Pure Dead Magic by Debi Gliori Page B

that she might have lost several brownie points by tripping up her owner, Multitudina sneaked downstairs, back to the cellar. The smell of defrosted and rotting food had grown stronger since her last visit. A reeking lagoon surrounded the once-glacial freezer. I’m not tempted, Multitudina told herself firmly. Last time I sipped at
that
particular watering hole, my nose got fried. She gave the lake a wide berth and continued on her travels. Somewhere in this huge house, she thought, her stomach growling, there must be something for a mother-to-be to eat.
    The rain had finally stopped, and weak sunshine trickled in through the kitchen windows. Mrs. McLachlan glared at Sab, Ffup, and Knot, who huddled round the kitchen table.
    “There were
four
left,” she said, tapping the muffin tray for emphasis. “And now there are none.”
    The beasts sighed sympathetically.
    “I turned my back on them for one minute,” she continued, “one minute while I heated up a wee hot toddy for the Signora, and when I turned round …”
    Sab licked his lips nervously. Ffup stifled a belch with one leathery wing. Mrs. McLachlan stared at them. Knot lolloped out of the kitchen, leaving a half-eaten bunny slipper on the chair behind him.
    “Did he do it?” demanded Mrs. McLachlan. “All
four
raspberry muffins? What a
pig.
After that enormous dinner he ate last night.”
    “Blaark,” said Sab, holding his feathery stomach.
    “Don’t feel well,” groaned Ffup, clutching his scaly one.
    Mrs. McLachlan opened the door to the kitchen garden. “Not on the
herbs,
” she warned as Sab and Ffup bolted past her. “Oh well … never mind, they’ll wash.”
    Five minutes later, they returned, both looking rather pale and ill. “Must have been the smocked hiccup,” whispered Ffup, wincing at the memory.
    “Now I know why they’re called Brussels splats,” added Sab darkly.
    Signora Strega-Borgia huddled under her bedcovers, a trail of tissues leading from the bathroom to her pillow. A fit of sneezing had left her as limp as an overcooked haddock, her throat felt as if she’d eaten a bowl of razor blades, and her nose ran like an Olympic athlete.
    There was a discreet tap at the bedroom door, and Mrs. McLachlan breezed in, bearing a little tray on which something steamed. “Good morning, dear,” she said, setting the traydown on a squelching pile of used tissues. “I’ve brought you a Morangie-Fiddach special. Three spoonfuls of heather honey, the juice of a lemon, both warmed together with three cloves, a cinnamon stick, and a blade of mace … oh, and did I mention? Three glasses of the finest whisky.”
    She watched in approval as Signora Strega-Borgia drained the mug in several swallows. “Nnngg,” said Signora Strega-Borgia, as her eyes crossed and perspiration broke out on her forehead.
    Mrs. McLachlan plumped pillows, smoothed the quilt, and tucked her employer in. “S’got,” slurred Signora Strega-Borgia, flapping a hand at the empty mug, “s’got a kick like a mule … jusht closhe m’eyes forra bit.…” She slumped deeper into the pillows and began to snore.
    Mrs. McLachlan drew the curtains shut, piled the tray with soggy tissues, and tiptoed out of the room. “Is the wee one with you, Titus?” she called, heading downstairs.
    Titus opened his bedroom door just enough to poke his head round. “She’s playing in the computer,” he said truthfully.
    Satisfied, Mrs. McLachlan descended to the kitchen.

Arachnids with Attitude
    T itus closed his bedroom door and turned the key in the lock. Across the room, Pandora chewed her fingernails and stifled a sob.
    “What are we going to do, Titus? How do we get Damp back?”
    “We can’t,” Titus said baldly.
    “We
must
be able to,” wailed Pandora.
    “It’s like posting a letter,” explained Titus. “Once you’ve
sent
something, you can’t stick your hand into a postbox and pull it back out.…”
    “You can wait till the postman unlocks the postbox,