbing her eyes and frowning. With a wave, Signor Strega-Borgia began to walk back to their car, and Heck climbed into hers and closed the door.

"What? While what?" demanded t.i.tus. "I hate it when you just trail off in mid-sentence like that."

"Did you see that?" squeaked Pandora. "Her car-that black thing-it just changed into a pumpkin, just for a second, a pumpkin pulled by rats. . . ."

"I don't know if I'm up for this," groaned t.i.tus. "All Mum's cla.s.smates, all of them probably as incompetent as Mum, every last one of them trying to outdo the rest. We'll be falling over cauldrons and being stabbed by pointy hats while they're houseguests. They'll all want frogs for breakfast-they'll take over the was.h.i.+ng machine with endless black robes needing laundering-the fridge will be stuffed full of tincture of maggot and bottles of newts' eyeb.a.l.l.s in brine-the house'll stink of brimstone and candle wax-"

As Heck started her car, a puff of small black bats emerged squeaking and chittering from the exhaust. Seeing this, t.i.tus slumped back in his seat and rolled his eyes meaningfully. Signor Strega-Borgia did not seem inclined to be cheerful either. The remainder of the drive to StregaSchloss took place in uninterrupted silence as the three Strega-Borgias individually contemplated the current invasion of their home by twelve proto-sorcerers.

Slightly Damp Left to finish licking the contents of a mixing bowl in the kitchen, Damp decided to explore. She slid off her seat and teetered off along the corridor, still clutching a sticky wooden spoon. In the great hall beasts galloped back and forth, ferrying steamer trunks, hatboxes, suitcases, cauldrons in aluminium flight cases, and a.s.sorted items of designer luggage up from the sh.o.r.e of Lochnagargoyle to the interior of StregaSchloss. Strange grown-ups wandered in and out of the house and, to Damp's delight, no one paid her the least bit of attention. Laboriously she crawled upstairs, stopping to peer through the banister rails at the activity below.

Latch staggered through the front door bearing Ariadne Ventete in his arms. Since he was still heavily bandaged and caked in flaking calamine lotion, he bore an uncanny resemblance to the leading character in Return of the Mummy, an effect not lost on Ariadne. She had taken one look at the butler's eyes twinkling at her through bloodstained bandages and promptly pa.s.sed out.

Un.o.bserved, Damp continued up the stairs till she reached the second floor. Ahead, the corridor branched off in four different directions. Damp sucked her wooden spoon as she considered which way to go, then caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye. Ambling down the sunny corridor that stretched along the south face of StregaSchloss was a large rat holding an open picture book. It read the story to itself under its breath. Curious, Damp crawled closer to see what the rat was reading. The ill.u.s.tration on the book's cover was of a girl asleep in a bed surrounded by roses.

No, don't tell me, Damp thought, nibbling her wooden spoon to aid concentration, let me guess. I know I know that one-Cinderella? No. Hasn't got a gla.s.s shoe. Snow White? No. Girl hasn't got black hair and isn't sleeping in a gla.s.s box-thing. . . . Goldilocks? Nope, no bears . . . Wait a minute, it's-it's-"

"SLEEPING BEAUTY!" Damp yelled in triumph.

Mult.i.tudina looked up from her book with a squeak. "Is that how you p.r.o.nounce it? No wonder it wasn't making much sense. I thought it was Sleeping Boaty. . . . Oh, sigh. That's what comes of being an Illiterat-" And dropping the book in disgust onto the floor, the rat scuttled off down the corridor and disappeared round a corner. Following this intriguing rodent, Damp found herself outside a door that was half-open, warm spring suns.h.i.+ne spilling through the gap. She pushed the door wide and crawled into the room to reconnoiter. In the middle of the room the shapes of furniture could just be discerned under their shrouds of dust sheets. The carpet had been rolled up and the curtains removed for storage-but despite being unlived-in, the room felt warm and welcoming.

Crawling across the bare floorboards to the windows, Damp sneezed, sending a cloud of dust dancing upward. Caught in a beam of sunlight, the dust sparkled as it was sent spiraling to the ceiling, catching Damp's attention. She batted at it with her wooden spoon, making it dance and swirl. Engrossed, the baby narrowed her eyes and looped her spoon in wild circles in the air, faster and faster, in wider sweeps, more and more, and . . .

"Pretty!" Damp cried, as suddenly the air was full of roses-ma.s.ses of them-their pink and cream blossoms suspended in the suns.h.i.+ne, with only the odd falling petal obeying the dictates of gravity. Delighted by this, Damp stood up and waved her spoon extravagantly round her head like a demented conductor. More roses appeared-wine-red, icy white, pink streaked with gold. Amazed at the effect she was having, Damp laughed out loud, her spoon spinning in acrobatic loops and spirals, her bare feet dancing on a soft carpet of fallen petals whose perfume drenched the still air. Backing into a sofa hidden beneath its dust sheet, Damp tripped and sat down abruptly, her spoon clattering across the floor. Damp crawled over to retrieve it. She grasped it in one chubby fist and, unconsciously reversing the direction of her loops and swirls, began again. It quickly became apparent that this was not having the desired effect: to Damp's dismay, the roses began to wither and rot. Shriveling into black shapeless ma.s.ses, the once-perfect blooms began to drop a shower of beetles, slugs, and caterpillars onto the floor. In a panic, Damp waved her spoon faster, as if by speeding up she could somehow undo this unwanted decay. To the baby's utter horror, the blackened roses began to quiver and twitch, their leathery petals a.s.suming a new shape entirely. With a wail of terror, Damp recognized what the flowers were turning into- Outside, bending over a table on the front lawn, Marie Bain and Mrs. McLachlan were laying out the best china for afternoon tea. Hearing a distant but familiar scream, Mrs. McLachlan looked up at the house. Unable to see Damp at any of the windows, she was, however, alarmed at the sight of hundreds of bats squeezing out of a half-open window on the second floor. Without hesitating, she sprinted across the lawn and up the stone steps, bolted through the front door-sending hatboxes rolling across the hall-and took the stairs three at a time. She arrived breathless and shaking in the room where Damp had crawled shrieking under a dust sheet, still hanging on to her spoon. The nanny plucked the screaming baby up in her arms and ran out into the safety of the corridor, slamming the door shut behind her.

"Och, pet," Mrs. McLachlan whispered, stroking Damp's trembling shoulders. "What have you done?" With a furtive look to make sure that there was no one around, she bore the child off to the nursery. Locking the door behind her, she carried Damp to the rocking chair, brushed aside a pile of darning lying folded on the seat, and, with a huge sigh, slumped down with the baby on her lap. Since her employment as nanny at StregaSchloss nearly a year before, Flora McLachlan had been dreading this moment. A true witch herself, Mrs. McLachlan had recognized Damp as one, too, from the first moment she had held the baby in her arms. Hoping to postpone the day when Damp discovered her own latent powers, the nanny had encouraged the adult Strega-Borgias in their mistaken a.s.sumption that the only witch at StregaSchloss was Damp's mother, the wildly enthusiastic but truly incompetent Signora Strega-Borgia. Mrs. McLachlan had long acquaintance with the necessity of hiding her own considerable gifts under the sensible, unflappable guise of a boring old nanny. Now she considered how best to disguise Damp's newfound gift for sorcery-and how to protect the baby from inadvertently alerting beings from the darker end of the magical spectrum to her presence.

"Heavens above, my wee pet," she whispered, stroking the child's soft hair. "How are we going to keep you a secret?"

Mrs. McLachlan was used to keeping things hidden, but she suspected that Signora Strega-Borgia would be unable to remain silent about Damp's abilities for very long. Moreover, to allow Damp to develop her true potential powers, it was vitally important that the baby received instruction from a true adept, and not from a well-intentioned amateur like her mother.

Damp looked up at her beloved nanny with a truly woebegone expression. Her lashes were stuck with tears in pointy clumps, and she sniffed, rubbing her eyes with a fist. Sitting back in the rocking chair, Mrs. McLachlan began to rock, patting the baby in her arms, the rhythm calming the nanny as much as it soothed the child. After a few minutes, she gently removed the wooden spoon from Damp's unresisting hand.

"No more wooden spoons for you, pet," she said, smiling at the baby. "In fact, anything remotely resembling a wand has to be put away out of your reach. Like Sleeping Beauty and the spindle-one slip and we're doomed."

Mud and Diamond (A.D. 130: Uncharted depths of northern Scotland) Under a dripping canopy of leaves in the heart of the Forest of Caledon, Nostrilamus picked the remains of last night's roasted hind from between his teeth and snarled at the laboring legionaries.

"Can't you lot work any faster? A bunch of eunuchs armed with toothpicks could dig faster than that. Come on, put your backs into it!"

Exhausted and dispirited, the legionaries doggedly sank their rusting spades into the mud and gritted what few remaining teeth they possessed. Hollow-cheeked and prematurely gray, the men bore little resemblance to the bronze musclemen they had been when they left the sun-kissed sh.o.r.es of Italia, full of hope and eagerly antic.i.p.ating the adventure of a posting in Caledonia. It had been three long years since they had arrived here, spades in hand, to begin this idiotic treasure hunt. Three interminable years of rain, mud, and misery. Sleeping in leaky tents, eating only what they could catch in the forest, waking every dawn to the sound of rain, and fueled on little more than acorn porridge, the legionaries began to suspect they were digging their own graves. As if that wasn't bad enough, the depressed Romans had to endure dragon attacks-which came with no warning and inevitably proved fatal.

"Hold it!" Nostrilamus left the shelter of his tree and limped toward them, his emaciated frame barely able to support the weight of his rusty armor, his boil-encrusted ankles spattered with mud from the trailing hem of his once-fine woollen cloak-now a tattered rag that gave scant warmth and served only as a reminder of how far he had fallen from grace. "There. That there. What is it?" Nostrilamus, the once autocratic Malefica of Caledon, wheezed like a set of leaky bellows as he peered into the muddy pit in which his men stood, knee-deep in icy sludge, picking fitfully at the walls of mud that rose above their heads, their battered shovels hardly equal to the task. With a clawlike hand, Nostrilamus pointed to where he could just see a shard of metal glinting in the surrounding rocks and clay. Despite prolonged burial in mud, its silver color seemed undamaged, and it was this that had drawn his eye. On shaking legs he climbed down into the pit and waded over to where his men stood propped on their shovels, praying to Jupiter that this time they'd struck pay dirt.

There had been numerous false alarms along the way: the half-buried weapons and armor of their deceased predecessors, peeled of their inedible sh.e.l.l of breastplates and helmets and devoured whole by the dragons like some soft-fleshed Italian delicacy. Astoroth's vellum map, which Nostrilamus had used to try to locate the demon's treasure, had long since disintegrated in the perpetual drizzle, but by then, having pored over it so often, the legionaries could have redrawn it in their sleep. They had dug so many holes in the hope of finding treasure that the floor of the Forest of Caledon looked as if it had been struck by a meteor shower. So the legionaries betrayed little excitement as their commander scrabbled with his fingernails at the earth surrounding the outcrop of gleaming metal.

"Yes. Yes. Yessss!" Nostrilamus hissed. "This is it! Toadflax, get over here and dig, but carefully, man-damage it and I'll have you posted to Siberius."

The chosen Toadflax sloshed forward, shovel raised to shoulder-height, and began to pick tentatively at the mud, exposing more of the strange silver metal. Beside him, Nostrilamus flapped excitedly, like a moth-eaten bat in the terminal stages of dementia. As each shovelful of mud was removed, the shape of a metal casket was revealed. Sweating with the effort, Toadflax dropped his shovel into the slurry at his feet and hauled on a corner of the casket. Making a sucking sound, it slid effortlessly out of its muddy cradle, its weight propelling the legionary backward with a grunt of surprise.

"Up here!" commanded Nostrilamus, scaling the wall of the pit with an agility at odds with his ravaged appearance. "Under the tree, quickly."

Curious to see what manner of treasure this was, all the legionaries scrambled out of the pit and gathered round their leader. Toadflax laid the casket on the ground with something approaching reverence. His brow furrowed in concentration, he pointed to where a series of marks were embossed in the metal.

"Begging your pardon, Caledon, but what's that then? Those weird symbols on the lid? What's it say? You being schooled in the interpreting of symbols, not like us dumb squaddies."

Nostrilamus cleared his throat and leaned over the casket. Must be a name, he guessed, racking his brains in an effort to recall the alphabet used by the native Caledonians. "Sih, Ah, Mih, Sih, Aw, Nih," he p.r.o.nounced at length, peering intently at the metal and adding, "Ih, Tih, Eh-S-a-m-s-o-n-i-t-e. Never heard of him. Must be the previous owner. Well, hey, who cares? It's mine now." Prying the lid apart with the edge of his sword, he inhaled sharply.

So absorbed were they all in the sight of the jeweled contents of the Samsonite suitcase that they completely failed to notice the vast shape that had tiptoed up to stand behind them. The vast shape with an even vaster appet.i.te . . .

Wallowing comfortably in a scented pool five hundred miles away from these events in the Forest of Caledon, Astoroth heard the unmistakable sound of his cell phone ringing. Apologizing to his fellow bathers, he wrapped a linen towel around his hairy thighs and clip-clopped off to answer it, his forked tail undulating behind him. Plucking his cloak from the astonished slave in charge of the cloakroom, he headed for the privacy of the vomitorium to take the call.

"Excellent," he whispered, grinning into the mouthpiece. "What took him so long? Three years, for pity's sake! What a moron-he had the map, after all." Listening to the voice on the other end, Astoroth was momentarily distracted by the sight of a portly tribune who staggered into the vomitorium and, oblivious to the demon's presence, leant over a hole in the floor and emptied his stomach of all contents. The laurel crown on the man's head fell off into the pool of regurgitated food, and sank without a trace.

"Rrrevolting," muttered Astoroth, adding into the mouthpiece, "can't wait to be relocated in a more civilized time zone. Look, I have to go. Walls have ears and all that jazz. Does this mean I'm in line for promotion? It was I who did the deal with Nostrilamus and descendants, after all. Surely that counts for something?"

From the other end came an outraged roar, causing the demon to turn pale and blurt, "It said nothing in my contract about retrieving the Chronostone. Why are you picking on me? I've never even seen it. What does it look like?" Across the room, the tribune was fis.h.i.+ng for his laurels in what appeared to be an open sewer. Gritting his teeth, Astoroth whispered, "You're dropping me in the poo here. Are you one hundred per cent positive it's been muddled up with the gems I planted for my new client?" Trying desperately to rein in his thoughts, the demon groaned. Even if he set off on horseback immediately, he'd never make it up to the Forest of Caledon in time to find the suitcase. That meant hanging around in this hideous time zone till Nostrilamus popped his clogs and had a soul ripe for harvest. . . . By then, the Chronostone could be anywhere. Still, the demon reasoned, anything was better than crawling back to the Hadean Executive with the happy tidings that he, Astoroth, had somehow managed to lose the Boss's most prized possession. With this in mind, he pleaded with the voice on the other end of the line, "Look, I'll try and get it back before anyone notices. For my sake, please don't let the Boss know it's, ah . . . missing, or he'll relocate me as a c.o.c.kroach in Moscow. . . ."

Night fell in the Forest of Caledon. Helmets lay abandoned in the ferns, swords littered the mud, and a watery moonlight picked out the battlefield where Nostrilamus's legionaries had failed to defend themselves against the dragon attack.

Drawn, not by the smell of unwashed humans, but by the brilliant light that poured out of the excavated casket, the dragon had stood statue-still behind the legionaries, watching as each rope of pearls, each little leather pouch of rubies, emeralds, and sapphires had been plucked from the h.o.a.rd-until at last, at the very bottom of the pile, Nostrilamus came upon the single stone whose brilliance made all the other jewels seem dull and tawdry by comparison.

At that point the dragon cleared her throat and announced her presence. "I'll have that, squirt," she growled, stepping forward to claim the egg-sized diamond. "I've been hunting for yon earring for eons. Pa.s.s it over," and extending a ma.s.sive, taloned paw, she shouldered through the terror-stricken circle of legionaries.

If only they hadn't put up such a fight, she thought, patting her vast belly with faint regret. Italian food was so fattening. She'd let the scrawniest one go, watching in amus.e.m.e.nt as he ran screaming into the forest, gemstones spilling from his pockets, sheer terror giving his feet wings. Self-preservation overcoming his greed, Nostrilamus had abandoned the most precious treasure of all without a backward glance.

"Silly boy," the dragon whispered, reclining in her roost at the top of a Scots pine and reaching up with one talon to check that her long-lost earring was safely in place. It dangled from her ear, each facet of the diamond-like stone catching the moonlight and sending sparkling reflections dancing across the clutch of eggs beneath the dragon's belly. With no desire other than self-adornment, the dragon had no idea of the immense power currently decorating her ear. In its time, the gem had been given many names-Precious, Pericola d'Illuminem, Ignea Lucifer-names spoken in many tongues and in as many countries across the world as it was traded, pa.s.sed on, inherited, and fought over. It answered to one name only, however, and that was Chronostone, the Stone of Time.

Scary Biscuits Afternoon tea on the lawn had evolved into supper, and despite the gnats and the slight chill in the air, the Strega-Borgias and their guests still sat outside round the table. The light in the sky had faded to a dusky lavender, so Latch had hung several lanterns from the lower branches of a flowering cherry tree. Tock and Ffup had combined their swimming and fire-lighting skills to send a flotilla of candles set on lily pads floating serenely across the moat. Black Douglas produced a three-quarter-sized violin from a small case and, tucking the tiny instrument under his beard, proceeded to draw from it a haunting melody. Round the table conversation ebbed and flowed, the music weaving in and out of the voices like an endless ribbon. Even Mrs. McLachlan relaxed her hawk-like watch over Damp and, closing her eyes, sighed with deep contentment.

"They played that tune at our wedding, didn't they, darling?" Signora Strega-Borgia said to her husband, wis.h.i.+ng to somehow lighten his mood. Luciano was not for cheering up, however. The hideous prospect of a week of wall-to-wall houseguests stretched out interminably ahead of him, and he declined to reply.

"Oh, Luciano, surely you remember this bit. . . ." And hoping that music might reach the parts that her words were failing to touch, Signora Strega-Borgia began to sing in harmony with the violin. "Ae fond kiss, and then we sever. . . ."

Walking across the lawn with a lit candelabra in each hand, Latch stopped abruptly. That song . . . His eyes filled with tears as the music tugged at his memory. In childhood, his mother had sung the same melody to soothe him to sleep. . . .

Even t.i.tus for once failed to be embarra.s.sed by his mother's behavior. He'd always loved the sound of her singing and here, looking at the candlelit heads round the table, he knew that they, too, were caught in his mother's spell. All except Fiamma d'Infer were swaying in time to the music-but she alone sat rigid, her mouth curled in a sneer. Across the table, Damp appeared to be conducting Signora Strega-Borgia, using an unlit candle as a baton. . . .

Mrs. McLachlan suddenly snapped out of her reverie. Something had dropped into her lap and was scrabbling back up on the tablecloth. Peering down, she found a small gingerbread man, one of a trayful she'd baked that morning-now no longer inert cookie dough, but fully alive and, alarmingly, very vocal.

"Nya-nya-nya, nyaa-nyaa, you can't catch me!" it squeaked, adding somewhat redundantly, "I'm the Gingerbread Man." As if to underline this, the animated biscuit ran a lap around the table, vaulting over winegla.s.ses and clearing knives and forks with one bound. Sensing the disturbance, Signora Strega-Borgia trailed off in mid-song and looked to Mrs. McLachlan for understanding.

"Must be weevils in the flour," muttered the nanny, reaching out to catch the running figure as it sped past her outstretched hand.

"I don't think so. . . ." Fiamma d'Infer expertly speared the Gingerbread Man on the end of her fork. To Mrs. McLachlan's horror, she brought the squealing little figure up to her mouth and, with a vicious smirk, bit its head off.

Damp dropped her conductor's candle and screamed. Instantly Mrs. McLachlan was by her side, plucking the baby off her seat and hugging her tight.

"Poor Damp. What on earth happened?" cried Signora Strega-Borgia, not having witnessed the beheading of the biscuit. Consequently she was somewhat in the dark as to why her youngest daughter was weeping. Mrs. McLachlan, hoping to avoid explanations, sought distraction. "Now, Damp, what have I told you about candles?" she chided, adding, "They're hot, hot, burrrny." Since the candle Damp had been holding bore no evidence of ever having been lit, this statement might have caused some confusion had it not been for the appearance of Marie Bain at the head of the table.

The cook's shadow stretched crookedly across the tablecloth, and a strange volcanic rumbling came from the vast coffeepot she was clutching with both hands. She listed across the lawn, each step causing a hissing brown fountain to erupt from the spout. Signor Strega-Borgia stood up. "Are you sure you can manage? Here, Marie, let me-" But before he could take the pot from her, the cook lunged toward the table and dropped the pot in the middle with a m.u.f.fled shriek.

"Ees hot," she said, somewhat unnecessarily, since the tablecloth round the coffee pot was turning brown and beginning to smell like burnt ironing. "Now we haff coffee," she said, making this simple statement of fact sound like a threat. She locked eyes with Black Douglas and demanded, "Meelk? Zoogir?" then tilting the pot at a dangerous angle, slopped a quant.i.ty of brown fluid into a nearby cup.

"What is that stuff?" t.i.tus whispered as his father sat down again. "It doesn't smell anything like coffee. . . ."

The hapless Black Douglas, victim of Marie Bain's slitty-eyed scrutiny, brought the cup to his lips and took a tiny sip. For a split second his eyes registered shock, but just as quickly, realizing the cook was still monitoring his every gesture, he forced his stunned facial muscles into an approximation of a smile. "Mmm-hmm. Excellent," he lied, reaching for the sugar bowl and spooning several heaped teaspoons of what he fervently hoped was brown sugar into his cup. Sweat broke out on his forehead and all the color drained from his face. Marie Bain smiled grimly and turned her attention to Signor Strega-Borgia, pouring out another cupful. Mrs. McLachlan hastily stood up, forestalling the cook's attempts to do the same for her. "No, thank you, dear. I must get this poor wee mite to bed," she said, s.h.i.+fting Damp onto her hip. "Say good night to everyone, pet," and she swiftly bore the baby off across the garden.

Much to Mrs. McLachlan's dismay, a figure slipped away from the table and intercepted her before she could reach the house.

"I didn't get a chance to say good night to the child," said Fiamma d'Infer, stepping in front of Mrs. McLachlan and blocking her path. Damp gave a small howl and clung like a limpet to her nanny. But Fiamma persisted, standing too close and staring intently at the baby.

"What a special little girl," she purred, reaching out to curl a finger under Damp's chin and bring the baby's head up to meet her gaze. Damp immediately squeezed her eyes tightly shut.

"I think she's a wee bit too tired to be sociable, don't you?" said Mrs. McLachlan briskly. "Come on, pet, let's run your bath."

Fiamma was not to be put off so easily. "Oh, but I have some absolutely heavenly stuff for your bath, my dear. Mmmm, yellow bubbles with green glittery stuff in them-you would just love it, wouldn't you?"