Miss Plim coughed a word. Frederick’s lips began to veer left and come in for a landing.
His wife, Miss Fairweather junior, frowned. She was a grim, bespectacled woman who clearly would have made an excellent witch had she not been born on the wrong side of the incantation.
“Did you just use witchcraft on my husband?” she demanded.
Miss Plim had nothing to hide (other than the silver teaspoon, vintage earrings, and guest soap she had thus far stolen from Mrs. Rotunder). “I did.”
Miss Fairweather bowed slightly.
“Ladies, we have come to join the campaign against Isabella Armitage,” Miss Brown explained. “She must be prevented from using the amulet in some terrible and dangerous manner before we ourselves have had the opportunity to do so.”
“Should be simple enough,” Mrs. Rotunder said with a shrug.
“And we must rescue Tom!” Constantinopla Brown added.
“Well, I don’t know, dear,” Mrs. Rotunder murmured. “After all, the risks involved, and the difficulties of getting...”
“We understand there have been some shenanigans involving Captain O’Riley and Miss Pettifer,” Miss Brown continued, regainingcontrol of the conversation. “But we must prioritize our efforts. We do not believe they are in any current danger.”
“I agree,” Miss Plim said coolly. “If there is any danger, it will befrommy dear niece Charlotte, not to her.” Besides, rebellious girls who run from their wise and loving aunties deserve to be left unrescued on their path straight to hell.
“And,” Miss Brown continued, “they might be anywhere, whereas we have information stating Lady Armitage is parked on Anchor Road, a mere half mile hence. We must hurry to ambush her. Gertrude, your new grasshopper cannon from America will provide a valuable addition.”
“The Whopper Hopper,” Mrs. Rotunder said proudly. “I shall fire it up at once.”
Excitement filled the room. But Miss Plim cleared her throat in a manner resembling fingernails down a chalkboard, and everyone turned to stare at her.
“Rushing in is foolish,” she said. “We must plan our assault carefully.”
“Sure,” Millie the Monster said, grinning. “Here’s the plan: fly over and shoot ’er up.”
She hauled forward the enormous rocket launcher she had strapped on her back. It was almost as big as she was, but she propped it against her hip with ease.
Miss Plim eyed the launcher with distaste. She could imagine the mess it would create—someone would be sweeping up dust for weeks afterward. “Perhaps a little more nuance might serve us well,” she suggested.
“Nuance?” The pirates looked at each other in confusion. “Nuance?”
“I think she said ‘no aunts.’ ” Millie growled, turning her weapon in Miss Plim’s direction. “We can agree with that, can’t we?”
Miss Plim raised a smile, which looked as deadly as the rocket launcher.
“Ladies,” Mrs. Rotunder said hastily. Having spent the past few days with witches, she understood something now of how their minds worked. (Hence the weak tea, which she had suffered herself just for the enjoyment of seeing their faces as they tried to drink it.) “We are fortunate to have with us Miss Plim, the greatest witch of her generation.” Catching Miss Plim’s sharp glance, she politely amended, “And several generations before that. We also have Mrs. Chuke, authoress of various pamphlets on Correct Etiquette for the Burgled and Importuned.”
“Darlings,” Mrs. Chuke murmured bashfully, and would have brought said pamphlets from a pocket of her dress, but Mrs. Rotunder plowed on.
“I suggest we make the most of these ladies’ exceptional talents.”
“Hm,” Miss Plim responded, lifting her chin with regal acceptance of her due.
“Hmmm,” the pirates responded more ponderously, mouths twitching as they tried not to glance at each other.
And so it was that the two witches were sent to the front line of Anchor Street, where they were given the vital role of keeping pedestrians at bay while the Wisteria Society did the tedious work of storming Armitage House.
“This is a bad idea,” Miss Plim said with a mixture of disapproval and glee as she watched the four pirate battlehouses gather for attack. “You mark my words, Mrs. Chuke. Or rather, my word. Nuance, Mrs. Chuke.Nuance.”
“Sure,” Mrs. Chuke agreed (despite not actually knowing whatnuancemeant) and pulled out a bag of bonbons while she awaited the show.
The battlehouses lowered themselves toward the street, magiccrackling in the air as butlers chanted the navigational incantation. Their black flags whipped in the sea breeze. Their flowering window boxes suggested the colors of blood and gore—poppies and azaleas being currently in season. Four windows swung open to expose enormous gun barrels and rocket launchers.
