Pure Dead Magic by Debi Gliori Page B

ring binder, and selected her first victim. Dangling from its hanger, adorned with layers of frills, lace, and petticoats, was her most hated dress. Cause of many wardrobe wars, the dress had perversely survived each and every one of Pandora’s attempts to destroy it. “But
this
time …,” she gloated, circling it with one of her purloined wands, “
this
time …”
    The lace on the collar lifted and stirred in the breeze causedby Pandora’s passes with the wand. With a tiny metal clatter, it fell, complete with tiny metal hanger, onto the floor at her feet. Diminishing afterimages faded in its wake—identical dresses for eight-, seven-, six-, five-, four-, three-, two-, Damp-year-olds, babies, and newborns, each one smaller than the next, each one fading slowly away until, with a gasp, Pandora picked up the smallest version from the floor. “When I find Multitudina’s babies, this will be just
perfect
for one of them,” she said, holding the tiny thing in the palm of her hand.
    Several hours later, Pandora’s room had undergone a radical transformation. From the curtain poles hung two pocket-handkerchief-sized curtains. A miniature library of books the size of postage stamps huddled forlornly at the end of a large bookcase, lost in the vast space that now surrounded them. Pandora’s wardrobe had become her new jewelry box and the bedroom floor was dotted with thumbnail-sized teddies and dolls. There had been a few casualties along the way—where she was going to sleep might present a problem since her bed was now the size of a matchbox, and CDs the size of pinheads were frankly useless, but Pandora was feeling triumphant.
    “Easy peasy, lemon squeezy,” she said. “Now for something trickier.” She flung herself onto her bed, forgetting that it had been an early casualty of the learning process. There was a tiny crunch from beneath her leg. “First thing I’ll try is matchsticks into mattresses,” she muttered, picking out the splinters.

A Little Family History
    L uciano Strega-Borgia breakfasted alone. He sat flanked by coffeepots, little dishes of apricot jam, platters of prosciutto, and enough croissants to feed a small army. However, the fact remained that his left ankle was chained to the table, and next to his plate was a document requiring his signature. Gazing out at the cypresses mirrored in the lake, he wondered if he’d ever see his wife and family again. His appetite deserted him as he remembered the morning he’d stormed out of StregaSchloss, all those weeks ago.…
    It had started with bickering at breakfast.
    He’d come downstairs to the kitchen where his family was eating breakfast. The table was already awash with milk. Damp was grizzling and Titus and Pandora were looking particularly glum. At the head of the table, his wife of many years, the beautiful Signora Strega-Borgia, sat with her head buried in the local paper. At the range, wearing a particularly black scowl, Marie Bain stood murdering a panful of scrambled eggs.
    On seeing her father, Damp threw her hands in the air, sending her cereal bowl skidding off the table and across the floor. She bounced up and down in her clip-on baby seat, causing everything on the table to bounce up and down in tandem. Coffee and orange juice slopped out of cups and glasses. Cereal boxes toppled over and spilled their contents.
    Serenely unaware of the squalor surrounding her, Signora Strega-Borgia stirred her coffee with the end of a pencil, licked it dry, and circled something in the paper.
    Signor Strega-Borgia sat down at the breakfast table. Damp hurled her cup at him by way of welcome. Marie Bain placed a plate of blackened eggs in front of him.
    “Dad, I’ve got a bit of a problem,” said Titus.
    “That’s a major understatement,” said Pandora, scattering sugar over her cereal, the surrounding tablecloth and, ultimately, the floor.
    “Dad,” said Titus, ignoring his sister, “you know you let me load
Death & Destruction