“Hmhgh,” Miss Plim replied, reaching for a glass of water. Her life had flashed before her eyes while she was dying from custard, and although it had been entirely satisfactory, she realized there was still much to do to improve the lives of others around her. But before she could embark upon helping Mrs. Pettifer by means of a lengthy corrective lecture, the visitors entered.
Mrs. Pettifer rose graciously to welcome them (and check her sixteenth-century golden goose statuette was safely out of their reach). Mrs. Rotunder, a distinguished matron in purple (and red, green, lavender) swooped into the room in a manner that would have made even a grand duchess feel gauche. Behind her came Constantinopla Brown, bedecked in lace and ribbons. She in turn was followed by a pretty, red-haired woman, then a man in such a ghastly waistcoat Mrs. Pettifer’s polite smile sagged somewhat.
“Such an unusual pleasure to be visited by members of the piratic community,” she lied. “Will you sit down?” After all, the chairs could easily be reupholstered. And if the pirates were seated, they could not be stealing.
(In fact, Cecilia Bassingthwaite pocketed a gold pen she found on aside table and Mrs. Rotunder surreptitiously tore the braiding off the cushion set at her back, repurposing it later as a hat trim.)
The pirates arranged themselves on the sofas and Mrs. Pettifer angled her chair to face them. Miss Plim, however, would not come out from behind the tiered cake plate. “Sister, dear,” Mrs. Pettifer said through her smile, “won’t you say hello to our company?”
“I most certainly will not,” replied Miss Plim, for whom social graces were something that happened to other people. “Never in my life could I have imagined pirates in the house of an alleged witch.”
“Witches do not exist, dear,” Mrs. Pettifer said, the smile tightening.
“Hence ‘alleged,’ dear,” Miss Plim snapped, and set about mauling a new custard slice with a fork.
The pirates glanced nervously at each other. They knew trouble when they saw it. Miss Bassingthwaite sat forward a little, attempting to ease the tension. “I do not entirely understand the feud between the Wicken League and the Wisteria Society,” she said. “Surely pirates and—er, alleged witches are much the same?”
She might as well have tossed a bomb into the room. With one sentence she managed to offend both parties. Eyebrows lifted, mouths pinched, bosoms heaved. Captain Lightbourne, wincing, pressed a thumb knuckle against his forehead.
“Cecilia,” Mrs. Rotunder murmured through clenched teeth, “you are too young to understand.”
“I’m younger than her,” Constantinopla interjected, “and I understand. And Tom... oh Tom, my beloved, what has become of you?... He would understand too.” She produced a great shuddering sigh.
“Tom Eames is a pirate,” Captain Lightbourne explained to Mrs. Pettifer, and gave her such a winning smile, she blushed. “We have come to discuss with you his kidnapping.”
“Witches are nothing like pirates,” Miss Plim said from behind thecakes. “They are Beryl Black’s true descendants and use the incantation as it was intended.”
“Be that as it may—” Captain Lightbourne began.
“Black Beryl’s first use of the incantation was to fly a hut back to England,” Mrs. Rotunder said. “Therefore pirates have the correct usage of magic.”
“If we could just focus on—” Captain Lightbourne attempted.
“Witches,” Miss Plim said, rising from her chair, “are subtle.”
“Pirates have imagination,” Mrs. Rotunder countered, hat feathers shivering.
“Witches are not thieves,” Miss Plim said.
“You steal things all the time!” Constantinopla argued, gasping with indignation.
“We redistribute wealth,” Miss Plim explained.
Mrs. Rotunder huffed a laugh. “Redistribute into your own purses.”
“That is for the good of society, dear,” Mrs. Pettifer explained, smiling sweetly. “After all, no one is happy unless a witch is happy. Alleged witch. Goodness, where is the tea?”
“Witches swindle,” Mrs. Rotunder said, digging her heels in metaphorically and, alas for the Pettifers’ expensive Oriental rug, literally also.
Miss Plim directed her fork like a dagger toward the pirate lady. “We creatively encourage behavior. Pirates wreck lives.”
“Witches interfere.”
“Pirates—”
“Witches—”
They spoke over each other in an excess of indignation, although they actually said the same thing: “—are the lowest of all scoundrels!”
