169. Bernie Landstein

Contest winner: Dragonic
Runner-up: TWZRD

The rehearsal of the Blastburn Philharmonic was not going well even before the guest conductor called a 30-minute break and stormed offstage, muttering and clutching his head. The musicians dispersed, some to take a nap in the green room, some to have a smoke outside the stage door, a few to throw back a quick drink at the pub around the corner. Two or three viola players (it was never easy to tell for sure) stayed onstage, trying to get their instruments in tune. The stage manager loitered near the snack machine, unable to decide between a vacuum-packed sandwich and a bag of crisps. The horn players played a quick hand of rummy. The backup conductor, whose primary income came from a secondary school teaching job, put his feet up in the sound booth and began correcting a stack of algebra papers.

So no one observed the purple light that flashed from under the door of the guest conductor's dressing room. No one heard the muffled "whuff" sound caused by a stunning spell; nor, if they had, would they have been able to identify it as such. No one even noticed the thud of Bernie Landstein's body collapsing on the floor. Even the fact that the maestro kept the orchestra waiting ten minutes past the end of the break did not raise much concern. The violas were still trying to get tuned. The piccolo player was having a case of hiccoughs. One of the horn players, who had a habit of cheating at cards, was still applying direct pressure to a nosebleed when Landstein reascended the podium.

The musicians' chatter and practice riffs gradually died. This, in itself, would prove to be the first sign that something unusual had happened to their conductor - when the players had leisure to think back on it. Bernie Landstein was usually such a commanding presence. For a few moments, however, he seemed reluctant to assert control of the situation. He seemed, in fact, to fade gradually into visibility - though he had walked quite openly out of the wings.

Just before silence fell, one of the oboists muttered: "My, Bernard, but what a big baton you have!"

"All the better," Landstein purred, "to beat... er, time with."

"Black and blue," a horn player mouthed behind the bell of his horn.

"Let's pick it up," the conductor said, scanning the score with what momentarily looked like a glance of desperation, "at Rehearsal Number 61. A-one, a-two, a-one two three..."

The musicians gamely plunged into an extremely brisk march, which caught them off guard because the passage in question was usually played as a graceful lament.

"Keep it together, trombones," the conductor said, much to the confusion of the clarinettists he was looking at. "Look alive, there, timpani," he added in the direction of the xylophone player. "No, no, no! That's an A-flat!" The cellists looked at each other, wondering what clef the conductor was reading. "All right, stop! Yes, Mister... er..."

"Frogbourne," the concertmaster piped up. "Just a question, sir. Do you want us to hold the crotchet in bar 211 for its full value?"

"Absolutely not," Mr. Landstein exclaimed, looking deeply affronted. "Any other questions?"

Another musician put her hand up and said, "Would you like the bassoons to double the basses in bars 198 to 206?"

"What does the score say, Miss..."

"Boing," said the bassoonist.

The maestro rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Boing? Where does it say Boing?"

"The name is Boing," said Miss Boing. "The score says como sardini, avido, senza ginocchia..."

"And that means...?"

"Er... like sardines, greedily, without knees?"

"Exactly!" the maestro cried triumphantly. "Therefore, the answer to your question is...?"

Miss Boing hung her head. "No, I guess."

"At last, we are communicating. Mr. Cheesedanish?"

"Hasenpfeffer, Herr Direktor."

"Yes, yes, what is it?"

"Your score is on fire, sir."

"Oh, dear! How did that..."

"A spark from your baton, sir..."

"But that's..." Bernie Landstein looked at the stick in his hand and suddenly giggled: a sound no one had ever heard him make before. "Well, how silly of me. Agua."

The baton squirted water at the singed sheet music, dousing the flames with a hiss of steam.

"Whoops-a-daisy," said Mr. Landstein. "I seem to have picked up somebody's joke w-... that is, baton. Carry on, then, from Molto moderato assai ma non troppo, with feeling now!"

The next portion of the rehearsal was, if at all possible, even more chaotic. While Bernie Landstein, eyes closed with rapture, waved his baton in a broad, swinging 6/8 time, the orchestra struggled to reconcile his gesture with a rigorous passage in 2/2. "That's the ticket," he said, oblivious to the fact that one of the bassists - a dumpy, pock-marked creature with curlers in her hair - was struggling to drag her instrument through the middle of the orchestra and colliding with two out of three musicians in her way.

"I say, there, Madrigal dear," Bernie Landstein said, opening his eyes and looking straight at her.

The ugly bassist froze in her tracks. The music, like the baton, went on.

"Your solo isn't until the next movement," said the jovial, dissolute face under its swirl of prematurely gray hair. His eyes, however, locked on hers with a steely force that, for once, reminded the band of the conductor they knew and hated.

"I'm just going to fetch some rosin," the bassist said in a demure yet gravelly voice.

"I'm sure the... er, cello section here would be delighted to lend you some," said the maestro, sweeping his baton in the direction of - rather surprisingly - the cello section. The tip of the baton emitted a puff of smoke, at which the principal cellist faltered.

"What did he call her?" one flautist asked another, audibly, during a rest in their part.

"Madrigal," said the second flautist.

"That's funny," said the oboist, regardless of a solo he was supposed to be playing. "I thought her name was Erwinia Mizenboom."

"She and the maestro must have a special relationship," hissed the harpist, from two rows away.

"Enough chatter," Bernie chided. "Madrigal, love, do resume your seat."

The ugly bassist dithered, looking longingly toward the exit.

"Don't make me point my baton at you," the maestro added meaningfully. Grape pips began to fall out of the wand as he said this, forming a heap around the podium. He didn't bother stopping this unusual manifestation until one of the pips ricocheted over the viola section and struck Miss Boing above the eye. "I beg your pardon," he said in an unapologetic tone. "Keep up, people! Where are the cymbals? I wanted a cymbal crash there!"

"But maestro," someone hissed, "this passage is marked pianissimo!"

"Don't correct me!" Bernie Landstein exploded, his arms waving more furiously than ever.

"It really is him," the concertmaster whispered to his assistant principal. "I was starting to wonder if we had an impostor."

"Terrible! terrible!" the maestro screamed, waving the whole band to a stop. "That's enough existential horror for one day. Come back tomorrow, if you can remember how to play by then!"

"But maestro," the bassoonist bravely urged, "our concert is tonight!"

"Get out of my sight!" Landstein screamed. "You - Madrigal, there - stay put. We shall have a private rehearsal, just the two of us."

The bass player gulped, her eyes darting toward all the exits.

Some time later, the bass player walked very stiffly out the stage door, her hand on the guest conductor's arm. She appeared to be trying to resist his lead, but she could not let go of him. He heaved her toward his car - a black AC Frua with mirror-tinted windows.

"My instrument will never fit," the gravelly voice said in a tone of desperation.

"Nonsense," said the maestro. "It'll go in the boot." He waved his baton at the car, and the rear door popped up. Some cars have glove compartments larger than the Frua's trunk, but with a bit of coaxing from Bernie Landstein's baton (or rather, wand), the huge bass violin sank right into it.

Madrigal began to tremble as Landstein opened the left-hand door and pushed her down into the car. The door snapped shut behind her. He walked round and got in on the right-hand side, put the key in the starter, fastened his safety-belt... and suddenly threw himself face-forward against the steering column. And again. And a third time. Unconscious, Bernie Landstein sagged against the restraining belt.

The arms that had reached out of the sides of the driver's seat relaxed their grip on the conductor. One of them patted the shoulder of the frightened hag in the left-hand seat. The neck-rest turned toward her and smiled. "It's all right now," the car seat said reassuringly. "I've taken custody of Mr. Shore here. Or rather, Mr. Noir. Are you all right?"

Madrigal made a strangled noise.

"The name's Albuquerque," said the driver's seat, offering to shake her hand. "Joe Albuquerque, RMB. You must be Madrigal. I've been tracking this one, but I would be lying if I said I hadn't hoped to talk with you, too. Don't worry -- " He added this, seaing the hag was about to bolt from the car. "I won't stop you if you want to run. It's just that I know somebody who, in my opinion, is overdue for a nightmare. You wouldn't know anyone who could supply one?"

Madrigal left off trying to batter the door open. "Maybe," she admitted.

"Excellent," said Joe Albuquerque, pulling a card out of a pocket in his upholstery. "Here's the name and address. Scream for me if you need any assistance. I'll be within earshot from half midnight until dawn. Can you read that all right?"

"H. H. Harvey, Esquire," the hag read with painstakingly precise diction. "The Drains, Suite Number..."

"Fine, fine," said the seat. "You may go now. Don't forget your instrument."

+++ Double Challenge for TMQ #171 +++

You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! Simply leave a brief comment (up to 150 words) answering the following Survey and Contest. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest answer that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the chapter after next.

SURVEY: What gift from way back in Chapter 141 should Merlin use next? (A) Karl's survival satchel. (B) Another dose of Endora's Liquid Skill. (C) Subito's Turbo Gum. (D) Boccachiusa's Peekaboo Kit.

CONTEST: Propose an entertaining alternate definition of a word or phrase, preferably with a touch of magic in the meaning.

164. The Pocket Elephant

Contest winner: cv675

Spanky's jaw dropped. Beside him, Ilona stiffened. Behind them, Endora gasped. Sadie growled. Sir Lionel said, "Er."

Harvey faced them from the end of a blind alley in the fast-growing yew maze Sadie had planted (seeds courtesy of her friend Miles O'Roughage). Not just one Harvey, nor even both of him. Three Harveys confronted them. But that wasn't what made Spanky gape. It was partly the menacing way each Harvey's wand was pointed at them. And, partly, it was the third Harvey's outstretched hand.

"Give me the ring," he said coolly.

"Was this your racket all along?" Spanky asked.

"Don't let's have a fuss," said Harvey 1. "It's only a wee bauble. You'll come to no harm."

"What do you want with it?" Ilona demanded.

"How will I use it, you mean?" said Harvey 2. "Would you believe me if I said that I would never use it?"

"Indeed," added Harvey 3, "that I would make sure nobody ever used it again?"

Ilona looked at Spanky. Spanky turned toward Harvey again and said, "No."

"He," Sadie shouted, then corrected herself: "They must be working with Il Comte and Lee Shore. How else..."

"...would I be here when you were expecting them?" Harvey 3 shrugged. "I'm afraid I can't answer all your burning questions."

"At least," added Harvey 2, "not at present. Please to hand over the ring."

"You've really gone through time's mangle, haven't you?" Sir Lionel's voice carried an undertone of laughter. "You've messed things up properly. I wonder what you think absolute power over other people can do to sort out your, er..."

"Problem?" said Harvey 1. "I see no problem. I've seen the end of the world. I've seen its beginning. If older and wiser heads had been in charge..."

"...and, well," said Harvey 2 with an immodest air of modesty, "I'm as old and wise as they come..."

"...a lot of things might have turned out differently." Harvey 3 nodded. "Better."

"You're mad," Endora said shakily. "You can't go about history changing things. You of all people would know, if you hand't changed yourself..."

"Don't be ridiculous," scoffed Harvey 2. "I'm the same as ever."

"Haven't you noticed," Sadie said venomously, "you ought to be saying 'we,' not 'I'?"

Harvey looked at each other, then back at the prisoners who had been his friends. "I'm sorry?" Harvey 1 said. "Am I missing something?"

"Only that there are three of you," Sadie yelled.

Harvey looked around themself again. For a moment, he seemed bewildered. At that moment, Spanky struck.

"Petrificus totalis," he muttered with a flick of his right wand. "Incarcerous," he added quickly, waving his left wand. Ilona's voice cut across his, hissing: "Expelliarmus!"

None of these spells had any effect. Harvey looked back at them with a mildly surprised expression on his three faces. Surprised and hurt.

"I say," he said.

The five wizards at bay immediately began pelting him with jinxes. None of them found their target. Sizzling jets of light zoomed toward Harvey's chests, then dissipated as if nothing was there. They didn't seem to be hitting a shield.

"Come, Rumbo," said Harvey 2, tugging on a leash that snaked around his legs.

An elephant walked into view from behind Harvey 2's legs, where it seemed to have been hiding. It was about the size of a well-fed beagle, and it had a wand gripped in its curling trunk.

"Meet my friend Rumbo," said Harvey 1. "Once, when I had a lot of time on my hands - say, eighty years or so - I trained him to remember jinxes and their counterspells."

Harvey 3 added, "He's very good to have with one when one is surrounded by hair-trigger witches and wizards."

"Only look how he's shrunk," said Harvey 2 sadly. "Unfortunate side effect, it always happens. He was the size of a standard schnauzer a few minutes ago."

"Eventually the poor chap will grow so small, I won't be able to care for him," said Harvey 1.

"Alas," said Harvey 3, "it's the price we have to pay..."

"We?" Sadie challenged.

Harvey 3 blinked at her. "Yes, of course," he said. "Rumbo and I."

Sadie stared back. "You've lost your marbles, mate."

Harvey 2 and 3 simply smiled. Harvey 1 cheerfully said, "Right. Now, the ring. Unless any of you is harboring a pocket elephant, I would urge you to give it up promptly."

Spanky opened his mouth to ask a question, but Harvey 2 answered it first: "I've still got a few spells Rumbo hasn't seen."

When no one moved for a long beat, Harvey 3 anxiously added: "They'll hurt. A lot."

Sadie shook with fury as she stepped forward, clutching the ring in her fist.

"That's better," said Harvey 3.

+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #166 +++

You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! Simply leave a brief comment (up to 150 words) answering the following Survey and Contest. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest answer that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the chapter after next.

SURVEY: Harvey is working (A) on his own. (B) for Bobs the Reality Wizard. (C) for il Comte. (D) for Uncle or Aunt Leslie. (E) for ______ (write-in candidate).

CONTEST: Describe a magical machine and what it does. The more whimsical, the better!

160. Furrier Destructions

Contest winner: Sir Read-a-Lot
Runner-up: greyniffler

Sadie charged into Endora's laboratory, shouting strings of consonants that sounded indecent without vowels to clothe them. A crystal finger stuck out of her right ear. She didn't seem able to hear or understand the protests of the receptionist, the watchman, and the laboratory assistant who ran in after her.

Endora looked up from the mortar and pestle, with which she was crunching numbers. "What's all this?" she asked, in a tone of voice that Sadie understood to mean, "Calm down!" even before she unplugged her right ear.

"Have you resleeved any massages by Floo?" Sadie demanded, her words still a bit jumbled but at least recognizable.

"Yes, we all have," said Sadie. She gestured toward a sealed roll of parchment on the edge of her workbench. "Been rather busy, though," she added. "Someone spiked a shipment of Chanel No 5 with a magical algorithm that makes it shift through a succession of surreal numbers. There's no telling what effect the scent might have on the general public..."

"Then you haven't bean enclaved to that gist with the ring?" Sadie grinned with relief. "Whatever you dough, doughnut read it. Have everybody bun -- brown -- bird -- ballots! Tell your lost to incinerate their coupés immoderately."

"You heard her," Endora said, nodding toward her three co-workers as she tossed the roll of parchment onto a gas ring and ignited it. "Spread the word."

The guard, secretary, and lab assistant reluctantly left the room. "Now what is this about?" Endora asked, as Sadie threw herself on a stool and slumped across a paper-strewn stretch of bench.

Sadie's reply was muffled by the sleeves of her robes. "Are you sugar you aren't in leek with this Lee Shorts villain?"

"Sure as my nose is two and three-quarters inches long."

Sadie raised her head and squinted appraisingly at Endora's nose. Then she buried her face again. "They've ghost Joe and Ilex, pretty muck everyone in Hawksmeade. The whole whirl will go necks. We've ghost to dough something."

Endora took a moment to translate all this, then nodded and said: "What can I do?"

"Fist, you've goat to blink-fold your-shelf," said Sadie, her grasp of language struggling more and more as she grew more excited. "That wax, Lee Spore can't beguilt you with the rotten word."

Endora nodded dubiously, but kept smiling.

"Thin," Sadie went on, "we nix a couple of booms, and your note -- your snow -- your gnus" -- she gave a little scream of frustration -- "your olfactory ogre will lead us to wherever Lex Horse is hiving, and we'll tack him down toboggan. I mean, together."

Endora kept nodding while she processed this. Then she shook her head. "How am I supposed to track this bloke? I've never seen him. More to the point, I've never sniffed him..."

"Sniffle this," Sadie said, whipping a thick wad of parchment, tied in red tape, out of her robes. "I necked this from the Mastery. It's a repot on some fainter who supposedly brick the Statue of Secrecy. Vee Sore chased me thorough it. That's wen he punched the rung off me..."

Sadie stopped talking. Endora had snatched the report from her. Tearing the ribbon off, she spread it out across her workbench and began sniffing it, from side to side, from top to bottom. She occasionally muttered a few words, which sounded to Sadie like: "Mustard, sausage drippings... tobacco, Ficus Brothers... felt, sweat, fermented Brylcream; somebody needs to have his hat blocked... Oi! I know this nutter, obliviator obviously, complete putz, couldn't charm his way out of a twist of newspaper... Hmm. Bit of oil-based paint, dab of scented lotion, ladies' brand and not very old ladies' either; our Lysippus has been a naughty boy... dust, mildew... Aha! No, wait, that's just you... There it is -- no -- yes..."

Endora looked up, her eyes fixed and shining, her nostrils flaring. For a moment her expression frightened Sadie. Then she grinned, looked Sadie's veil in the eye, and said: "Now I believe I can find him blindfolded."

"Is he fair away?"

"Oh, yes," said Endora, pulling a sleep mask out of her hat (where she kept it, seemingly, to be prepared for an all-nighter in the laboratory). "Why don't you go and nick those brooms for us, eh? I'll close up here, circulate the word about not opening any mail, and..."

Sadie was already gone. Twelve minutes later she appeared again with a broom over each shoulder. "You'll never belie where I founded this Cleanswipe 6," she chirped. "Some burger was swapping the stairs with it!"

"Language," Endora said absently as she pinned a hat with a motor-veil into her hair. With her the veil was not so much for disguise, as to protect her valuable scent organ. "I'm ready to go. In fact, while you were out, I had time to dig something useful out of my research on this algorithm problem."

"Wait's that?" Sadie asked as Endora led her upstairs toward the roof.

"Just an idea Ernest the Inscrutable left in his notes."

"Eh?" Sadie shook her head. "Wasn't he that gizzard who went gogo over the member 42?"

"Oh, no. He proved that 42 has magical properties. Only, he never found out what they were."

"And wasp," Sadie asked as they emerged onto the roof, "are you going to dupe with a broody number?"

"I'm going to use it to tie up Mr. Shore in red tape," said Endora, brandishing the Ministry report. "Only this time, he won't get out. Not once we use his seal -- "

"Impala's seal," Sadie corrected.

"-- Ilona's seal," Endora agreed, "over instructions not to open the report until the 42nd of May."

Sadie winced.

"What?"

"Remind me," she said, "newer to get up your knob. Er, news..."

"Olfactory organ," Endora hinted.

Sadie nodded grimly, but her gesture went unnoticed because Endora had already donned her sleep mask and leapt off the rooftop. Charming her broom to stay close to Endora's, Sadie followed her into the swift, rushing air.

+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGES FOR TMQ #161 & 162 +++

You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! Simply leave a brief comment answering the following Surveys and Contests. The survey answers with the most votes, and the contest answers that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the next two chapters!

SURVEY FOR TMQ #161: What gift from way back in Chapter 141 should Merlin use next? (A) Karl's survival satchel. (B) Some of Anatoly's defensive tattoos. (C) Another dose of Endora's Liquid Skill. (D) Subito's Turbo Gum. (E) Boccachiusa's Peekaboo Kit.

CONTEST FOR TMQ #161: Suggest an experiment a wizard might do, toward bending a particular law of nature.

SURVEY FOR TMQ #162: Funny thing about Ilona... In Chapter 155, she was hypnotized by Lee Shore. But then she turns up in Chapter 159, right as rain. How would you explain this? (A) Ilona-155 is an imposter. (B) Ilona-159 is an imposter. (C) The events of Chapter 159 take place some time after Endora & Sadie (presumably) save the world from Lee Shore. (D) Somehow, by magic, Ilona has managed to be in two different places at one time. (E) Other suggestions welcome.

CONTEXT FOR TMQ #162: Describe a special step or move that a well-trained wizard might use in hand-to-hand combat.

155. The Hystereo Effect

Joint contest winners: Rehannah & TZWRD

The whistle didn't sound as Sadie expected. When Mr. Graves, or rather Joe Albuquerque, put it to his lips and blew, she had braced herself for a shrill blast. Instead, it gave a loud "Baaa!"

Duckham fell forward out of his chair. He had been resting his forearms on the table, until it vanished. Suddenly the Ministry inquisitor sprawled face-down on the floor. As he pushed himself up onto hands and knees, he heard another "Baaa!" behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he had only enough time to see a furry blur charging toward him, head down. He rolled out of the way. The charging goat narrowly missed, its hooves clattering and sliding on the floor tiles, the smell of its fur filling the interrogation room.

Weedom screamed when the table turned into the goat. He tried to get to the door, but the goat charged that next - with splintery results. The door stood up to two more blows from the goat's bony head before it gave way, landing on a surprised Millbray who had come running to see what was the matter. The three men picked themselves up, panting, cursing, whimpering, and checking each other for serious injuries, as the sound of the goat's scampering hooves faded around a distant bend in the corridor. It was only when Duckham realized that he had lost the suspect's wand that they noticed the suspect had gone as well.

Sadie started laughing the moment they apparated outside the Hog's Head pub. She kept laughing, supporting herself on Joe's arm, all the way to the shabby back parlor that had been held in readiness for them. On the way there, Joe paused to hand the whistle over to the proprietor, along with a fair tip and a word of thanks.

"That was the least thing I would have expectorated," Sadie gasped as she regained control of herself. She used the hem of her veil to wipe her eyes. "Leaf it to old what's-his-neume..."

"Yes," Joe agreed, while rummaging through a bulging carpetbag for his next disguise. "He can be a clever fellow, when goats are involved. Do you know, that whistle is made out of a goat's ankle bone? Instead of a pea inside, it's got a tiny bezoar..."

"Spanking of cleverness," said Sadie, "that Graves disgust worked awfully whelk, considering how fiddle time you had to perspire it."

"Oh! well," Joe admitted, bashfully, "it wasn't really that hard. Graves and I have crossed paths before. It's easy to pick up details about people who really annoy you."

Sadie's eyes widened. "I my have pricked up a derail about him myself."

Joe looked up at her from a selection of monogrammed jumpsuits - he had been trying to decide whether to become a pool cleaner or an exterminator - and by his look he managed to say, "Yes?"

"Did you ewer get a goad look at the chap who nickled this?" Sadie opened her fist and showed Joe the dull, heavy, silver ring she had taken from Uncle or Aunt Leslie's house. Where it might otherwise have held a jewel setting, the ring flared out into a flat, circular stamp with a raised insignia decorated with a complex design.

After staring at the ring for a moment, Joe finally took notice of Sadie's question. "The skinny youngster?" He shook his head. "Too busy hiding from him in that bank vault. Why?"

"He and your fiend Grades could be relegated to each other," said Sadie.

"You saw a family resemblance, did you?"

She nodded. Joe stroked his chin thoughtfully. When he put his hand down, he was suddenly wearing a Fu Manchu beard. "I guess I'm relieved," he said, rummaging more deeply in his carpetbag. He came up a moment later with a dog catcher's uniform.

"Released?" Sadie repeated, inaccurately. "Whiz?"

"Why?" Joe translated. Sadie nodded.

"Because," he went on, "I was starting to wonder if he was Bette Noir's boy - seeing that he inherited her bank vault and all. And given his apparent age, she would have had him around the time Bette and I were trapped in that Egyptian pyramid."

Sadie's eyes and mouth all said, in unison, "Oh."

"I thought he might have been my son," Joe added, by way of unnecessary explanation. After saying it, he fell silent, the better to concentrate on his new disguise. He also sat a bit lower in his seat. Sadie could not tell whether this showed his relief or his disappointment. She could understand another reason Joe might have been thinking along those lines: their young nemesis shared Joe's gift for disguise.

Sadie had almost put together a little speech of encouragement, which she knew wasn't going to come out right thanks to the lingering effects of the misspell on her, when a hand pulled aside the curtain at the entrance of the parlor and a familiar face looked in.

"Iguana!" Sadie exclaimed, beaming behind her veil.

Joe turned toward the doorway with a delighted grin. "You made good time," he said. But his grin faded when he saw the grim, tired look on Ilona's face.

"You have it?" she said, sitting down heavily across the table from Joe.

Sadie opened her hand again. Ilona snatched the ring out of it and held it close to her eye. She seemed to study it for a very long time, neither moving nor speaking, while Sadie fidgeted and Joe changed his disguise. At one point Ilona looked as if she might smile, but soon afterward a frown creased the center of her brow. Finally, she let the ring drop onto the table with a surprisingly loud thud.

"That's almost the best fake I've ever seen," she said.

Sadie's high spirits plummeted. "I bet your parson?"

Ilona turned her scrutiny toward Sadie, reading her features through the sheer fabric of her veil. Then she shook her head and said, "You've been had. Either Uncle or Aunt Leslie planted that fake, or he never got the real one in the first place..."

"Or I made the swatch," Sadie said, completing the thought for her. Her voice trembled with outrage. "Word you like to church me? Or maybe you shed frisky Joe here..."

"We have to eliminate the possibilities until we are left with the truth," said Ilona, refusing to retreat from Sadie's hurt feelings. "We know this Lee Shore person, whoever he is, took the real ring from my uncle. We know he used it to compel a worker at the Ministry to deposit a barrel of suiCider in Bette Noir's bank vault. We know he works with Uncle or Aunt Leslie, who has plans for the suiCider, and that he has been in contact with Il Comte di Bestemmia. What we don't know is whether Leslie planted the fake ring to fool Il Comte, or whether Lee Shore gave Leslie the fake and kept the real ring. We also don't know what happened between the three of them after you got away. So, really, any of them could have it."

"Il Comet was trying to stale this ring form Leslie," Sadie growled, "unlit I stole it fist."

"He clearly has plans to use the ring to force people to his will," said Ilona. "He was supposed to speak at a political rally in Venice, but he had to call it off. I'm sure if he had the ring, the rally would have gone forward..."

"...and Il Comte would be on his way toward world domination," Joe guessed.

Ilona nodded. "Since he didn't show up to speak, we can probably rule out Il Comte. That means either Uncle or Aunt Leslie fooled him..."

"Food us broth," Sadie muttered.

"...or Lee Shore fooled Leslie."

"In either case," said Joe, "they will start using the ring soon enough. With that vault under constant watch, they won't be able to go forward with Operation Death by Aromatherapy. But if it's true that no one can resist commands sealed with that ring, it won't be long before they move on an even nastier plan."

"The question is," said Ilona, "How will we know what their plan is before it's too late?"

The cheerful fire in the hearth behind Sadie suddenly flared green. With a loud puff of warm air, a roll of parchment sailed out of the fire, over Sadie's head, and onto the table in front of her.

"It's from Harry," said Sadie, untying the ribbon from around the parchment.

"Who?" said Joe, taking the parchment from her. "Oh! It's from Harvey!"

"That's wart I sad," Sadie sighed.

As Joe scanned the letter, his grin faded and his face became blank. With dead, hollow eyes he handed it over to Ilona. The same thing happened to her as she read it in turn.

"Er," said Sadie. "Is ever-think all ripe?"

Joe, meanwhile, had pulled several blank pieces of parchment out of his bag and begun writing at a furious pace. As soon as Ilona handed the letter back to Sadie, she began digging through her handbag for a quill and ink bottle.

Sadie squinted at the letter. Something was not quite right about it. The words swam before her eyes, their spelling changing fluidly. Any word she focused on would be spelled differently the next time she looked at it. She decided it had to do with the misspell. Muttering a dire curse under her breath, she began at the beginning and tried reading it again. The effort was so great that she had to move her lips. Before long she was reading aloud, with great difficulty and many oral spelling mistakes:

"To Wham It May Concert: This is a text of our new regiment. At your eeriest convent, please cupid this better to fire people of your acquittal and sand it to them by the fattest means at your deposition. Remonstrate to tile the better with a robin and steal it with an extract relic of the steal on this better. We recompense the following spill..."

Before Sadie could read further, she was interrupted by the voices of Joe and Ilona. They had finished copying the letter, word for word by memory, and tying them with a ribbon. Now each of them gave five wand flicks and, with each flick, repeated the word Xerosigilus. Wax seals appeared out of nowhere, securing all the ribbons on the letters with an insignia nearly identical to the one on the fake ring Sadie had stolen. The letters shot, one by one, into the fire, disappearing in explosions of green sparks and flame.

"...Xenophilius," continued Sadie, slightly shaken. "Then tun out your pickets and picket-books..."

Joe and Ilona turned out their pockets.

"...and through ever-think but the monkey into the neatest five..."

Except for their coins (which remained heaped on the table), Joe and Ilona threw all their belongings into the fire. This included the contents of Ilona's handbag and the disguises remaining in Joe's carpetbag. They watched the flames with blank expressions.

"...Then stamp by for furrier destructions," Sadie added, reaching the end of the letter. "Your obstinate servant, Lee Snore, esq."

In spite of her growing concern at her friends' behavior, Sadie could not seem to stop reading the letter before this. Now she sat and fidgeted, torn between an overwhelming urge to do as the letter commanded, and a terrifying need to do something about the wrongness unfolding all around her. The former was about to win the point, as her hands crept closer to her own handbag. But then the fire gave off a loud popping noise, and something thumped loudly on the stone floor under the grate. It rolled out into the room, sounding like a large marble. This distraction was enough to give Sadie a moment to think.

The sound of stone rolling across stone came to a halt beneath the table, close to Sadie's end. She looked down. About half a meter from her foot lay the object that had fallen out of the fire. Sadie had never seen anything quite like it...

A crystal finger.

She knelt down beside her chair and placed her hand close to the perfectly shaped, life-sized artifact. It seemed to beckon to her somehow. And it didn't give off any heat, either. Sadie picked it up and found that it felt quite cool in her hand. Then, moved by what impulse she did not know, she stuck it into her right ear...

And the memory of the chain letter, that had lingered in the back of her mind, suddenly fuzzed into a tangle of nonsense. She looked down at the parchment again and realized that she couldn't make out a word. She tried to say, "That's odd," but what came out of her mouth sounded - to her unstoppered left ear - more like, "Znrf'g bvv." She was so shocked that she immediately plucked the finger out of her ear...and the urge to comply with the letter's commands returned.

Finger in: freedom. Finger out: compulsion. Finger in: a total loss of spoken and written language. Finger out: back to the comparatively mild, magically-induced dyslexia that had been troubling her all day. Finger in left ear, for a change: the dyslexia suddenly disappeared. Sadie forgot herself for a while, then happened to look down when something touched her foot. It was that crystal finger again. How did it get down there? She picked it up, considered throwing back into the fire, then shrugged and popped it into her right ear.

Whoa. Sadie looked around the room. Ilona and Joe were both seated, looking blankly across the table at each other, waiting for further instructions. By the heft of her handbag, Sadie had emptied all her portable belongings into the fire. This hinted that she had sent five copies of the chain letter, too. But for this crystal finger in her right ear, she would be in the same zone of blank mental readiness as her two friends.

She snapped her fingers in front of their faces, but they didn't blink. She touched their arms, spoke their names: no response.

Sadie huddled back into her chair and shivered. "I'm on my own," she tried to say, but what she actually said was, "F'w kmubh zprav shlug." She decided not to think her thoughts out loud any more. So, silently, she told herself three things. First: She must never put the finger in her left ear again. Second: She would risk taking it out of her right ear only when she really needed to communicate with someone. Third: It was probably up to her to save the world. So she'd better find out what it needed saving from...

+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #157 +++

You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! Simply leave a brief comment (up to 150 words) answering the following Survey and Contest. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest answer that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the chapter after next. [EDIT: This discussion is now closed.]

SURVEY: What gift from way back in Chapter 141 should Merlin use next? (A) Karl's survival satchel. (B) Some of Anatoly's defensive tattoos. (C) Another dose of Endora's Liquid Skill. (D) Harvey's inflatable wall. (E) Subito's Turbo Gum. (F) Boccachiusa's Peekaboo Kit.

CONTEST: Butcher, baker, candlestick maker, tinker, tailor, cobbler, sailor... choose any "old world" craft or trade, and describe something strange and different that could be made by combining their wares with a bit of magic.

153. Margarine Headache

Contest winner: greyniffler
Runner-up: Benjamin Ng

The hard-faced men in one of the more brutish, back offices of the Ministry of Magic had ways of making people talk. Or, given a suspect like Sadie, who had vast resources of shtumness to draw upon, they had ways of keeping people waiting.

Sadie began to sweat during her sixth hour in a row of holding her fists clenched. The ring of Count Matthias was in one hand. In her other fist was the bone whistle Joe Albuquerque had given her. Nothing could compel her to show either item to her interrogators. But they were equally determined to know what she knew.

She still hadn't had a moment of privacy in which to blow the whistle. She wondered whether she would, anyway. She wasn't exactly sure what would happen if she did.

For the eighteenth time since they rescued her from the footnotes of a self-updating report on the number of breeding pairs of augureys in Hertfordshire, the crack interrogators of the Office of Magical Documentation and Records swapped position - most likely a strategy to wrong-foot her. It hadn't worked six hours ago; far less would it work now that Sadie had gotten to know them so well. This time it was Duckham who walked out of the room, while Millbray stood up to pace and Weedom stepped in and took the seat Millbray had just vacated. If they kept this up, Sadie thought, she might pass out from dizziness.

"Are you ready to make a statement?" Weedom asked with a clipped voice and a tight-lipped, joyless smile. He regarded her with shooting-glass eyes and patted a roll of parchment spread open before her, its corners weighted down and a quill and inkwell standing nearby.

"I would like a drink of waiter," Sadie said quietly.

"I don't take your meaning," said Weedom, with the tiniest hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth.

"My meaning," said Sadie, "is as plan as the noise on your face."

Drat, she thought as she heard herself speak. Will that misspell never wear off?

"Are you feeling quite well?" Weedom asked with a fair semblance of concern.

"No," she said, digging her knuckles into her temples. "I feel a margarine headache coming on."

Weedom coughed, then replied in a strangled voice, "You might feel butter after a full confession." Behind him, Millbray sneezed loudly and retreated from the room. The door did not close quite fast enough to cover his explosive laughter.

"Have you always had this way with words?" Weedom asked sweetly.

"Only sincere I - oh, dart! - only since my little occident in your filling system." Sadie hoped he would conclude that she had fallen afoul of a poorly cast check-spell. She wasn't about to explain that she had been hexed by her pursuers, who seemed to have gotten away. The less these sad little men knew, the better for all concerned.

"And will you, at last, explain what you were doing there?"

"Just having a larch," she said, taking little care to rein in her sarcasm. "Nothing quilt like a stole down memory lance - particle when it belongs to the buoyed politic. We three-silkers are drowned to it like months to a flame."

Weedom held her with a level gaze for some moments, then shook his head. "No," he said. "I don't buy it." The truth is: he didn't understand a word of it.

"I wand my want back," Sadie blurted, unwittingly saying all the words she meant but not in the right order. "I have a sight to rend one Patronus - "

"Sister," said Weedom, "you won't want to risk casting advanced spells in your condition. The laws you've already violated are nothing compared to Spellman's 67th Essential Inference, and I quote: 'Chaotic cadences conjoined in casting contrapoise crossbinding cataplexes on sequentially staged spells...'"

"To say nothing of Tybalt's Second Law of Transfiguration," said Duckham, sidling into the room. A sound like whimpering laughter came in with him, cut off by the closing of the door. Weedom jumped up and dutifully began to pace while Duckham sat down.

"Wish is?" Sadie prompted.

Duckham raised his eyebrows with the self-righteous hauteur of one who has done his homework, and knows who hasn't. "When attempting to transfigure an object into something else whose name rhymes with the original object, the strength and permanence of the transfiguration are increased sevenfold. Corollary: If a spell goes off because of incorrect rhyme or fumbled delivery, the magical consequences are seven times as serious."

"Ridiculous," said Sadie, surprising herself with her perfect pronunciation. "Magic is beyond languish. (Oh, carp!) How does it master whether the spell rhythms or not?"

"It matters," said Duckham, as smugly as ever, "because the spell-caster thinks it matters. What is significant to the magic user is significant to the result."

"None of this is revenant," said Sadie, "to casting a Pantalones charm."

"No?" said Duckham, raising only one eyebrow this time.

"Try it," Weedom barked, as he turned at the end of the room, "and see if we don't charge you for reckless spell-casting and endangering the" - he coughed - "buoyed politic."

"Change me?" Sadie snorted. "You? Who do you thick you are? This is a burial gown for expired froms and mementos, and you're nothing but grape diggers..."

"Since you bring that up," Duckham cut in, looking at Weedom, who nodded his assent. "There seems to be nothing for it but to turn you over to Mr. Graves."

For some reason, Sadie felt like making a gulping sound. Due to her misspelling problem, she said "Golf!" instead.

Weedom opened the door a crack and said to the wheezy giggling outside, "Send for Mr. Graves." The giggling stopped, this time before the door shut.

"I take it you know of Mr. Graves," said Duckham, who had continued to study Sadie's face throughout this exchange.

"I'm not sugar," said Sadie. "What deportment does he work for?"

Duckham shook his head as if in regret. "It were better to say: What department works for him?"

Already there came a soft knock at the door. Weedom opened it, admitting a man both strange and familiar to Sadie's eyes. Very tall, very thin, a bit gray at the temples, with small, even features and a looseness of gait that suggested very limber joints, he looked - Sadie realized with a stab of panic - like a middle-aged Chat Noir.

"Mr. Douglas Graves at your service," he said, offering his hand toward her.

Mesmerized, Sadie did not think what she was doing until he gave her hand back without the whistle that had been in it.

For a moment, Sadie felt horror and despair. Then the mysterious Mr. Graves winked at her, and she knew him at once to be the man she had last seen only hours ago, disguised as a Swiss Guard. She didn't have time to wonder whether this latest disguise revealed the true face of Joe Albuquerque or merely a man Joe had chosen to impersonate. She had only enough time to realize that whoever owned this face was probably Chat Noir's father, before Joe Albuquerque raised the whistle to his lips and blew.

+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #155 +++

You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! Simply leave a brief comment (up to 150 words) answering the following Survey and Contest. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest answer that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the chapter after next. [EDIT: This discussion is now closed.]

SURVEY: Who is Chat Noir's biological father? (A) Joe Albuquerque, who under all his disguises looks a lot like Mr. Graves. (B) The real Mr. Graves, who is Joe Albuquerque's secret nemesis. (C) A completely different person, related to Uncle or Aunt Leslie.

CONTEST: What happens when Joe blows the bone whistle?

148. Between the Lines

Contest winner: greyniffler
Runner-up: Linda Carrig

MINISTRY OF MAGIC
Department of Magical Law Enforcement
Improper Use of Magic Office

Form IUM-21: Report of Belatedly Discovered Violation

REPORT BY: Lysippus Bean, junior apprentice obliviator

REPORT ON: Possible violation of Statute of Secrecy

DATE: Agnes Onslow (we're just friends)

LOCATION: Miss Onslow's art studio (she makes talking portraits).

SECURITY LEVEL: MoM Eyes-Only confidentiality, secured by spells to repel unauthorized Oi. You there. I need help readers.

DESCRIPTION OF VIOLATION (Attach additional rolls of parchment as needed): While waiting for my Aunt Eunice as she sat for a portrait, I started to browse through some books on Muggle painters and their weird, non-moving Hello? Is anyone there? I could use a bit of help getting out of here pictures. I was struck by some of the images, and after talking with Agnes and analyzing them a bit further, I have become convinced Look, if you could contact someone at the RMB, Blokebury on Rye office, have them tell Agent Spankison or Agent Dalrymple that I'm stuck in here. The name is Sadie that painters from our world have been mingling with Muggle painters, resulting in a horrifying breach of magical secrecy.

I found the strongest evidence of this in Degas' paintings of ballerinas - who, when viewed through spectrespecs, are revealed to be hags having a dance lesson. Though ordinarly Muggles would Well? Am I going to be rescued? be unable to penetrate the concealment charm on these canvases, the fact that Degas was allowed to witness such a spectacle must at least raise a concern. To be sure, this violation happened so long ago that nothing can be done about it. Yet I fear it may only be the tip of the iceberg.

My greatest worries focus on the artist René Magritte, who for some time shared his studio with one of our world's most All right, I suppose you're not doing anything to help me because you don't understand how I broke into this highly classified report. I confess! I'm a burglar! But I promise you, I was using my skills for good prolific painters, Vladimir Smazaniy. According to our archives, Smazaniy was permitted to study under Magritte on the condition that he did not reveal the existence of magic to his master. From Magritte's paintings, however, it is If you really must know (and apparently you must), I got in here through a door in Uncle or Aunt Leslie's house on chicken legs. Didn't know he or she was still alive? Now you do. HELP! evident that Smazaniy went back on his word. Magritte's paintings clearly show - from a muddled, Muggle perspective - that he was even familiar with the Ministry, owing to his frequent depiction of men wearing the style of suits and bowler hats then favored by our agents.

Perhaps Magritte was simply influenced by unintentional slips that he glimpsed from time to time, such as the You see, Il Comte had the big creep (or creepess) under some kind of extra-juice Imperius curse. I followed them to the oval room with all the well-dressed dummies in it, and slipped into a ball gown while they weren't looking. They thought I was one of the mannequins portrait behind the artist in the non-moving photo charm-linked above. I believe the painting in that photo to depict Smazaniy himself, or at least a flash-impression Magritte may have gotten when he momentarily caught Smazaniy using the vanishing cream he was known to use, particularly when painting unauthorized portraits.

I am spell-linking several other examples of Magritte's work, which I feel should I was waiting to see what would happen when Il Comte stepped on the trick floorboard and got jinxed right out of the house, but before I could do anything, Uncle or Auntie's nephew charged into the room and suddenly, spells were blasting everywhere be studied and possibly removed from Muggle collections - though I realize the cost of eradicating them from all Muggle memory would be prohibitive at this point.

First, consider the painting Elective Infinities, which I believe is based on Magritte's garbled memory of a dragon Smazaniy was known to have kept as a pet. Agnes says baby dragon tears I grabbed the ring of Count Matthias right out of Il Comte's hand and ran for it. Suddenly all the blasting wands were pointed at me. I tried one door after another as I ran down the corridor are essential to the pigments used in moving paintings. If Magritte saw this, it is likely that he also witnessed Smazaniy painting wizard portraits. Further evidence of There was a door that led to some icy rock in outerspace. I could see Jupiter at close-range from there. I decided against going in this is in Magritte's painting The Difficult Crossing - note the painting of the ship in the background, virtually identical to a seascape Smazaniy sold to the Maritime Museum of Idaho in 1966.

Then there is Golconda, which (except for the Then there was a door that led to a desert, then a mountain peak, then a boat in the middle of the ocean. I was running out of time to find a place to hide fact that it appears frozen in time) could be mistaken for a wizartist's conception of the 1953 epidemic of spontaneous random apparition, one of the worst public-health disasters in the wizarding world's history. How did Magritte escape being obliviated after this incident, long enough to paint this picture? Again, we must assume Smazaniy had a hand in it.

The Happy Donor can easily be interpreted as Magritte's depiction of Smazaniy disapparating in front of him. The poor fellow Just as they were about to catch me up, I threw myself through the very next door without looking where it led to, and here I am must have thought himself mad. The Human Condition could appear as a cry for help by a Muggle painting master struggling to capture the magical techniques of his student; note how Magritte Well, that's over-simplifying. I feel like I've been through every book in Flourish and Blotts, and since I couldn't break into any RMB documents, this is the closest I could get. So will you send for Spanky now? seems to struggle with the distinction between a picture of a thing and the thing itself.

The Listening Room suggests that Smazaniy allowed Magritte to catch him engorging pieces of fruit, no doubt in his pursuit of ever higher Spanky? Is that you? degrees of detail in his series of still-lifes. Not to be Reproduced appears to show Smazaniy caught in the act of painting his self-portrait, using the special mirror he Oh, bother. They've followed me in here. Just pretend I'm not here borrowed from Hogsmeade hairdresser Flavia Snippens in 1937. On the Threshold of Liberty suggests some of Magritte's confusion, as he interpreted the moving pictures on the walls of Smazaniy's flat as a series of impossible windows leading to different places.

In The Son of Man, we see evidence that Magritte witnessed Smazaniy doing a hovering What the... Look out! They're shooting spells at me. In here! I reckon they're trying to erase me charm. No one who knew Smazaniy can fail to recognize his left eye, which is just visible behind the apple, or his left elbow, which accidentally got I could really stand to be rescued right now fixed on backward after he splinched himself in 1963. Time Transfixed clearly shows an apparition of the ghost train that inhabited Smazaniy's flat in Owch! I thimk ivy bean hett! Brussels, which happened to be built on the site of the Shrinking Train Disaster of 1911 - the reason none of the magical schools on the continent have anything like the Hogwarts Express today. And finally, in The Treachery of Images, we see the full extent of Eye geuss thay wur shutinge mispels at me the harm all these violations of wizarding secrecy wreaked on Magritte's mind. As early as 1928 - the year he took Smazaniy in as his pupil - he Aye wunder wut thyss iz gonig two due tu mi aftre igh git owt uv heer was already losing his conviction that what he saw was real.

It is too late to save Magritte from the mental damage resulting from Smazaniy's numerous indiscretions. However, I recommend Pleez sumbuddy dew summit suen that we take immediate steps to prevent any further harm from coming through these pictures. I urge that the Ministry consider using concealment charms, or at least negotiate with the respective ministries of the countries where each painting Thare cumin kant holed owt mutsh longur is held to have them removed from public view.

Yours respectfully,

L. Bean

+++ A LITTLE ANNOUNCEMENT +++

Since Chapter 150 will be a look back on the "third season" of The Magic Quill, there will not be a new "Double Challenge" this time. Instead, please enjoy another week to answer the Survey and Contest at the end of Chapter 147. Thanks for coming along for the ride! And please, let your friends know about TMQ's new lease on life. We can always use more reader input!

143. Enormity in Action

Contest winner: Linda Carrig

The cupboard door effectively hid her, while the holes carved into it in an elaborate design enabled her to see every move of the duel. This, she thought wryly, must be the reason Aunt or Uncle Leslie wanted to load up on calories.

It began with the sound of thunderous footsteps growing ever closer. Sadie had hidden before the door even opened. As the enormous witch or wizard passed through the broad archway at one end of the room, the space was suddenly filled with a blaze of light that made Sadie's eyes water. It came from mirrors hung all around the walls, and showed that the room was furnished only with a sturdy bench under the center of each long wall and an enormous dresser at the end opposite to the arch. Several other ornately carved doors stood around the room, similar to the cupboard door in front of Sadie.

Aunt or Uncle Leslie paced, his or her body quivering with each step. It was impossible to read the expression of his or her bloated face. Meanness and hunger always seemed to be there, and there was precious little nuance the tiny eyes and puckered mouth could add. But impatience must have been on the menu, for when Sadie heard a distinct pop near the far end of the room, His or Her Horridness snarled, "You're late."

Sadie shifted her position quietly to get a better look at whoever had Apparated. She didn't have to stifle a gasp - her habits of burglary were too deeply settled to allow such a gaffe - but her shock registered in the way her grip tightened around the fang whistle that hung round her neck.

"I was forced to make an unexpected detour," Il Comte di Bestemmia replied smoothly.

"Detour my toe," said the mountain of flesh that faced him, his or her voice as androgynous as her or his body. "You Apparated, didn't you?"

"But in stages, of course," said the well-groomed wizard, fingering a black carnation in his buttonhole. "Many carefully planned and prepared stages, some in countries I have only visited for the purpose of setting them. So when I spotted someone following me - inconceivable as that may seem - I was forced to double back and work my way around through another region. It would have been even more difficult, had I not traveled so extensively. You see, it does pay to be a wizard of the world."

"How could anyone follow you?" the giant or giantess honked peevishly. "You can't follow someone who is Apparating, unless you know where they were going and every stage of their route. How would someone know that?"

"I was wondering the same thing," said Il Comte with his usual smiling charm. "I'll admit one theory crossed my mind."

"I would hardly need to put a trace on you," Uncle or Auntie snapped, having caught his or her guest's meaning. "I know where I live. Which leaves few possibilities apart from one of us being indiscreet."

Il Comte's eyes sparked and gleamed. "Shall we settle the matter in the usual form?" he purred.

"If that pleases you," said Uncle or Aunt Leslie. "But I must say, it's a pity to kill you before we get down to business."

"That is hardly a difficulty," said Il Comte, drawing a gleaming white wand out of his spotless robes. "We can deal while we duel. Our heirs will carry out whatever agreement we reach. Have you an elephant bird quill?"

"Certainly," said Auntie or Uncle. "Two of them, in fact. They can write duplicate contracts with utter reliability, while one of us obtains satisfaction. May I ring for my nephew? He will bring the quills."

"By all means," said Il Comte.

Uncle or Aunt Leslie reached forward and pulled on thin air - or perhaps, an invisible bell-pull. Somewhere in the distance a gong sounded.

While they waited for the nephew to show up, Il Comte fingered his wand, sniffed his fingertips, and looked his opponent over.

"I believe you have lost weight," he said blandly.

"It's possible," said Auntie or Uncle Leslie. "My former physician suggested a low-carb diet. I started by eating him."

"Did you notice a difference?"

"He was a lot tougher and dryer than my previous doctor. I hate the ones who practice what they preach."

Il Comte rolled his eyes heavenward. "I meant," he said with deliberate patience, "a difference in how you feel."

"I find it harder to feel full," said Uncle or Auntie. "And at night I get chills."

"At least that's something," Signore Maledicto muttered.

A starved-looking young man - the one Sadie had been following - bowed his way into the room. "Yes, sir or ma'am?"

"Fetch the wooden box from my bedchamber," he or she snapped at him.

The youngster hesitated.

Uncle or Aunt Leslie snorted impatiently: "Well?"

"Do you mean the hope chest at the foot of your bed?" the youth asked. "The one with pink bunnies, flowers, and a pony painted on the lid? Or is it the box with the cricket things and hunting knives, that you keep under the stuffed swordfish on your wall?"

Uncle or Auntie chewed his or her tongue, turning several shades of pink and purple, before choking out the words: "The small one, like a pencil box, in the first drawer of my writing desk. Quick step, now."

Il Comte refrained from snickering, as that would be beneath his dignity; but he did so in such a manner that Aunt or Uncle Leslie knew about it, and resented it.

"It's not that I am so attached to childish things," he or she explained loftily. "I have earned far more valuable belongings since I turned to ... er, business. But some of the objects handed down to me in childhood are really quite valuable. Do you know I own the very pot in which Jules Melantier and Everard Owens brewed their infamous Tempest of 1588?"

"The one that got away?" Il Comte's slightly raised eyebrows showed slight interest, which coming from him meant he was very impressed indeed.

"The very one," said Uncle or Aunt Leslie. "Their mistake was trying to pour it into a cup without adding milk first. The china was not of the best quality. The cup shattered, the storm escaped, the Spanish Armada was destroyed... "

"It's an ill wind that bloweth no man to good," quipped Maledicto.

"My granduncle gave me the pot," said Auntie or Uncle. "I keep it in my hope chest. Before I punch out, I hope to use it again. Perhaps I will brew a storm that will wash a lot of useless people away. Pity that you won't be there to enjoy it."

"If you say so," said Il Comte.

The starved nephew was back. Looking very serious, he handed a small wooden box to Auntie or Uncle Leslie. Obeying a look from him or her, the youth backed out of the room and vanished around the corner.

"Let me set this on the dresser," said Uncle or Auntie Leslie. "Once the quills are ready to write, we can begin."

He or she heaved his or her bulk the length of the room, pulled two scrolls of parchment out of a dresser drawer, weighted the edges down with lead soldiers who, Sadie was sure, would walk down the scroll, keeping a length of it open for the quills to write on, while allowing the ends to roll themselves up. Two inkwells were uncorked and set alongside the parchment. Finally, the enormous witch or wizard lifted the lid of the wooden box and took something out of it. As he or she swung round to face Il Comte, Sadie saw briefly that it was a wand - white, like Il Comte's, but a white not of wood but of bone.

Sadie's eyes widened, but Il Comte was not all surprised. Before the wand came to bear on him, he had his trained on the center of Uncle or Auntie Leslie's body mass. He said something then, something terrible and loud that echoed from the rafters and cracked the glass in some of the wall mirrors. The vast figure opposite him stood suddenly motionless. The mean little eyes rolled with terror, but their owner seemed unable to speak or even breathe. Aunt or Uncle Leslie began to turn blue as Il Comte walked toward her or him.

"That was poor form," he murmured, taking the wand out of his or her hand. "Breathe."

Beyond belief, Sadie felt sorry for the monstrous creature that sucked in one huge, wheezing breath, then breathed out once and stopped again, looking as terrified and almost as blue as before.

"I find the Imperius Curse terribly passé, don't you? Besides, your Ministry here has set up so many new restrictions and taboos that I am loath to risk it. What do you think of this litte substitute? I whipped it up myself. Breathe."

Auntie or Uncle gasped in, blew out, and was frozen again. Sadie clutched at the sides of her face, feeling some of his or her torture herself, yet afraid to give in to her urge to gasp for air. She was sure Il Comte would hear her, even from her hiding place several meters away.

"Here's how it works," said Il Comte. "You still have your free will - but you can only act upon it with my permission. If I forget to tell you to breathe, for example, you will die. Breathe."

His helpless victim breathed, looking both terrified and furious at once.

"I will only give you permission to do what I want you to do," Il Comte said calmly, walking all the way around him or her. It took quite a few steps. "And if you don't do it, I will leave you like this. You won't last very long - just long enough to make it unpleasant. But really, at bottom, it's up to you. You can choose to do what I ask, and live; or you can do nothing. Breathe."

Another breath. Sadie breathed at the same time. Watching this was agony. She fiddled with the whistle on its dragon-bone chain, tempted to try it...

"Now," said Il Comte, "I believe you have in your possession a certain ring that has only come to light after being lost for centuries. What is it called again? The Ring of Count Stephen? Answer."

"Either that or of Count Matthias," Uncle or Auntie wheezed, stealing as many breaths as possible between his or her words. "It depends on which side of..."

"That's enough," said Il Comte, instantly arresting his adversary's tongue and lungs. "Is it true that whatever writing you seal with this ring must be obeyed by the first person who reads it?" Nod yes or no.

Swelling dangerously, Auntie or Uncle nodded yes.

"Have you tested this? Nod yes or no."

Another affirmative nod.

"All right, breathe. You now have a choice, esteemed colleague. Take me to the ring and I will free you from this curse. Refuse, and I will turn every room of this house upside-down till I find it. Either way, I will have the ring. I am offering you a chance to live, simply in exchange for shortening my stay in your lovely home, and saving me a bit of trouble. What is your answer? Nod yes or no."

Uncle or Auntie didn't move for quite a long time. She or he was quite black in the face before, at last, he or she nodded.

"Excellent," said Il Comte. "You may breathe at will."

Apart from relieved gasps, the huge witch or wizard did not move at all.

Sadie bit her lip, furious and confused. Her mind raced. How could she find the ring before Uncle or Auntie Leslie led Il Comte to it? How could she steal it before he did, without becoming the target of a curse like the one he had cast on Leslie? And how could Il Comte - who, by all accounts, was not such a powerful wizard in terms of pure magical power - how could he have cast such a powerful spell?

+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE +++

You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! First, go to the forums, or send Robbie feedback. Then, in 250 words or less, answer the following Survey and Contest. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest answer that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the chapter after next. [EDIT: This discussion is now closed.]

SURVEY: Which storyline will we see in TMQ #145? A) Sadie and Joe's mission to recover the Ring of Count Matthias. B) Merlin's mission to recover a goblin talisman from Il Comte's villa. C) Spanky and Dalrymple's investigation of Persephone's yak. D) A new mission featuring another recurring TMQ character. Write-ins will be regarded as "concepts contributed" and the winner will be chosen by Robbie, if D gets the most votes in the survey.

CONTEST: What if the "book mistakes" in the Harry Potter series were actually deliberate ploys to cover up things muggles like us aren't supposed to know about? Pick an apparent "book mistake" and suggest the "untold story" that may lie behind it.

[Originally posted 9/28/08]

141. The Gift-Giving

Contest winner: greyniffler

Merlin rocked on his feet impatiently. As if the queue to turn in his room key hadn't been moving slowly enough, now it seemed an Elvis impersonator was having fisticuffs with somebody disguised as Einstein. The wizard-of-fortune rolled his eyes, fingering the last of the probability-magic-proof chits with which the Aladdin's Cave Consortium had paid him for his work.

It wasn't enough, he reflected, that he had lost all the money he had earned testing the casino's security system; but now that they had recouped everything they had paid him, the Consortium was threatening to cancel his exemption from the Do Not Pass binding unless he started paying for his room and board.

Merlin gritted his teeth, wondering for the eleventh time what it would have felt like simply to break out of the vault and take everything with him when he had the chance, rather than reporting to the Consortium how he had gotten through their spelltraps. It was just as well that he was on the list of people prevented, by a magical binding, from crossing the threshold of Aladdin's Cave. It would be too easy, he knew now, to get away with millions - and after the way the Consortium had treated him, he had more motives than money for doing it. He didn't need that kind of temptation. It was time to leave.

Someone nearby cleared his throat. Merlin looked over and saw three men watching him: a large, bald man in an expensive suit, leaning on a silver-capped cane, and flanked by two obvious flunkies - one tall, skeletally thin, with huge expressive eyes and a sensitive face; the other very short, scarcely taller than a goblin, but stoutly built and animated by a fidgety, restless energy. Something about the three men struck Merlin as familiar. Had they been watching him as he moved about the casino?

The fat wizard beckoned Merlin toward him with a slight twist of his head. Merlin hesitated, glancing toward the front of the line, where Elvis was now being arrested by the casino police. He turned back toward the three men and saw them walking away through the crowd. With a groan of frustration, Merlin abandoned his place in the queue and hurried after them.

Their trail led him past the Lizard Lounge, around the far end of the Roc Concert Hall, up several flights of steps, and down a hallway lit by glowing stars on the doors. The three men came to a door that had three stars stuck to it, opened it and walked through without another glance in Merlin's direction. He followed them through the door, and heard it close behind him.

The room beyond the three-star door contained three dressing tables, placed in a row beneath a single mirror. On another wall hung a large, silver horn, hung above a brightly painted carousel horse with a hinged door built into its side. The tables were covered with jars of paint, sponges, brushes, pencils, and wigs - Merlin only saw them for a moment before the thin wizard waved his hand, clearing all these things away and conjuring a plain, white cloth in their place. The short wizard vanished with a pop, then reappeared carrying a tray full of demitasses, a pitcher of steamed milk, a bowl of sugar, and the powerful aroma of espresso. The fat wizard sketched four chairs out of thin air with the tip of his cane: four papasan chairs, covered with tasseled rugs, one sized to fit each of the men in the room. No one said a word until all were seated and slurping strong coffee out of tiny cups that never fell below half-full.

Tall-and-thin mutely offered Merlin a mouthwatering, chocolate-shaving-covered canole. Shaking his head, Merlin broke the silence to ask if they might have a plain digestive instead. "No offense meant," he added. "I promised my wife. She swears she can smell my weight, and if I gain much more she'll have her own bedroom. Her nose is that sensitive."

The fat wizard tutted sympathetically, but his mouth was too full of pastry and cream to comment.

It was, finally, the short wizard who spoke in a thick accent Merlin had never heard before. For the first time, Merlin began to doubt the sense of familiarity he had felt since he had first spotted the three men. Perhaps he hadn't met them before, after all.

"We would like to engage your services," said short-and-stout. "It is a dangerous business. We understand you are one of the best for this kind of work."

"I have references, if you need to see them," said Merlin, dipping his biscuit in the coffee.

"No need," said the short wizard. "We already know your abilities. We are currently in funds, thanks to a fifty-show contract at this casino, so money is no object. We know you are between jobs. The only question that remains is whether you will accept this very difficult mission."

"Name it," said Merlin.

The fat, bald wizard spoke up with an Italian accent Merlin instantly recognized: "We wish you to teach Maledicto di Bestemmia what it is like to feel ashamed."

"Pagliai?" Merlin exclaimed, almost choking on his coffee. "Are these two - ?"

"Excuse us for appearing out of character," said the leader of the clown wizards, with a gracious smile. "We thought that, with our make-up, wigs, and squeaky shoes on, it would be harder to impress on you the serious nature of our mission."

Merlin almost laughed with relief. "I was afraid you were hiring me to rob the casino," he confessed. "Or maybe, to track down someone who had robbed it."

"But that is exactly what we are hiring you to do," cried the short wizard (who was, in fact, Signor Subito). The thin man, whom Merlin now easily recognized as Boccachiusa, nodded firmly.

"Which one?" asked Merlin. "The robbery, or - ?"

"Both," said Subito and Pagliai together.

"You must remove an item Maledicto keeps in the vault," said Subito.

"Something he keeps here because he fears what would happen if the goblins knew he possessed it," added Pagliai.

"And then you must make sure the goblins catch him in possession of it," Subito concluded.

Merlin chewed thoughtfully on a bland mouthful of digestive. He swallowed, sipped his coffee, thought a moment longer, then shook his head. "I don't see how it can be done," he said regretfully.

"But you have already proved more than a match for the Consortium's security!" Pagliai cried. "That's half of your task as good as done already!"

"Be that as it may," said Merlin, "though it may not, since I will not be able to return to the casino after I leave. If I don't clear out by sunset, the Consortium will put a lien on my Gringott's account until I settle my bill. And I won't be able to leave without setting off a Do Not Pass alert. They will search me and take away anything that doesn't belong to me."

"Yes, yes," said Pagliai. "But there is a simple solution. You don't leave; we will pay your full bill when you check out; and before you leave, you will give Il Comte's little toy to Signor Boccachiusa here. Then you can walk out of the casino" - here the clown wizard whistled - "clean as guess-what."

"That leaves the really impossible part," said Merlin. "Not only do I have to lure Il Comte out of his lair with all its defenses, but then I have to..."

"Name your fee," Subito insisted.

Merlin suppressed a laugh. "All this, just to bring that old loony to justice!"

"On the contrary," said Pagliai. "We do not expect Il Comte to come to justice. Men with his means and powers are beyond the reach of law, and unfortunately he knows it and uses this knowledge shamelessly. We only want him to taste a bit of the humiliation he inflicted on us for so many years. We want him to feel regret over his own actions, just once."

Now it was Merlin's turn to whistle. "Gentlemen, I don't know how to begin - "

"Name your fee," Subito repeated; then he added, "We will double it."

Merlin shook his head. "What I need for this is not a promise of great reward. I have been a victim of Il Comte's evil myself, remember? But how can I even approach the man? He is so slippery, so resilient. He has survived things no one should survive, escaped from every binding and imprisonment man has devised, recovered from Lilly Grate faster than anyone thought possible - even the laws of magic seem to bend out of his way. He can be momentarily thwarted. You can run from him, hide from him, and eventually recover from the curses he puts on you. But he just doesn't stop. He may be a fool, and his powers may not be great, but he seems to have - if I may risk sounding silly - a charmed life!"

"That is what you must change," said Pagliai. "Il Comte seems to be surrounded by some magic-dampening shield. While it doesn't stop curses, potions, or magical objects from taking effect, it lessens their effect, going in both directions. Take that shield away and he will be more vulnerable to - let us say, justice."

"But then, he will also be more dangerous," Subito murmured, by way of full disclosure.

"And the key to doing all that," Merlin said, "is in the vault."

"A talisman Il Comte obtained from the goblins by deceit," said Subito, "many, many years ago. Its influence over him will only end if he returns it to its rightful owners."

"This sounds like the kind of thing that can only be given, not taken," Merlin observed.

"Exactly," said Subito.

"How could Il Comte steal it, then?"

"He did not. They loaned it to him, but he broke his word. He was supposed to use the talisman to do something for the goblins, and return it afterward. We are not sure what he was supposed to do, or how he explained his failure to return the talisman. All we know is that, if the goblins can ever prove that he kept it, he will regret his bad faith. We heard him speak of this long ago. When he worries about anything, it is this."

Merlin stood up and paced. After several lengths of the dressing-room, he faced the clown-wizards again. "So what you're asking," he said, "is to do the very thing against which Il Comte is most on guard; to provoke the two parties in the world that have the best reasons to hate me; and to get them to turn on each other without suspecting that I set up the whole thing."

As he finished this summary, he found himself looking at Boccachiusa. The mute clown nodded.

"I'll never survive," he concluded.

Pagliai said, "Pish," a second time, then went over to the painted, carved horse and tapped one of its eyes with his left ring-finger. The door in the horse's side sprang open. Silk handkerchiefs, arm-length gloves, and mountains of garish clothing spilled out on the floor as Pagliai rummaged.

"What do you think of our clothes-horse?" Subito asked conversationally.

"Does it clean and press your costumes, as well as store them?"

"Only if we give it food, water, and exercise. These days we don't have the time, but the concert hall has a couple of house-elves who are happy to do the washing for us, when they're not busy clearing up spilled drinks and cigarette butts."

"All right, I've found it," said Pagliai. "We thought it might come to this, so we had our old friends put together a survival kit for you - "

" - should you choose to accept this mission," Subito added.

Subito vanished the coffee things, enabling Pagliai to set his find on the table. It was a leather satchel with a shoulder strap. There seemed to be no way to open it. Pagliai explained: "The bag itself is a gift from our friend Karl, the survival wizard. It will resist fire, water, sharp objects, corrosive substances, most spells, and the vacuum of outer space. Its interior is exactly as big as the contents require. You could hide inside it, if the need arose."

"How does it open?" Merlin asked, intrigued.

"Only you can open it," said Subito.

Pagliai added: "After it was closed, Karl tuned it to respond to your body, using a lock of hair that your wife provided."

Merlin stroked the bag. A simple, flap closure became visible. He pulled it back, revealing a collection of bottles and other objects within.

Pagliai pulled out a smooth, flat, round stone with a hole in its center. Uncut by human hand, it was threaded on a thick, coarse string. "This is Slavik's gift," he explained solemnly. "While you wear it, neither claw nor fang can penetrate your skin. I believe he found it during his childhood in Transylvania."

"I can see how that would be handy against dark creatures."

"And the undead," Subito agreed.

"This," announced Pagliai, pulling out a slender, tapering stick at least thirty inches long, "is a wand our friend Jaan designed specially for you. Its core is the nose hair of a cave troll."

"A what?" Merlin dropped the wand. Boccachiusa gracefully caught it.

"Its chief virtue," said Pagliai, "is that, if you are ever confined indoors or underground, a Four-Points spell will cause it to point toward the route of quickest escape."

"Wow," said Merlin, gingerly plucking the wand out of Boccachiusa's fingers. "I could have used this years ago."

"Evidently Jaan thought so, too," said Subito.

Pagliai proffered a small, tight roll of parchment. As Merlin took it, the fat clown explained: "This is the gift of Anatoly. Write on the scroll the names of the six curses you fear the most. Draw a line through the name of one of them. Then place the written-on side of the parchment against your bare skin. Anatoly has infused the paper with a special type of ink he invented. It print seven tattoos on your skin, magical defense tattoos. Each tattoo will protect you, once only, against one of the curses you wrote down."

Merlin had already decided what he was going to write - Crucio, Sectumsempra, Petrificus totalis, Legilimens, Obliviate, and with a line through it, Imperius. The six curses he feared most, in ascending order.

"Why seven tattoos, if I only wrote down six curses?"

"You will have a double protection from the curse you strike through. Unfortunately, the Killing Curse cannot be on your list. No spell can protect you from that."

Merlin squinted into the bag. There were still several glass vials in it. Who could they be from?

Pagliai held up a single earring. "This is half of a matching pair," he said. "Your protégé Rigel designed them, and he has sworn to wear the other one until you return."

"That's touching," said Merlin, rubbing his earlobe, which had never been pierced.

"If, while wearing this, you say 'Rigel help,' he will hear you through the pin in his ear. Five seconds later, it will become a portkey, transporting him to wherever your half of the set happens to be."

"Could be useful," Merlin said grudgingly. He was beginning to feel like nothing could stand in his way now. "What's with the potions?"

"We were going to save those for last," said Pagliai, looking a bit put out. "We haven't gotten to our own gifts yet."

"I'm dying to know what's in those bottles," Merlin insisted.

The fat clown shrugged. "All right. This is your wife's gift. Endora invented it herself. There are only seven doses of it in existence, and four of them are here."

Merlin was growing impatient. "What is it, then?"

"Endora calls it Liquid Skill," said Subito.

Merlin frowned.

"It is a working title," Pagliai added hastily. "Once it is approved by the magical patent office, it will no doubt receive a much more evocative trade-name. For now, all you need to know is that each vial contains one dose, each dose lasts twenty-four hours. Think of a skill as you drink it, and that skill will be yours while the effects last. But only once per skill. If you drink it wishing to be a master carpenter, you will have twenty-four hours to build your masterpiece; after that, the skill will be gone. Then you will have to choose a different skill with each dose of the liquor."

"So I could be a circus acrobat, or an opera singer, or - "

Boccachiusa brightened up and pointed at himself.

" - or a mime," Merlin added.

"Anything you want," said Subito. "But only once, and only for a night and a day. But look here, you get to experience four different things."

"You need only be clever enough to recognize what skills you will need to complete your mission," said Pagliai.

"Or to get out of trouble," Merlin agreed.

"This little pouch thing is from Harvey. Once you open it, you'll never get it back in again. It's a rapidly-inflating, portable wall that will camouflage itself like part of the background. Its usefulness might be somewhat limited - once somebody bumps into it, they'll be onto you - but it might just buy you a moment to make good your escape. If you're the first person to touch it when the pouch opens, it will erase you from the picture, basically making you invisible to anyone standing on the other side."

"The rest of these things are from us," said Subito. "The Turbo Gum is from me."

Pagliai nodded, holding up a small tin of chewing-gum lozenges. "While you chew one of these, you'll be able to run so fast that most people will only see a blur. You'll have five minutes of super speed, while only five seconds pass for the rest of the world. Be careful, though. The effects wear off quite suddenly, and bad things can happen - "

"Like being hit by a train you were trying to outrun," Subito said sadly. "It happened to my cousin Veloce."

"Family recipe," Pagliai whispered to Merlin, aside.

"The Peekaboo Kit is from Boccachiusa," Subito explained eagerly, passing Pagliai a handkerchief folded into a perfect, but lumpy, square. "If you put on the blindfold and hold very still, no one will be able to see you, even if they are searching right in front of you."

Pagliai caressed the kit fondly. "It comes with ear plugs. While they're in, you can sneeze, cough, or even burst into tears, and no one will hear you."

"Is that everything?" Merlin asked. Somehow, all these helpful gimmicks had convinced him that he had a job to do, a job he could do, and he had better start soon.

"Just one more gift," said Pagliai, drawing a final item out of the depths of the bag.

It was a round, red clown nose.

"Wear this," he said reverently, "and His Pestilency will be unable to look at you without going into fits of laughter. It's almost as good as a paralyzing spell. Without it, I wouldn't have survived my years of service to him. I used it sparingly, but even so, it will only fool him once. After that, he won't be able to aim accurately, not daring to look straight at you, so you may be able to dodge his spells. So it's not much; but as I said, once he loses the talisman he will become a very dangerous customer. Even a slight advantage may be a matter of life and death."

In Merlin's hands the clown nose felt like some kind of leather. He didn't know whether it was magical or, simply, something Il Comte found irresistably funny. With a fitting display of respect, he passed it back to Pagliai.

"Thank you," he said. "I accept the mission."

"Well done," said a voice with a lilting, Italian accent. It wasn't one of the clown wizards. Merlin looked up and saw, looming over him, the huge, handsome face of a middle-aged man. He trembled, thinking: What have I done?

"Well done," Il Comte said again. "I knew you would make a fine addition to my mews." He cut the heart out of the lark Merlin had brought him and held it toward Merlin's beak. The wizard-of-fortune darted forward and devoured the heart while the count laughed.

"What a fine merlin you are," the evil count gloated, stroking Merlin's feet, or rather claws, as they gripped the padded gauntlet on Il Comte's arm. "That rascally falconer was a fool even to try keeping you from me. Come, my feathered friend. Let's introduce you to your housemates, or rather rivals."

As Il Comte strode back toward his manor, Merlin gripped his outstretched arm, fighting hard to concentrate on who he was and how he had gotten there. Liquid Skill, he thought. I've become an animagus. For some reason he felt concerned about how long he had been in this form. He couldn't remember why it mattered, though...his mind was increasingly clouded by the exhiliration of flying, which he had just experienced, and the hunger for flesh which that morsel of lark had stirred up.

"Ah, here we are, Master Merlin," Maledicto purred, and suddenly he was engulfed by darkness, the smell of feathers, and the sound of strange birds shuffling nervously around. A door slammed, a lock clicked... Merlin was trapped.

+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE +++

You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! First, go to the forums, or send Robbie feedback. Then, in 250 words or less, answer the following Survey and Contest. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest answer that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the chapter after next. [EDIT: This discussion is now closed.]

SURVEY: greyniffler suggested (in the discussion thread for TMQ #139) a grudge match between Il Comte and Uncle or Aunt Leslie. What do you think? A) Yes, that would be a great fight to witness! B) No, they're both evil, so they should work together. C) No, let's keep their storylines separate.

CONTEST: Describe a historical person or incident that would be even more interesting if we only knew the "untold story" (involving witches or wizards from Harry Potter's world).

[Originally posted 8/17/08]

138. Elvis vs. Einstein

Contest winners: greyniffler and Linda Carrig

The date: Ten months before the theft of the Ring of Count Matthias.

The city: Las Vegas, Nevada, USA.

The beat: Aladdin's Cave, a casino catering exclusively to wizards, witches, and any other magical beings capable of betting.

An Elvis Presley impersonator has just wrapped up a six-song set in the Lizard Lounge. The audience, though small, is amazed. "That was much better than yesterday," says one of the regulars, a witch wearing tinted eyeglasses in oversized tortoiseshell frames and sipping a cocktail with a paper umbrella. "I wouldn't be surprised if Polyjuice was involved - though I couldn't say where they came up with a bit of the King..."

His Majesty, sequined and marcelled, pushes through the crowd on his way out of the lounge, heading out for his break. He winks, nods, and says "Thank you!" in a booming voice to everyone who accosts him; he signs an autograph or two, puts a few knuts in a cheap slot machine, and finally reaches his goal, the buffet. The cashier shakes her head knowingly as Elvis loads a tray with food, hands over three sickles, and spreads his haul over an entire corner table with every appearance of insatiable greed.

No one seems to notice that Elvis isn't eating anything. He tucks the food away, to be sure; but not into his mouth. Instead, he empties plate after plate into a pocket behind his wide-lapel waistcoat. The pocket never seems to fill up, and the bulk of the food never shows on the outside of his suit. A few heads turn at the chime of a tiny bell, which seems to come from inside his chest. Elvis grins at his curious neighbors, shoots them with his fingers in the shape of a gun, and waits till they have gone about their own business before drawing the thin slip of paper out of his pocket. He nods grimly. Here is the evidence he has been looking for.

He gets in line at the Guest Services counter, behind several other parties. The witch and wizard at the front of the line are loudly complaining about an infestation of doxies in their room. Preoccupied with checking for the wand concealed in the fringe of his bell-bottoms, and considering what might be the best cover in case the casino's management gets shirty - he is, after all, about to accuse them of replacing the grapefruit on the brunch buffet with gratefruit (causing a state of docility and mild euphoria, probably making patrons more susceptible to being cheated) - and, worse, lacing the omelettes with rashrooms, which influence those who eat them to take irresponsible risks. Elvis is so busy reckoning the odds against a running wandfight breaking out the moment he shows his RMB badge that he doesn't notice that the man in front of him is Albert Einstein until the great (but dead) physicist gets to the front of the line.

Elvis does a double take when Einstein grabs him by the collar, slams him face down against the Guest Services Counter, and says, "Zend for zecurity. Ve haff obserfed zis fershtinkiner using Felix Felicis before playing ze shlots. Zee, here iss ze villain's shtash."

Because his hands were pinned behind his back by a deft binding spell, Elvis can do nothing as Einstein deftly slips a half-empty vial into his pocket with one hand, and triumphantly pulls it out with the other. Shaking it in the hotel clerk's face, Einstein crows: "If you haff any doubt, you neet only analyse ze contents of zis bottle. Nicht wahr?"

"Nein!" Elvis booms. "I mean, no! This is a frame-up! Check my pockets and you will find..."

"Zat will do for now," chirps Einstein, before sealing Elvis's lips with another spell. "Ve vouldn't vant you to shpill all ze knudeln before having ze Carmen Miranda read to you, eh? I am informed zat in zis country, such narrishkeit can make ze difference between conviction and aqvittal."

Elvis struggles ineffectually while Einstein cleans out his pockets, taking his badge, his money, all his other paraphernalia, but leaving the concealed wand for the burly security wizards to find in their search. Seething - but silently so - Elvis is dragged off while the casino manager shakes Einstein's hand and offers him a stack of chips as a reward. His last thought before being thrown into a dark room is that, surely, even these daft wizards must wonder what Albert Einstein is doing, alive and well, in their casino!

Several floors above Elvis's holding cell, Einstein chuckles with satisfaction as he rolls back the frizzy white wig on his head. It disappears under his collar, along with the jowls, fat, and wrinkles on his face as the impostor runs his hands over it. A shrug, a twitch of the spine, and the stooped figure of Einstein resolves itself into the very slim shape of the young man who, months later, will appear vaguely familiar to Joe Albuquerque in the Gringotts Vault registered to Bette Noir.

The youth wisely chooses to exit by the window, where his broom waits hovering. The curtains are still flapping in the draft from his swift departure when the hallway door bursts open and several security guards enter, with Elvis on their heels.

"He got away, sir," says one of the shamefaced guards, nervously turning back from the window.

"That's obvious, isn't it?" sneers Elvis.

"We're sure sorry about this, Mr. Albuquerque," says the other guard. "If you'll make a list of whatever he took from you - "

"Never mind," says Elvis, or rather Joe. "We might as well go back down. I have other matters to discuss with the management."

A certain coldness comes over the room, perhaps a draft from the still-open window. Joe makes an "after you" gesture towards the likewise open door, repeating it (as one might say "I insist") when the guards hesitate. He lingers one moment more, after they have gone out of the room, gazing toward the window, considering. Then he follows the guards, keeping his back covered.

+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE +++

You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! First, go to the forums, or send Robbie feedback. Then, in 250 words or less, answer the following Survey and Contest. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest answer that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the chapter after next. [EDIT: This discussion is now closed.]

SURVEY: Which "blast from the past" would you like to see featured? (A) The International Conspiracy of Cliches. (B) The Murder on the Hogwarts Express. (C) Signore Maledicto di Bestemmia. (D) Madam Hunsicker's activities during the Grindelwald war.

CONTEST: What magical creature do you think would be funny and/or scary to find hiding under your bedclothes in the middle of a dark, silent night?

[Originally posted 6/15/08]