177. Werewolf Puppy Mills

Contest Winners: Everybody

The island was very small, very beautiful, and very quiet.

It was beautiful because of the staggering expanse of cloudless blue sky that stood over it like the cover on a gargantuan pie-plate, and because of the sunshine that sparkled on the still, turquoise-blue waters of the lagoon separating its shore from the coral reef that surrounded it, and because of its broad smooth beach of sparkling pewter-colored sand, and because of the almost painfully bright green of the grass that waved around the middle part of the island between stands of graceful palms and thickets of colorful fragrant flowers.

It was quiet because nobody lived there. No human foot had ever disturbed its soft sandy soil. No human hand had ever plucked its sweet succulent fruit. No human nose had ever sneezed upon its highly pollinated flowers. No human eye had ever watered with agony after the previously mentioned foot was stung by the spines of its venomous burrowing crustaceans. No human ear had ever heard the squawk of its cheerfully colored (but not very talkative) local species of parrot, nor the buzz of its viciously biting swarms of insects, nor the croaking battle-cry of the indigenous iguana relative whose vermin-infested bite guaranteed a slow, hideous death to anyone whose foot disturbed the island's soft sandy soil, or whose hand pl-... You get the picture.

It was small because... Well, it had always been small. But these days the island was even smaller than it ought to have been, at least if one counted as part of the island the smaller teardrop-shaped hump of sand connected to the main part of it by a slender shoal that was only above water at low tide. For the past little while--long enough for the iguanas to forget, but little enough for the parrots to remember--this stretch of land had been under water. Under water in a most unusual way. A way that threatened the parrots with extinction, because they could not resist their old insect-hunting grounds, even though visiting them meant diving horizontally through a vertical surface of water behind which swam the first sharks in the south seas to have developed a taste for parrot.

Today the parrots, iguanas, and stinging crustaceans of the littler-than-ever island were nonplussed by the arrival of three creatures the likes of which they had never seen. The trio arrived with a pop like a cork exiting a champagne bottle. One was a tall, broad-shouldered wizard whose flowing dark robes brushed the sand, and the hood of whose cloak overshadowed his face. The second was a pale, shapely witch who wore her pointed hat and broomstick-trimmed robes with an indescribable blend of demure domesticity and lively flamboyance, as though she wanted to make up for not being visible for a rather long time. The third was a seven-foot-tall, scruffy dump of a djinn who, although he was already weaving on his feet, risked leaning backward to finish the dregs of an enormous bottle of wine. With a loud hic the djinn sat down hard, crushing an iguana that had been sneaking up in the hope of biting him.

"What the devil is this?" the hooded wizard demanded, gesturing toward the wall of water that surrounded the smaller portion of the island.

"It'th an ishfthsmush," said the djinn, patting his pockets in search of another bottle. "An ithsthmuth. Itshthsmus. Isthmuff. Just a mo, I've got it: iffsmus."

"Not this," the wizard bellowed, kicking at the narrow shoal of damp sand that, at that moment, just cleared the surface of the lagoon. He gesticulated hugely toward the water wall: "This!"

"Dunno," said the djinn, squinting blearily at a paper umbrella he had discovered about his person. "Pimple on face of t'ocean? I say, yer couldn't poss'bly fetch a feller drop ter drink, could yer?"

The wizard turned toward the djinn, but was forced to retreat backwards by a long, rich belch whose odor providentially killed a swarm of bloodthirsty insects that had gathered around the three.

"Awk," the witch gagged, gathering several folds of her robes in front of her face.

"Parrot, I should think," said the djinn, though his pointing arm was just a bit too slow to follow the flight path of a gaily colored bird that, a moment later, perished in the jaws of a shark that jumped the isthmus and returned to the lagoon, all without leaving the water.

The wizard dipped his fingers in the sideways lagoon, pulled them out, and gave a low whistle. "Must be some kind of water-weave charm," he mused aloud.

"Powered by a waterspout spell," the witch added.

"Oi!" the djinn shouted. "Dyin' o' thirst, here!"

The wizard sighed, flicked his wand toward the top of a nearby palm, and caught a coconut as it sailed down into his hands. Then he drew a long, silver knife; hesitated, with a shake of his head perceptible in spite of the hood; and drove it through the shell of the coconut with an ease that made the djinn's eyes go wide. Another wave of the wand and the smell of piña colada brought moisture back to the djinn's dry mouth. Sober as he suddenly was, the djinn's hand shook slightly as he accepted the fruit from the wizard's hand. The umbrella went in, and for a while the only sound that came from behind it was a slow, steady slurp.

"That's him sorted," the witch said, the Romanian lilt in her voice contrasting with her British turn of phrase. She held out her right hand palm-up, balanced her wand on it, and chanted: "Annulus invenio." The wand began to spin like the needle of a compass, only it didn't stop until the witch muttered, "Finite."

"It has to be through here," the wizard said, gesturing with his head toward the wall of water. "I would hate to waste a wish on a broom only to find out that it forms a dome over the entire peninsula."

The djinn snickered behind its paper umbrella.

"What?" the wizard demanded. "What's funny?"

"You said penim- ...er. Penum... Pessinoola..." Slurp. "Wicked 'ot, it is. Wot wuz I sayin'?"

"Your drink is evaporating," the witch warned, and that silenced the djinn for another while.

"Bubble-head might get us through," the wizard mumbled, thinking aloud again. "That's if we can move fast enough to get to the other side before the sharks get us. And I can't tell how thick this water-weave is..."

"This would be a great place to bring the kids," the witch said, gazing in the opposite direction to where a lithe, beautiful skink lay sunning itself on the silvery beach. No sooner were the words out of her mouth than a huge pair of jaws rose up from beneath the sand and closed around the unsuspecting reptile. "Maybe when they're a bit bigger, though," she added, shaken.

"An animagus transformation would help about now," the wizard said, continuing his previous train of thought and oblivious to what the witch was saying. "Only it would have to be to some type of aquatic creature. But those spells take ages to learn. And the sharks could still be a problem."

"Maybe a divination spell can get through their defenses," the witch speculated, squatting down before a tiny, reflective puddle of water. As she held the tip of her wand above the surface, a long black tongue darted out of the water, wrapped itself around the wand, and pulled hard. The witch barely managed to hold on as she engaged the creature in the pool in a fierce tug-of-war. Meanwhile, she couldn't spare the effort of calling for help, so the wizard had no idea this was happening. The djinn watched from under his paper umbrella, but did nothing to cheer her on except to continue slurping on his piña colada.

"Maybe a freezing hex?" the wizard thought aloud. "In this climate, it might not last long enough to kill anything, but it might give us time to break through to the other side... Only, it could be a meter thick. How would we get through it then?"

The witch finally wrestled her wand free of the grip of the submerged creature's prehensile tongue. She sat back on the sand, panting, until something stung her hand and she leapt up with a cry.

"Be quiet, will you?" the wizard snapped without looking over. He had begun to pace up and down before the wall of water. "One of us is trying to think here."

The witchground her teeth in frustration, cradling her stung hand as it swelled and turned red.

"Give us a butcher's," the djinn said, considerately setting his coconut aside and offering the witch a helpful hand.

Dubiously, the witch let the djinn check out her wounds.

"Hmm," he said, after holding the swollen limb close to his bleary eyes, sniffing the wound, and giving the swelling a gentle squeeze. "Ah," he said knowledgeably. "Nuffink a wee wish wouldn't sort" was his diagnosis.

The witch yanked her hand away from the djinn's inebriated caress. "I can wait for it to mend on its own," she sniffed.

"Meanwhile," the djinn said, shaking his empty coconut sadly, "P'raps yer'd make me five or six more o' these while yer 'ave time. Would hate ter get thirsty watchin' yer writhe in t'agathas... er, agronomies... angernees..."

"Don't you wish you had this fellow's way with words?" the witch called to the wizard behind her.

"Yes, dear," the wizard said absentmindedly.

Suddenly there was another "pop" as of a champagne cork going. The djinn hiccoughed and fell backward onto the sand, groaning, "Coo, but me 'ead 'urts!"

At the same moment, the wizard exclaimed: "I think I've got it, now!"

The witch, meanwhile, had realized her mistake and tried to stop her partner before he did something they would all regret. "Spanky! Wait!"

Spanky did not hear her. Flourishing his wand, he was already halfway through an elaborate incantation that began with Congelato! and was supposed to end with Reducto! As a result of the djinn's magic, it came out otherwise than as planned. He said "Congelato," all right; and a shield of frozen water spread before him from a center point directly opposite the tip of his wand. But instead of "Reducto," he said "Radix toe!" Then he stared dumbly at the ice shield before him, which was not blasted open by his second spell as expected. Instead, it continued spreading, though more slowly every moment; then stopped and began shrinking again, until all the ice was gone and the water-weave was back to normal.

When he tried to turn around to appeal to Ilona for help, he found himself stuck fast. Looking down, Spanky discovered a long tap-root growing out of his big toe. It had ripped a hole in his right boot and was busily burrowing into the sand when Spanky caught it. In wrestling it free of the sand, he fell over backward and had a good roll in the sand before he caught the waving root under control and, finally, singed it off with a silent blast of flame from his wand.

"Bovver," he said as he rose to his feet, examining his wand with concern. "Wot could've gorn wrong? Oi! Why am I talkin' like..."

Spanky finally paused and looked at the witch, who had stopped trying to get his attention and now seemed to wish she could become invisible.

"Ilona, luv," he said, grimacing at the words he heard coming out of his mouth, "what've yer done?"

"Actually, you did it," Ilona replied evasively.

"Did wot, luv?"

"Wished to talk like the djinn does."

"Did I?" Spanky looked severely dubious.

"A technicality," said the djinn, lifting one hand, index finger raised, from his otherwise supine repose.

"He tricked me," Ilona added.

"You tricked him," the djinn countered.

Ilona rolled her eyes and said, rather to Spanky than to the djinn, "Give him another drink and we can wish it all right back."

Spanky covered his face with both hands.

"She knows 'ow yer feel, mate," said the djinn.

"I wish," said Spanky.

"Aargh!" yowled the djinn, simultaneous to the popping of an invisible champagne cork. The magical creature clutched his head with one hand and his belly with another. "The mornin' after is comin' early, an' no mistake..."

"Oh, Ilona," the wizard groaned.

She turned away from him, her lips white. "Yer meant ter do that," she accused, wincing at the sound of her own voice.

"Get the poor sick child a hair o' the dog," the djinn begged. "I can 'ardly stand it."

Spanky produced three more coconuts, swiftly and efficiently cutting them open for the djinn's convenience.

"There's the problem," he said informatively, as he cleaned his silver knife. "Djinn need lurbi-... loobi... lurbrication ter work proper. Lee."

"Lee who?" Ilona said, rubbing her forehead.

"Proper-like," Spanky corrected himself. Sort of. "Look, there's a way ter get through this weave fing. We just 'ave to say the spell careful-like."

The djinn scowled. "Do I soun' like that fer real?"

"Shut yer gob," the witch-wizard couple said in unison.

"Let's try putting shark ter sleep," Ilona suggested.

"Good idea," said Spanky. They approached the water wall together.

While Ilona pointed her wand at the wall, Spanky stuck his arm into it and splashed it around. The shark jumped at him so quickly that he almost didn't have time to pull his arm back. Luckily, Ilona hit it with what was meant to be a Morpheus spell. Somehow it came out "Morphequus." Instead of falling asleep, the shark turned into a horse and leaped, neighing, out of the water weave.

As the sound of galloping hooves receded into the stand of palm trees, Ilona hung her head in humiliation. The djinn, however, laughed so hard that piña colada came out of his nose.

"This makes the aeons spent squeezed int' a dusty bottle worthwhile," he chortled as he wiped the moisture off his face. Then, after licking his fingers, he returned to his drinking.

"We'd best do this fast," said Ilona, observing that the once-towering djinn would now stand shorter than herself. "If 'e keeps drinkin' at this rate, we won' be able ter find him ter wish our way home."

After several more attempts to put the waiting sharks to sleep had the same effect, the island was home to a large herd of wild horses, all noisily whinnying, cropping the tropical grass, and running along the shore while the sun baked the seawater out of their coats. At last, using his arm as bait, Spanky was unable to attract any more predators. So, bracing themselves with a long look into each other's loving eyes, the witch and wizard held their breath and dove through the vertical lagoon.

A moment later they found themselves standing, drenched, on a flat, teardrop-shaped island under a dome of clear water, lit by the sun beyond. Amid the rippling, dancing patterns of light and shadow, they spotted a long, low, barn-like building, half-buried in a dune at the far end of the island.

"It must be here," breathed Ilona.

Spanky seemed preoccupied. His eyes closed, his nostrils flared...

"What is it?"

"Don't you smell them?"

"I smell something," Ilona whispered. "I thought it might be from having the sea all around us."

"No," he said.

If either of them noticed that they had their own accents back, neither remarked on it. Ilona strained her senses toward the building at the far end of the peninsula.

"Listen," said Spanky in a voice so low that Ilona more felt than heard it. "Listen. You must hear them."

For a moment he did not seem to hear her. Then, just as she separated a sound in the background from the muffled hum of the surf--just as she realized that it reminded her of the growling of a wild beast--a lonely voice, almost human, raised itself in a blood-chilling howl. Then another. Then several others... All of them coming from that slow, sand-swept shack.

The howling of wolves. No... The howling of werewolves.

"What is that djinn playing at?" Ilona trembled.

"Wishes are dangerous things," Spanky replied, unsheathing his dagger for the third time that day.

"Put that up," said a voice to their left. Ilona jumped. Spanky whirled, but not before two spells hit him, one blasting his knife out of his hand, the other taking his wand.

"Expelliarmus!" Ilona hissed, disarming the smaller of the two cloaked figures that had crept up on them from behind the dunes.

The larger of the two, however, took her wand. Doing the math, Spanky and Ilona held up their empty hands.

The wizard Ilona had disarmed picked up the weapons that had been dropped. The one who had overcome them wriggled the tip of his wand in Spanky's direction. "Where's the other barrel?"

The double-barreled wizard gently pulled out his second wand, grimacing in chagrin, and handed it over to his captor.

"Very good. Now I know the both of you, and you probably know me..." Harvey put back his hood.

"Did you like my wall? Family specialty, one of the premium items in our catalogue. No? Well, here you are. I regret that I can't say, 'Welcome to my home from home,' but you didn't choose the best time to pay a call."

To punctuate this remark, the werewolves in the barn--the not-very-distant-at-all barn--renewed their chorus of mournful howling.

"A full moon is going to be rising soon," said Harvey. "Your arrival at this of all times--most particularly, the scent of your blood--could have a most interesting effect on our breeding and training programme."

"Ours?" Spanky asked. "Yours and who else's?"

"Surely you recognize the man who took your knife," said Harvey, gesturing toward his smaller, hooded partner. "Why, he's the man who gave it you."

Another hood fell back, and so sharp was Spanky's shock that as he sucked air through his teeth, it made a whistling sound.

"Zophar," Ilona croaked. "Zophar Good!"

"Alive and well," said the twisted little man; and he gave a slight bow.

"How are you alive?" Spanky asked, his voice thick with emotion. Then, with sudden anger, he demanded: "What would possess you to breed an army of werewolves?"

"The usual motives," said Zophar Goode. "Money, revenge, and..."

"Shush!" said Harvey, but a moment later the need to conceal his last secret was moot. A loud, rubbery snap echoed deafeningly within the water-weave dome. As the echoes died, all eyes looked up at the top of the nearby dune, behind which someone had begun to play a recorder. A furry hump emerged above the top of the dune, followed by the rest of a harnessed yak. Leading it were two servants, while a third played the recorder and, walking beside the animal with her hand on its snout, a witch with a sort of motor-veil wrapped around the brim of her hat came into view. She raised a hand to wave at the party on the beach, releasing the end of the veil so that the wind caught it and let it trail behind her like a flag.

"Yoo-hoo!" cried Madam Solfeggia as her party picked its way over the top of the dune. She beamed at everyone as she came closer, most especially Ilona and Spanky.

"If it isn't the very people I was hoping to see before feeding-time," said the wolf-woman as her entourage brought the yak to a halt. "I was starting to worry that my clues were too subtle. But here you are!" Ilona was too nonplussed to resist having her cheeks air-kissed. "Has Harvey been a gracious host and shown you the puppies? They're just wolves at the moment, but wait until dusk and I daresay you'll be impressed! Shall we refresh ourselves?"

Harvey and Zophar Goode exchanged a look of bewilderment that mirrored the way Spanky and Ilona were feeling.

"I think there's been a misunderstanding," said Ilona. "We're not here about the yak killing. We've come to ask Harvey to turn over an heirloom of my family which he has been, er, minding for me..."

"Don't be silly," said Madam Solfeggia, preening her robes while the recorder-player tootled on. "We both know Harvey isn't to be trusted with such an object. There are simply too many of him. No, dear, I've been holding the ring for you. But first, I have a teensy favor to ask of you. I would ordinarily be ashamed of the imposition, but since you can hardly resist my written request, I think the two of you could be of great service to me."

"To do what?" Spanky growled. "To set yourself up as the next dark lord?"

"Oh, no!" Madam Solfeggia laughed musically. She took Ilona's hand and handed it to Harvey, then put her hand on Spanky's elbow. "Nothing remotely like that. I only wish to lift the stigma that my kind must live under." She kept talking as she, Harvey, and the ever-present recorder-player led the Spankisons back over the dune from which she had come, while Zophar Goode and the other two servants led the yak away toward the barn. "The ostracism, the shunning. The persecution, even to the point of hunting and killing. It all has to be stopped. The time has long since come, but now at last the means has come as well."

"And how do you propose to do that?" said Spanky, as a roof of a smaller building--a house, perhaps--came into view behind the next dune but one. "I mean, if it were as simple as writing a letter, sealed with the Ring of Count Matthias, telling everyone who reads the Daily Prophet to accept werewolves as equal members of society..."

"I would already have done it?" Madam Solfeggia agreed. "But surely you see that it can't be that simple. I mean to say, what would happen after I returned the Ring to you? You would have it in your power to reverse everything I had accomplished. No, our solution must be more permanent. I only took the ring because I needed you, the two most trusted agents in the Rogue Magic Bureau."

Their musically-enhanced walk came to an end below the front porch of a modestly-proportioned but strongly-built house. "Do have a seat," Madam Solfeggia said, gesturing toward a row of driftwood chairs on the porch. "Dinty will be here presently with refreshments."

"I won't make myself comfortable," said Spanky, pulling his arm out of the wolf-lady's grip, "until you tell me how you mean to use me."

"Use you?" The lady's eyes softened. "I should think you would assist me willingly. Surely you can sense the injustice of the way my people are treated!"

"I simply can't see what all this"--Spanky gestured toward the barn, now hidden behind a dune, but easy enough to locate by the renewed howling that must have been triggered by the yak's arrival--"what all this is going to accomplish, in terms of gaining the sympathy of the wizarding world."

"The answer is simple, Mr. Spankison: We propose to have more people bitten. Many, many more."

"Merlin's beard," Spanky gasped. Ilona squeezed his hand, looking sick.

Madam Solfeggia, meanwhile, kept talking, gazing out upon the beach below and the base of the water-weave dome that enclosed it, oblivious to their horror. "Soon nearly every magical family will understand the trial that all too few of us now bear. People hate what they fear, and they fear what they do not understand. So doesn't it stand to reason that if they come to understand--really understand..."

+++ A NOTE FROM ROBBIE +++

Thanks for your patience, as this chapter took a record 3 months to pull together. My prognostication, back in September, that it was going to come out in record time, goes to show that I probably have Trelawney blood! I am fairly confident that the time-management crisis that curtailed my creative writing for a few months is now behind me (more or less), so I hope you can expect a few more Quills in 2011!

+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #179 +++

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: Which Magic Quill hero holds the ultimate key to putting the pieces of Harvey back together? A) Spanky with his djinn. B) Joe Albuquerque with his hag. C) Sadie with her waveform collapser. D) Endora with the potion described below. E) Your write-in candidate--the more radical the suggestion, the better!

CONTEST: Our Endora hasn't had much to do for a while. What exciting potion has she been working on? Feel free not only to name the potion, but to describe how it's made, what it's supposed to do, and what happens if it isn't made quite right. The winning entry will be the most entertaining idea.

144. Jude the Insecure

Contest winner: Quercitron

The Out of This World Outfitter was certainly out of the way. It lay three turns out of Diagon Alley, in a dingy cul-de-sac lined with boarded-up shops and littered with broken roof tiles. It was situated below street level, its entrance hidden behind a gruesome, never-melting ice sculpture depicting the beheading of the Gang of One, the hydra who had terrorized the neighborhood during the Lawlessness that had followed the Third Goblin Rebellion. Its entrance was marked by three signs, falsely identifying it as Ermengarde's Weevil Shop, claiming to be closed for structural repairs, and warning trespassers to beware of Acromantulas.

To get through the outer door, one had to knock three times using one's elbow, because anyone touching the dragon's head knocker risked getting a faceful of forgetfulness powder, and anyone whose knuckles touched the door would fall through a trapdoor into a ticklefish-infested pool guarded by a dwarf named Jeremy, who would only let them out if they guessed his name or paid him a sickle.

Through the first door was a small courtyard with a fountain and a second door on the other side. One had to throw one's wand and any other weapons, magical or otherwise, into the fountain before approaching the second door, which would then open automatically to a short corridor and a final door. It was here that one needed to speak the password of the day, which was only known to the proprietor and those he had personally invited.

How did one arrange to be invited to the Out of This World Outfitter? One wrote to its owner, requesting specific items and offering to purchase them on his terms. One sent the letter by owl to the Post Office in Diagon Alley, care of General Delivery. There a postal elf named Gandy would check it for curses, poisons, and anything else liable to cause loud noises or sudden movements. Gandy would also check the name of the letter's author against the Who's Who of Wizarding Britain, to make sure they were on the up-and-up. If time permitted, Gandy might even recopy the letter onto juju-proof parchment. Then he would deliver the letter through the only pneumatic tube currently operating in the wizarding world. Return letters inviting the would-be customer to visit the shop would be sent back the same way.

Only one customer could visit the shop at a time. This was to ensure that its proprietor could never be outnumbered, outmaneuvered, and overpowered.

A lone man in a dark cloak approached the first door today. His hood was raised, hiding his face in shadow. He knocked on the first door with his elbow: knock, knock - pause - knock. The door opened itself, and the dark man passed through. He took two wands, a long silver knife, a blowgun, and a slingshot from his pockets. Together with a waxed box full of darts (for the blow gun) and a string bag of return-to-me stones, he placed these weapons in a boat he had made from the front page of the Daily Prophet and set it afloat in the fountain. Magically, the boat steered clear of the jets of water and stayed dry, upright, and afloat.

The second door opened as soon as the boat floated out of the cloaked wizard's reach. He entered the small corridor, waited for the door behind him to close, and whispered one word to the door ahead: "Rincewind." He didn't know what it meant, but according to the letter he had received, that would be today's password into the Out of This World Outfitter. Sure enough, the third door opened.

Surprisingly, the shop within was brightly lit, spacious, and comfortably full of browsing customers. The cloaked wizard understood that these wizards and witches were under an enchantment, condemned to wander the Outfitter's shop eternally, as punishment for demanding an insultingly low price for something the proprietor had procured for them. Customers had friends and families. Friends and families had feelings about their magically imprisoned loved ones. And so, obviously, the wizard who now approached the dark man - the wizard with two wildly swiveling, electric-blue eyes and an ill-concealed stash of spare wands tucked up his sleeve - had enemies. It isn't paranoia, the new visitor thought, when everyone really is out to get you.

"Julian Cribble," said the proprietor, bowing politely but not offering to shake hands, as his magical eyes rolled in opposite directions to check the perimeter. "Some call me Jude the Insecure," he added. "Those who want to stay on my good side call me Mr. Cribble."

"What do your friends call you?"

"I'll let you know if we ever become friends," said Cribble,

"Dandelionel Ethelbaldricsson," said the cloaked wizard, lowering his hood. "Everyone calls me Spanky Spankison."

Cribble looked relieved to recognize his customer's face. He nodded discreetly to someone behind Spanky, who realized that the customer behind him hadn't simply been checking out a display of armor-piercing spitballs. She pulled her hand out of her pocket and moved away. Spanky mentally kicked himself for not noticing that the witch had a wand in her pocket.

"Would you like to see the item I found for you before settling?"

"That would be ideal," Spanky admitted.

"Tough luck," snapped Cribble. "By crossing that threshold, you agreed to the terms in my letter. Payment first. Then you can leave with your item. Or...you can look around the shop..."

"How can I be sure it's the right item?" Spanky snapped back.

"It's a risk we both take," said Cribble.

"Where's the risk for you?"

Cribble's right eye studied the ceiling while the left continued its slow 180-degree search pattern. "The price may be high," he said, "but so was the cost to me. Procuring this kind of item isn't easy and it isn't cheap. I can only make a living if I get plenty of repeat customers."

After a long, tense silence, Spanky said, "I'll accept that."

"Good," said Cribble. "It's getting crowded in here. Shall we step into my office for the weighing of the gold and whatnot?"

On the other side of a narrow, curtained doorway was a wedge-shaped sliver of a room with a pneumatic tube terminal on the wall. Light and heat came from a charcoal brazier on a raised stand. A wide standing desk, littered with parchment and broken quills, occupied most of the space. The only other furniture was a life-sized stone figure of a burly goblin with a broad, vicious grin. It stood with one hand extended, palm upward. As the curtain fell shut behind them, the sound of the customers' shuffling feet and occasional, tortured moans was cut off, and all that remained was the crackle of fire in the brazier and the purring of a plump cat curled up asleep in a painting above the desk. Spanky could suddenly hear his own breathing. Ashamed of the noise, he tried to breathe more slowly and calmly.

"Place your gold on the goblin's hand," Cribble said, his soft voice magnified by the strange acoustics of the room.

"I'm willing to offer you a bit more than your asking price," Spanky said, pulling two bulging bags of coins out of his pocket.

Cribble's eyes suddenly focused front and center - which had an oddly unsettling effect. "What for?" he asked suspiciously.

"Information about an item you sold to one Madam Solfeggia d'Arezzo."

"Which..." Cribble bit his tongue. "I mean, I do not discuss my dealings with other customers."

"So..."

"Nor can I confirm or deny that Madam Solfeggia has ever been my customer," the shopkeeper added hastily.

Spanky flashed a smile that, during his career in the Rogue Magic Bureau, had made several suspects suddenly decide to confess. "You've just confirmed it. Otherwise, how would you know that she prefers to be addressed by her first name?"

"If there is a law against what I do," Cribble said furiously, "show it to me. Otherwise pay up, take your item, and go. Exact coin only."

"You were about to ask which item I want to know about," said Spanky. "That tells me you have sold more than one item to Madam Solfeggia. I'll be interested in that, too, but for right now the one I'm curious about was a live creature."

"You don't want me to decide that this is bargaining," Cribble warned. "I prefer to do my bargaining at a safe distance."

"I'm offering you more money," said Spanky. "How is this bargaining? What I'm asking for will cost you nothing.

"This isn't what we agreed upon," said Cribble, his eyes rotating out of control. "People who go back on agreements make me feel unsafe. Bad things happen to people when I feel unsafe."

"You're quite safe with me," said Spanky, opening the front of his cloak to show the badge on the front of his shirt. "I work for the R.M.B. I am sworn to protect..."

"It was just a ruddy nightingale," Cribble shouted, hurting Spanky's ears. He quickly turned to face the painting of the cat, though Spanky felt sure his eyes were still aimed at him through the back of Cribble's head.

"You may have meant to send her a nightingale," Spanky said gently, "but something else was delivered."

"Mistakes do happen now and again," Cribble growled.

"This was a rather big one," said Spanky. "I'm interested to know how you managed to confuse a yak with a nightingale. Did you even look inside the box? Wouldn't you have wondered why it came in such a big..."

"Don't be foolish," Cribble snorted. "I saw the bird myself. Its gilded cage might have stood on this desk. No yak could..."

"Did anyone else handle the cage between here and the Post Office?"

"My sister Branwen handles all my owl-order business. She would have personally seen the cage to the owlery, like every other item she handles."

"Was she the one out there?"

Cribble nodded. "You won't want to interrogate her, though. Fellow named Rabastan Lestrange gave her a rough time when she was a girl. Since then, she refuses to speak to men. Hates the lot of us, she does. Only says 'Yes' and 'No' to me, and I'm her twin brother."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Is it possible the direction for the nightingale was accidentally switched with that of another package?"

"Not once the owls are in the air, it isn't," said Cribble defiantly. "I'm telling you, nobody but my sister touched the cage between this shop and the owlery."

"Do you know this by asking her a specific, yes-or-no question?"

"I know my sister, Mr. Spankison. She keeps clean books. Besides, we haven't sold a yak in years."

"You have sold one, then? To whom? Could he have intercepted an owl?"

"Slow down," Cribble said, wincing as Spanky's voice hurt his hears. "I'll look it up in the register." He swept some rolls of parchment off the desktop, then pulled the cat painting away from the wall. Behind it was a shelf crammed with heavy, leather bound books. The wizard tugged one of them out onto the desk and began paging through it. Once opened, it covered the whole surface of the desk.

"Here it is," said Cribble after some minutes' search. "One Tibetan yak, sold to the Himalayan Gardens and Preserve of Mangeford."

Spanky laughed. "Excuse me? Where was that again?"

"Mangeford," said Cribble. "To the attention of Sir Lionel..."

"Niblet!" Spanky suddenly had to bend over and put his head between his knees.

"Always the usual suspects, isn't it?" Cribble drawled, enjoying Spanky's reaction with a wobbly-eyed sneer.

Spanky shook his head, upside-down, and grunted, "On the contrary."

"Well, now you know, you can fly off and question him. But first, settle up."

"Wait," said Spanky, pulling himself upright. "What about the other items you have sent to Madam Solfeggia? Was there ever a custom-made knife?"

"Certainly," said Jude the Insecure. "Only we didn't send it to her. The lady came here and picked it up in person."

Spanky had thought he was past being astonished, but now his jaw dropped. "Alone?"

"How else?"

"Was there any music playing around her, somehow?"

"Not as I recall."

"And she was in human form?"

Cribble frowned thoughtfully. "Most of my customers are."

Spanky shook his head again. "That wasn't Madam Solfeggia."

"Maybe the lady sent a lady friend in her place?"

"I'll warrant that she never bought - would never have bought - such a knife."

"Well, my letter could only have been opened by her. And only by reading that letter could she have learned the password to come here. If she didn't want the knife, she must at least know someone was angling to get it, and with her name engraved on it too."

"One way or another, someone must have intercepted your letter. Can you describe the woman who presented herself to you as Madam Solfeggia?"

Cribble's magical eyes turned figures of eight while he thought. After a minute he gave a brief description that exactly matched Madam Solfeggia's piano-playing parlor maid, Fifi.

"All right, that's enough to go on with," said Spanky. He had received as much disturbing news as he could digest in one day. He dropped one sack of coins in the stone goblin's outstretched hand. The statue came to life and popped the sack into its mouth. A moment later, coins could be heard rolling and sliding down a sloping surface, a sound that went on for a long time and only gradually faded away.

"These are for your extra kindness," Spanky added, handing the goblin the other sack of coins. "Now, if it isn't any trouble, I'll take my luggage and my leave."

"It's waiting for you in the courtyard," said Jude the Insecure, patting the goblin's head while it spat out two empty purses. "If I know the world it came from, it will have collected all your personal items from the fountain, and you needn't worry about carrying it, because it will follow you on its own feet."

"Wonderful stuff, that sapient pearwood," Spanky said wistfully.

"If you still think so after you've had it for a while," said Cribble as he held the curtain open and the sound of the clientele's mournful shuffling returned, "perhaps we can do business again."

"It would be my pleasure, Mr. Cribble," said Spanky, but he did not look pleased. Nor, as he patted the top of the wooden trunk that stood by the fountain - stood, mind you, on a hundred tiny feet of its own - did he feel especially pleased. Once again, his faith in one of his oldest friends was shaken.

What story would Sir Lionel tell him this time? Would he believe it?

+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #146 +++

You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! First, go to the forums, or send Robbie feedback [EDIT: Rather, leave a Comment]. 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 of the gifts Merlin received in TMQ #141 should he use next?

CONTEST: Describe the talisman Signor Maledicto stole from the goblins? (See TMQ #141 for more info.)

[Originally posted 10/27/08]

142. Madam Solfeggia

Contest winner: TWZRD
Concept contributed by: greyniffler

The Snookerfield Quartet were in the full fury of a Beethoven fugue when the knock came. At first, nobody heard it. When it was repeated, rather louder, the quartet played on without missing a beat; but the lady of the house noticed. "Fifi," she shouted over the music. "Fifi, there! Yoo-hoo!"

Fifi had her ear-plugs in, so she heard none of this. She only noticed that her mistress wanted her attention when a stream of sparks arced over her shoulder, spouting from the lady's wand and very nearly igniting the feather duster Fifi was running over the piano. She turned, pulled out one wax ball, and screeched: "Your pardon, ma'am?"

Ma'am waved both hands toward the front hall, where the knocking had been replaced by a magically magnified voice booming, "Queen's business! Is anyone at home?" while the quartet sawed away, oblivious. "The door, girl!" the lady yelled. "Answer the door!"

A moment later Fifi returned to the parlor door and shrieked: "Agent Dalrymple and Agent Spankison of the R.M.B., if you please!"

Two wizards strode in with their pointy hats in their hands. One was tall, thin, and dangerous-looking. The other, stout and puffy under the eyes, had a harrassed look, and he flinched slightly when he saw that all the noise came from a live string quartet. The players glanced suspiciously at the two agents, whenever they had a chance to look up from their scores.

"You couldn't turn it down at all?" bellowed Dalrymple, the shorter wizard.

The lady snapped her fingers twice. The players looked up at her, though the music continued. "Roger, Tim, Barry, run along to the kitchen and tell Cook you're to have tea until I send for you. Herbert will stay and improvise quietly. Chop, chop!"

Three of the players broke off and hurried out of the room, leaving their instruments behind. Only the viola player remained; with hardly a pause, he launched into a set of variations on a tooth powder advertising jingle. "I could have guessed Herbert would be the viola player," Dalrymple sniffed inwardly.

Meanwhile, Spanky made the introductions. "Madam Solfeggia, I presume?"

The lady nodded.

"I'm Spankison, and my colleague here is Dalrymple."

"How pleased I am to meet you," she replied, with apparent sincerity. "I have read so many of your exploits in the Daily Prophet. To what do I owe this honor?"

She was a small, delicately-shaped woman with a deathly pale complexion, like one wasted away by illness; yet her cheeks had a flush of vitality, and her hands had a strong, sinewy look. She closed the book in which she had been writing and set it aside, smoothing the lap of her snug, floor-length black skirt. Over this she wore a cream-colored blouse with loose sleeves down to her wrists and a floral-printed scarf knotted firmly around her neck. She did not rise as the vistors entered, but Dalrymple spotted an ivory walking-stick leaning against the wall within reach of her chair. Perhaps she needed its support to stand up, he thought while Spanky answered her question.

"We're investigating the murder of a Himalayan ruminant, and a certain piece of evidence has led us to you. Do you have time to answer a few questions?"

"By all means, gentlemen. Have a seat. Be careful of the instruments. I'm afraid I can't be very helpful. I don't know any Tibetan monks."

"I was referring to a yak, actually."

"Well, that's another matter. We have a yak around here somewhere."

"Have, or had?" asked Dalrymple.

"Have, I think. But I couldn't say for certain. I never see it."

"Why do you have it, then?"

"Oh, dear!" Madam Solfeggia laughed musically. "You won't believe this. It was sent by mistake when I ordered a nightingale."

Dalrymple licked the tip of a quill and scribbled a note on a scrap of parchment. "Do you collect exotic pets, then?"

"Not really," said the lady. "I was trying something new. I have two string quartets and a wind quintet serving me, turn and turn about, twenty-four hours a day. Except on weekends and holidays, when I use two pianists and a ballad-singer. I thought perhaps a little nature music would make a nice change, give the lads a breather now and then. I can't bear to be without music, even for a moment. So when I saw a nightingale advertised in an owl-order catalog, I sent for it.

"Imagine my surprise when I saw the crate it came in, flying over the treetops under probably every third owl in Britain. They literally darkened the sky. At first I thought: How silly of me not to realize a nightingale would be so big! Then my staff opened the crate, and there it was. I've written to the dealer to ask if I can return the yak for a refund, but they haven't responded."

"Do you recall the address of this yak dealer?" asked Spanky.

"No. You'll have to ask Roger. He's my secretary, when he isn't playing in the quartet. He handles all of that. Everyone on my staff wears two hats. Fifi, the girl who let you in, is one of the pianists who serenades me on weekends. Herbert here keeps my accounts."

"I thought he would," Dalrymple muttered to himself.

"You'll find Roger in the kitchen," said Madam Solfeggia. "Will that be all, then?"

"Beg pardon," said Spanky, "but no. It actually wasn't the yak that led us here. Though we would like to see your yak, er..."

"To eliminate it as a suspect?" The lady appeared to be stifling a laugh.

"To eliminate it as a victim," Dalrymple corrected her.

"Who is in charge of keeping the beast?" asked Spanky. "Is it Tim or Barry, perhaps?"

"No, it's a member of the other quartet, Sam Hill by name. He is not in at the moment. It's his morning off, and his next shift doesn't start till three o'clock."

The agents' eyes touched in a significant look.

"Perhaps we can come back then," Dalrymple suggested, speaking slowly, "and Mr. Hill can show us your yak."

Madam Solfeggia smiled. "As you wish. Once you see it, I am sure you will find that any connection between this house and your crime is but a red herring. Or yak, rather."

"That leaves only one other matter," said Spanky. "Do you own a knife like this?" He pulled out his Zichri Goode ounce-of-prevention and showed it to her, blade sideways.

The lady's reaction was the last thing the two agents expected. Simultaneously, she drew a sharp, hissing breath; pushed herself to her feet so that her chair tipped over behind her; and drew her wand. Since Spanky was holding his knife between both hands, he could not quickly reach either of his wands to defend himself. Dalrymple had scarcely reached for his wand when the lady muttered her first charm.

Fortunately, it was only a shield charm. Unfortunately, Madam Solfeggia miscalculated in her haste and panic, putting too much power into the spell. The invisible shield blew outward, swatting the knife out of Spanky's hand and sending it flying toward Herbert's viola. The musician flinched, risking his flesh to protect the instrument, and suffered a deep slash across his left arm. The viola dropped out of his nerveless hands as Herbert screamed in pain.

"No!" Madam Solfeggia screamed, covering her ears and staggering backwards. "Help! Somebody must sing at once!"

Herbert was too busy howling and wrapping a handkerchief around his bleeding arm. Spanky was occupied with leaping to retrieve his silver-bladed knife. Dalrymple faced Madam Solfeggia with his wand fully extended, unable to hear her cries over his own voice shouting, "Drop the wand!"

The lady fell backwards over her fallen chair. Suddenly everything went quiet, except for the sound of footsteps running away and a door slamming at the back of the house.

Then, from the corner behind the overturned chair, the three wizards heard a deep, hideous growl.

"Save us," Herbert whimpered. "You must play music for her. Or sing something. Otherwise she'll kill us all."

"I doubt that," said Spanky, brandishing a wand in one hand and his knife in the other.

"You don't understand," groaned the viola player. Then he began to sing - badly - making up the notes and the words to go with them: "She hasn't transformed for over sixteen years. The music holds it at bay. But the change can't be skipped, only delayed. All the hunger and fury of a hundred full moons, coming at you at once..." Herbert shuddered, nodding toward the knife. "You may kill her with that thing, but like as not she'll kill one or two of us first."

The musician subsided into panting. He was losing too much blood to keep singing. It might have been a relief to hear the end of his dreary tune, but as soon as it stopped, the growling began again.

Dalrymple whistled a couple bars of "The Girl from Ipanema." The growling stopped.

"Huh," he said. "What do you know?" The growling started again.

"Keep whistling," said Spanky.

"I don't know any songs," said Dalrymple.

"Then play Chopsticks on the piano," said Spanky.

"I can do that," said Dalrymple, and he did.

A strong, pale hand reached out from behind the toppled chair and grasped the ivory cane by the window. While Spanky kept his weapons trained in her direction, and while Dalrymple kept playing chopsticks over and over, Madam Solfeggia slowly dragged herself to her feet. She looked exhausted, ill, frightened, and savagely angry; her clothes hung on her awkwardly, as if she had taken them off and put them back on while lurking out of sight.

"So it's true, what they say about music and the savage beast." Spanky looked awkward but wary as he made the quip.

"It's breast, not beast," the lady snarled. "I will not have that thing pointed at me in my own house. And for pity's sake, go out and find somebody who can play better than this rubbish." She pointed her cane toward Dalrymple, but then lost her balance and only kept herself from falling again by catching hold of the windowsill and leaning on it. "I can heal Herbert. As long as I can hear something approximating music, no one will be in danger."

Herbert gave Spanky a look that said, "Please, don't leave me with her," but Spanky left anyway.

He came back surprisingly quickly, having found Fifi barricaded in the pantry. She slid onto the piano bench next to Dalrymple and began playing a Chopin Polonaise. Dalrymple smiled gratefully and wiped the sweat off his face, but he wasn't the only one grateful for the change.

Herbert's sleeve had been torn off. Except for a pink line across his arm and the bloodstains on his robe, there was no other sign he had been wounded at all. He was now looking over his viola, checking it for damage. Madam Solfeggia, meanwhile, was back in her chair, still shaken. She closed her eyes with relief as Fifi began playing.

"I am sorry to have caused so much trouble," she said, with a tone of humility that bordered on self-loathing. "As you can see, I am doing all that anybody can do to prevent my condition from..." She hesitated to choose her next word.

"Spreading?" Dalrymple prompted

"Causing harm?" Spanky suggested.

"Manifesting," she said. "I would a thousand times rather have been a vampire," she added. "It would be horrible, evil, and wrong, but at least it wouldn't be as..." Once again she seemed to be at a loss for words.

Dalrymple and Spanky looked at each other, but neither of them chose to help the lady this time.

"...sordid," she finally decided. "Wild, stinking, animal - I hate it. I have always hated it. I doubt that any curse could make me as miserable as this does. And now because of it I get accused of yak-slaughter and have my life threatened in my own parlor. I can't imagine falling lower than this."

Spanky hung his head. "It is I who should apologize," he said.

Dalrymple stared at him, amazed.

"How is that?" the lady asked warily.

"I did not expect my knife to have that kind of effect on you. I assumed the one we found stuck in the yak had your name on it because it belonged to you."

Madam Solfeggia's eyes snapped open. "It had what?"

"Your name," Spanky repeated slowly. He held up a photograph of a knife, nearly identical to his own, but with the words Solfeggia d'Arezzo engraved on the blade in an elaborate, curly script.

"I've never seen that," she said, gazing at the picture in something between shock and horror. "But why? How?"

"You know as much as we do," said Dalrymple. "The knife is what led us to you."

"Several years ago we found another body with a similar knife in it," said Spanky. "Neither the owner of the knife, nor the victim, was ever identified."

"Victim?" Madam Solfeggia murmured, clutching at the scarf around her neck. "Not a yak, I take it?"

"This man," said Dalrymple, and he produced a photo from one of his pockets. A photo whose subject did not move, unlike the subjects of most wizard photographs. He didn't move because he was dead.

"Mother of Gounod," the lady whispered, her hand now moving up to hover in front of her mouth. "That's him."

"You know him?" Dalrymple asked, his face turning as pale as hers.

"That's - that's the boy," she faltered. A puzzling series of emotions flowed across her face - perhaps rage; perhaps fear; perhaps even tenderness.

"Which boy?" Dalrymple demanded

"That's the young man who..." Again her voice gave out.

Dalrymple was at the end of his patience. He threw the photograph at her. It hit her chest edge-on as the agent shouted, "The man who what?"

As the photograph dropped into Madam Solfeggia's lap, it turned face-downward. Somehow this seemed to break the spell that held her. She looked up at Dalrymple and shouted back: "Who made me like this!" And then she covered her eyes with both hands and burst into tears.

+++ 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: The yak found under Penelope Spankison's bed was: (A) Madam Solfeggia's pet yak, of course! (B) A similar yak supplied by the same mysterious dealer. (C) A Tibetan animagus whose similarity to Madam Solfeggia's yak was a coincidence. (D) A random victim pulled out of some kind of magical wormhole for no other purpose than to leave a grisly message under Spanky's nose. (E) A runaway zoo animal that followed Penelope home and gave its life to protect her from a knife-wielding assassin.

CONTEST: Describe a magical procedure, creature, or object from a book outside the Harry Potter series, something that might make a nice addition to the HP magical world. You may choose any book that Robbie has already reviewed on The Book Trolley. (This will save the time it takes him to read it.)

[Originally posted 9/14/08]