“I do not know what this game is!” he called out through the door. “But if we are to play games, this is good! I will think of some of my own!”
4
“We’ve always done it that way.”
They were the six most dangerous words in the English language, and ones that got right on Daffi’s last nerve. They reeked of the unyielding march of time, on foot and in hobnail boots... when the rest of the world had moved onto motorized transport and high-speed rail.
It was the kind of comment uttered by wearers of cardigans with pursed lips and a surgically attached disapproving look. All three were currently being worn by Ms. (Not Mrs. Or Miss, thank you very much) Whipsnide, the museum manager. She looked down her nose in very much the same way Sybil Bulcock, who was attached to her boss at the hip, did. It was like being looked at by twin velociraptors. Three if you added Whipsnide’s familiar, a lizard that appeared to do nothing other than sleep on Whippy’s desk.
She’d been called into The Office (with capital letters). It hadn’t changed in the three years she’d worked at the museum. Whipsnide’s desk faced the room, and a large fireplace sprawled behind her with a painting of the museum’s founder, a plaque beneath naming him as a Whipsnide, Allard Norman Kenneth Elijah Robert. Aka (among the museum staff) Wanker. This had the unpleasant effect of being looked at down the same nose by two different generations of Whipsnide—one of whom had apparently been a close personal friend of Merlin himself.
“Any and all incursions from the fae realm must be reported immediately, and the area cordoned off,” Ms. Whipsnide stated imperiously. “Museum regulations dictate that only those trained in fae communications and contact must interact with any being from the fae realms.”
“Yes, but...” Daffi tried to argue, ready to point out that children had been present and in danger. If anything, she’d saved those kids. Or, at the very least, saved the museum a shit-ton of legal action.
Ms. Whipsnide held a skinny hand up, cutting her off. A tall woman without a spare ounce of fat on her, a generous person would have called her birdlike. Anyone else would have called her a vulture. She even had the hook nose, and her dark hair was scraped flat to her skull, her black eyes fixed on Daffi.
“Are you trained in fae communications, Miss McGee?” she demanded.
“No, but...” Daffi didn’t get more than two words out before Ms. Whipsnide’s hand sliced through the air again.
“Then you should not have interacted with the fae creature. Miss Bulcock, put another mark on Miss McGee’s permanent record please.”
“Of course, Ms. Whipsnide,” Sybil trilled, obviously taking great pleasure in summoning the personnel record book with a wave of her hand. It popped into existence, almost squashing the cakes on the sideboard under the window. Ms. Whipsnide took afternoon tea. It was a three o’clock ritual. Everyday. Sybil usually joined her.
Daffi’s gaze collided with the record book. A leather-bound tome, it was almost as big as she was, only the tip of the feather quill showing above the top edge as Sybil added an entry.
“Being consistently late, breaking museum rules... tsk tsk, Miss McGee,” Whipsnide shook her head. “You need to be very careful or I may have to reconsider your employment here with us. Although, with these offenses, one could begin to wonder if you even want to be here anyway...”
The blood drained from Daffi’s face. She couldn’t lose this job. She loved it, and it was all she knew how to do. Jobs in the city were scarce for witches like her... a middling ability kitchen witch who couldn’t find her away around a kitchen.
Sure, her mom and gramps had tried, but after she’d set fire to the stove for the third time, they’d let her retreat to her books. So if she lost this job... she’d either have to wait tables, a horror all its own... or go home in disgrace. Her parents would welcome her, of course, but she could already see the concealed disappointment in their smiles.
“No, no,” she said hastily. “I love it here. I love working at the museum... it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”
Ms. Whipsnide gave a harrumph… or possibly it was her imitation of the mating call of the long-extinct Cornish pygmy water buffalo. It was hard to tell sometimes. Daffi, sensibly, kept that opinion to herself. The last thing she needed was to exacerbate the situation.
“Well… take this as a warning,” Ms. Whipsnide advised condescendingly. “I want to see a marked improvement in attitude and timekeeping.”
“Yes, Ms. Whipsnide, of course.”
“Good.” She sniffed, picked up the paper from her desk, and unfolded it with a snap. The headline screamed, “Second La Fay daughter found!”
“You are dismissed.”
Daffi left the room like all the hounds of hell were on her tail, finding Garlick outside waiting for her. For a moment she was sure she’d caught an expression of concern on her familiar’s face. Then he went back to washing his ass.
“What did the evil queen want?” he asked as he nibbled a particularly stubborn patch behind his balls.
“Shhh, don’t call her that,” Daffi hissed as the door opened behind them to reveal Sybil. The other witch swept them with a cold look, sniffed, and walked off in the opposite direction.
“Come on,” Daffi murmured. “We need to get back upstairs.”
Garlick bounded after her.
“So, I gather the conversation with her high bitchiness didn’t go well?”
“Another mark on my record,” she admitted unhappily, heading for the back stairs. Hidden behind a statue of the Pendle witches, she was forced to wait for a gaggle of tourists to move out of the way before slipping behind Mother Demdike’s skirts to reach the stairs. “Apparently I shouldn’t have shrunk the dragon. I should have ‘cordoned off the area’ and fetched someone with the appropriate staff training.”
“Huh. Crispy fried kid. Plural.”
She hopped onto the gently rotating stairwell, Garlick at her heels.
“What do we do?” she whispered as the cat hopped up a couple of steps to bring him to eyelevel with her.
“Do?” He swished his tail, blinking at her. That was the thing she’d always found fascinating about him. He didn’t have green eyes like most of the feline familiars in her family, but more a golden color that reminded her of burning embers.
“Yeah… about?” She jerked her thumb up toward their floor and its hidden fae king. The one who’d announced she was his queen. Right before she’d locked him in the broom cupboard.
“Burn it down. The whole place.”
“What?” she squeaked, grabbing onto the guard rail as the stairs changed direction and spun them up toward their floor.
“What?” Garlick blinked. “No evidence that way. Whipsass can’t pin anything on you then. Can she?”
He had a point. “Well no... but that’s not the point. How about something a little less... arsony?”
He grumbled, like a train running through a tunnel. “You never take my advice.”
“You need snuggles? You’re always grumpy when you need snuggles.” She leaned forward, hiding her smile as she reached out and scooped him up.