13 MISS PLIM KNOWS BEST—WITCHCRAFT IN THEIR LIPS—GREAT MEDDLERS THINK ALIKE—HOW NOT TO BE SEDUCED—MRS. ROTUNDER KNOWS BETTER—THE TIGER IS ROUSED—SOMETHING’S IN THE AIR There was nothing Judith Plim would do for those who were really her friends. She had no notion of loving people; it was not her nature. Vague stirrings of affection every now and again kept her from outright villainy (presuming one did not count robbery, tax evasion, and a penchant for Marmite-and-banana sandwiches as villainy). But actual love—the powerful, coiled instinct that so often springs without warning, putting out an eye so people don’t see all the things that should keep them from committing to their beloved—was in Miss Plim’s case a mere boiled noodle. And yet, when she received word from the police that Charlotte had willingly evaded them with Captain O’Riley, the noodle stirred. She had contacted as many of the Wicken League as were in London, summoning them to a coven gathering at Pettifer House—her own house being far too clean and tidy to have that gaggle of overdressed miscreants traipsing through it. “My dear friends,” she addressed them once everyone was seated around the dining table. “Thank you for coming at this troubled hour.” The witches murmured words that sounded pleasant but, if recorded, slowed down, and separated from the mass of sound, would be clearly heard equating Miss Plim to the devil and suggesting some unmentionable (and surely uncomfortable) places she could store her spectacles. Tea and tiny pink cakes had already been served, for food is a great weapon when dealing with women whose power resides in their throats. A witch with a mouthful is a witch disarmed, and Miss Plim knew no enemy worse than the coven she led. However, in a deft counterattack, each cake had been altered in some small way by its recipient: the icing scraped off, the glazed cherry removed and placed neatly to the side, where it effected a silent, subtle insult to the hostess throughout the meeting. Such militant passive-aggressiveness was practically de rigueur for witches. Although the Wicken League had been formed as a mutual support agency, witch uplifting witch (often with the consequence of heads bashed against ceilings and ankles broken upon descent, until they got the hang of the magic), its ongoing unofficial mission was to provide an exercise ground for hostility. Unlike pirates, who clashed openly and literally—swords, battlehouses, cannonballs—witches employed a discreet and dignified violence in their friendships. Invitations arriving late. A slow, precise blink of the eyes upon noticing someone’s new hairstyle. Cucumber slices removed from sandwiches with a grimace that shifted immediately into a polite smile. This culture served to keep everyone in their place, so that few witches had the self-confidence to take their magical powers, not to mention their knowledge of who performed criminal acts of witchcraft, and go dangerously rogue. Until, that is, the League president’s own heir ran off in the company of a pirate. Or, as Miss Plim put it: “Our dear, brave Charlotte has nobly sacrificed her own safety and comfort by kidnapping a ferocious pirate in a valiant effort to regain Beryl’s blessed amulet for our League.” “I read that she was the one to be kidnapped,” Miss Habersham said. Miss Plim nodded tolerantly, for it had cost her an expensive favor to get that information in the newspaper so as to protect Charlotte’s public reputation and make her more visible for recovery efforts. But before she could explain this, Miss Habersham continued: “Not a good example of supposed Plim superiority, if you ask me.” Miss Plim scowled. She drew breath to argue— “I heard she was working in cahoots with Lady Armitage,” Mrs. Vickers added, looking around the table while nodding vigorously, as if this would make everyone else automatically agree. “I heard the amulet theft was just a diversion, and actually she eloped with the pirate,” Eugenia Cuttle-Plim said. She gave a nasty little flick of her head that would have had Charlotte grasping Alex’s arm and saying, “See what I mean?” had she been there to witness it. “Descendeo,” Miss Plim muttered through tight lips, and Eugenia’s head-flick ended in her hat falling over her face. “Lottie would never elope,” Mrs. Pettifer countered staunchly. “She dreams of having a large wedding, with a beautiful gown and magnificent white cake.” Miss Plim rolled her eyes. Delphine had always been deluded about Charlotte. Many times Miss Plim had tried to explain that the girl was not a romantic, would never marry, in fact had no interest in men whatsoever. But Delphine could not bear to listen, her identity too fused with what she supposed Charlotte’s to be. “Charlotte is entirely immune to the supposed charms of Captain O’Riley,” Miss Plim insisted. “I myself saw them together the other day and can assure you there is nothing between them but disregard and disdain. Charlotte almost certainly took an opportunity to commandeer his house so as to join in the pursuit of Lady Armitage. It shows excellent leadership skills, unsurprising in a Plim.” She tapped the table in front of Miss Edwardina Fox, who was keeping the minutes of the meeting. “Excellent leadership skills,” she repeated, and watched as Miss Fox wrote the words in the special shorthand she had devised when first she was voted secretary (and had since mostly forgotten, as a consequence of which “excellent leadership skills” was noted down as “excellent vegetable socks”). Satisfied that her perspective had been recorded for perpetuity, Miss Plim returned to scowling at the group. “While we must give the public impression of her being a victim, so as to forestall any talk of marriage, privately we must acknowledge Charlotte as the finest example of witchery. It only goes to prove that she is indeed—” “The Prophesized One and True Heir of Beryl Black,” the group intoned with a weariness born from twenty-one years of reminders. “Just so. Besides, I don’t notice any of you rushing off to find our precious amulet.” The room filled with mutters. Sicknesses were evoked, twisted ankles displayed, times declared to be difficult, husbands castigated as tyrants, and several other excuses presented as to why the ladies present were not in current hot pursuit of Beryl’s amulet. Some swore they had begun—but then a stray cloud or random blue symbol had prophesized trouble if they continued. Others had been on their way out the door this very morning to start the pursuit when Miss Plim’s summons came. She looked down her nose at them all. “Charlotte is doing important work for the League. She must be supported at this time! I’m calling for volunteers.” See above for the response to this. Miss Plim sighed and shook her head. “Ladies, ladies, are we witches or are we worms?” “Witches,” murmured the group sulkily. “Excellent. The first thing we must do is prevent the newspapers from publishing any further articles on the subject. They have served their purpose admirably thus far, but we don’t want to allow them free rein. Journalists are always sneaking around uncovering facts, solving crimes, and generally being intrepid in the most insufferable of ways. I need volunteers to—” “Write letters to the editors, describing Charlotte’s sweet and gentle disposition?” someone suggested. “Provide an alibi for her?” someone else suggested. Miss Plim frowned. “Incantate a series of natural disasters at the newspaper offices—fallen tree, exploded printing press, typhoon in the paper storage cupboard—so they cannot publish at all.” This received an excited response. If there was something witches loved better than tidying, it was making a mess for other people to deal with. Several ladies raised their hands and were sent forth to do their worst. “And now another group to locate Lady Armitage and retrieve from her our amulet.” Ten hands were promptly sat upon or made busy stirring tea. But with cajoling (berating), encouraging (threatening), and cheer (just bloody well making people do it), Miss Plim put together a team and sent them on their way. That left four in the room, a perfect number for the final task: tracking Charlotte and dragging her home rescuing her. “I say,” Eugenia piped up, “just exactly why did Char choose to hijack Captain O’Riley’s decrepit cottage, considering all the possibilities parked outside the museum?” That left three in the room. Miss Plim glared at her sister and Mrs. Chuke. “Ladies, we must find Charlotte before my—before her reputation is completely ruined.” “It should be easy,” Mrs. Pettifer said. “Lottie is such a kind, biddable girl.” Miss Plim and Mrs. Chuke exchanged a glance. “Of course she is, darling,” Mrs. Chuke said. “I might just have Dearlove bring along a gun and some handcuffs anyway. In case the pirate makes trouble,” she added hastily, upon seeing the horrified look on Mrs. Pettifer’s face. “Not that he will,” she added further, when the horrified look worsened. “But how shall we find them?” “We already have,” Miss Plim said. “Delphine’s butler was contacted by a butler in Dagenham. He had information that Charlotte and Captain O’Riley spent the night in a public establishment there.” “In a pub with a pirate?” Mrs. Chuke said, her eyes growing wide. “Oh dear.” It was to be a sentiment murmured several more times that morning. The witches consulted the auguries, traveled by carriage to Dagenham, and located the Angler’s Retreat with efficient speed. They proved, alas, not to be in the nick of time, for Charlotte was well gone. Nor were they close to the nick of time, for any clues left behind had been either taken by the police or cleaned away by the chambermaid. In fact, they were so far from the nick of time that, when they arrived at the inn’s bedroom, they found Mrs. Rotunder, Ned, and Cecilia already there. Three besoms flicked open to become daggers. Three swords were drawn from pirates’ belts. “What are you doing here?” everyone demanded in unison. “Looking for the renegades,” everyone answered at once. “My butler told us they were here,” Mrs. Rotunder explained. “But we arrived too late; they had already flown the coop. The bad news is that they had policemen hunting them. The worse news is that the innkeeper said the room was rented by a married couple.” Her emphasis was not so much an innuendo as an out-and-out slur. But Miss Plim only shrugged. “That is a standard ploy, claiming to be married in order to secure the last room in an inn. It means nothing. Besides, look—two beds!” Mrs. Rotunder smirked. “Oh well, two beds, you’re quite right—that completely saves your girl’s reputation. Everyone knows two beds are the best deterrent there is to seduction.” “Exactly,” Miss Plim said with a nod. “I’m not sure, Judith,” Mrs. Chuke said worriedly. “A pirate can be unscrupulous.” “But a witch can be deadly,” Miss Plim reminded her. “And remember, Charlotte has been raised by strong women who would never let a man dominate them.” “That’s true,” Mrs. Pettifer said with a dreamy sigh. “I once mixed gunpowder in Claude Monet’s paints and swore I’d light a match if he did not paint me like one of his French girls.” Everyone stared at her. “Wasn’t that just before he ran off to join the army?” Mrs. Chuke asked. “That’s not the impression I got,” Mrs. Pettifer replied with a sniff. “My point is, no doubt Lottie also threatened to blow Captain O’Riley up.” There was a slight pause at an interesting juncture of that sentence, causing everyone to glance at each other. “Mrs. Pettifer,” Cecilia said cautiously, “am I right in thinking you actually want Charlotte’s reputation ruined?” Mrs. Pettifer flushed. “Heavens no, dear! Egads, the very thought! My antisocial, bookish daughter being forced to marry a man who is handsome, owns his own home, and is presumably rich?” She cast an inquiring look to Ned, who shrugged then nodded. “Rich,” she repeated, rolling the word around her mouth as if it were a bonbon. “And I think I already mentioned handsome. Lottie could do worse.” “No, she couldn’t!” Miss Plim fumed, her topknot of hair reverberating with the force of the words. “He’s a pirate! She’s a witch! Imagine if they had a big, joyful wedding! Or worse, children whom everyone adores! If this goes on, Delphine, we’re risking an end to two centuries of successful hostilities!” Her face had become so red, she looked almost healthy. But Mrs. Pettifer remained unconvinced. “A wedding would be an opportunity for exciting trouble,” she argued. “Brawling. Poisoning each other. Screaming.” “Dancing. Sharing food. Laughing,” Miss Plim retorted. An unhappy murmur went through the company. “Captain O’Riley won’t marry Miss Pettifer,” Ned said somberly. “His father dallied with a witch, and it caused his mother such distress she died from a broken heart. Well, and a broken neck after throwing herself down the stairs. The father then married the witch and . . .” He shrugged uncomfortably. “It’s a bleak story, too bleak for ladies’ ears—even if the ladies are witches and pirates. Let’s just say O’Riley hates the Wicken League perhaps even more than the Wisteria Society does, and certainly for better reason.” Mrs. Pettifer frowned anxiously at this news, but Miss Plim was gleeful. “Thank you, sir, this has eased my mind.” She bestowed upon Ned the tight, brief twitch of lips that she liked to consider a smile. He stared back at her coldly. “Charlotte will come home with her own heart broken and should behave more cautiously from here on. I consider that a win.” Mrs. Pettifer made a small sound of dismay. Cecilia and Ned looked grim. Even Mrs. Chuke seemed rather aghast. But Miss Plim continued blithely. “It should not be hard to trace them farther. Someone must have witnessed which direction they headed after leaving.” “East,” said a quiet voice. Everyone turned with surprise to see Miss Dearlove standing by the open doorway, where she had gone unnoticed the entire time. She lowered her eyes shyly. “I beg your pardon. The innkeeper just now informed me he saw a battlehouse flying that way.” “Battlehouse.” Mrs. Rotunder spat a laugh. “You mean shack.” “Authentic historic cottage,” Cecilia corrected, unable to help herself. Mrs. Rotunder gave her such a contemptuous look, Ned half-raised his sword. The older woman stepped back, hat feathers quivering. “Well I never!” she huffed. “Young people these days quite astonish me. Running off together, standing up for each other! Mr. Rotunder would never consider defending my honor in such a gallant way!” She paused, realizing her outrage was perhaps misdirected, then the feathers shook once more. “I for one am in agreement with Miss Plim. The hooligans must be stopped and brought to justice—er, I mean, returned to the bosom of their communities. We simply cannot tolerate this kind of romance! Who will join me in heading eastward to find them?” “I will!” Miss Plim declared in a ringing voice. “Delphine, go home and wait in case further information comes there. Mrs. Chuke—” “I’m coming too, darling! My breakfast muffin this morning was in an unusual shape, which seemed to predict travel for me.” She snapped her fingers. “Dearlove, fetch my purse and poisons from the carriage.” Mrs. Pettifer stared in amazement at her sister. “You’ll fly in a pirate’s house?” “For the sake of the Wicken League,” Miss Plim replied, lifting her chin heroine-fashion. “And for the sake of Charlotte,” Mrs. Pettifer added. “Of course.” Miss Plim dismissed the concern with a wave of her hand. Cecilia turned to Mrs. Rotunder. “You’ll allow witches in your house?” she asked incredulously. “It might be fun,” Mrs. Rotunder replied with a shrug. “Besides,” she added in a whispered aside, “have you seen their jewelry? If I don’t make a profit out of this trip, I’ll relinquish my black flag in shame.” And so the ladies trooped out of the inn room, dresses flouncing and hat feathers swooping, leaving Ned and Cecilia alone. The young pirate couple looked at each other in dazed silence. “You know we’ll have to catch Alex and Miss Pettifer first,” Cecilia said. “We cannot leave them to the machinations of that woman. She makes my aunt Darlington look like a small, fluffy kitten.” Ned frowned. “I hope you’re not harboring any romantic ideas about the pair. You know Alex has sworn to never marry.” “And Miss Pettifer is destined to lead the Wicken League,” Cecilia added, “therefore would never choose a pirate.” “It’s a doomed relationship.” “No hope at all.” They glanced at the two beds set neatly apart, and the long dents in the carpet where they had been previously pushed together. Catching each other’s eye again, they shared a smile. “You’ll have to wear a plain suit when you stand up as his best man,” Cecilia said. Ned sighed mournfully, then put his arm around her waist. “You won’t be able to drink wine in a toast to them.” “Not unless they have a seven-month engagement,” Cecilia agreed, touching a hand to her stomach. They switched off the light (and stole the complimentary mint chocolates) before leaving the room, nodding politely to a chambermaid waiting in the corridor outside. As soon as they were gone, the chambermaid took off her cap and apron and hurried down the road to Rothbury House. She knocked at the servants’ door. “Hooper?” she whispered when it opened, glancing around to be sure no one else could hear. “I have some information for you.”
Later that day on the outskirts of Bath, Cecilia’s aunt, the dread pirate Miss Darlington, received a note from her housemaid. She began hyperventilating even before she’d finished reading it. “Prepare the house at once!” she commanded, clutching her letter opener like a sword as she rose from the chair on which she had been lounging. “Battle stations! Close all windows and start incantating the unmooring phrase. And ready the medicine kit. There is not a moment to lose!” “What’s wrong?” asked her husband, setting aside the book of Byron’s poetry he had been reading aloud. “Cecilia is in mortal peril,” Miss Darlington explained. “I have just received information—good God, I cannot believe she is walking about in her condition!” “What condition?” asked her husband anxiously. Miss Darlington collapsed back into the chair, unable to bear the weight of her newfound knowledge. “The interesting kind!” “Oh dear,” murmured her husband, trying not to smile. “And I just know she’s not wearing any protection.” “It’s a little late for that, isn’t it, dear?” She pinned him with a scowl so sharp he flinched. “Hat,” she snapped. “Scarf. Rubber-soled shoes. You know how delicate Cecilia is at the best of times. We must rush to her side!” “Where is she just now?” “Heading in the same direction as every other pirate: toward Isabella Armitage. We need to get there first. And I know just where Izzy will be.” She stabbed her letter opener so hard through the note that the oak tabletop beneath it cracked. “Tally. Ho.” Miss Plim might not be kittenish, but if she had been able to take one look into the pirate maven’s eyes at that moment, even she would have fainted in terror.
A knock came again at Hooper’s door. “It’s Mary,” whispered the Angler’s Retreat chambermaid. “I have more news for you.” Hooper brought out his secret notebook. “Go ahead.” “Another policeman has just been sniffing around the room where the pirates stayed. And when I say sniffing, I mean that literally.” “Are you sure he was a policeman?” “He said his name was Detective Inspector Creeve. He gave me the shivers, to be honest. Not just the sniffing, but the way he stared at me. It was downright creepy.” “Hm,” Hooper said, for he himself stared at the pretty chambermaid often enough and didn’t want to think he might have been downright creepy too. (He had been.) “I doubt this is significant, Mary. Maybe the man sniffed because he had a cold.” “But—” “I’m sure it’s nothing.” He cleared his throat. “I say, is there any chance you’re free Friday night? I know a nice little restaurant in the village . . .” The door shut in his face.