Pure Dead Wicked by Debi Gliori Page B

TOO
    â€œIn answer to your impertinent questions, your mind
was
full of Banoffee Pie, but
now,
dear, you’re feeling a wee bit ashamed. Curiosity killed the cat . . . ?”
    â€œMeow,” whispered Pandora in as apologetic a tone as she could muster. “But, Mrs. McLachlan, what
is
it?”
    The nanny passed the object across the table to Pandora. “Its official name is the soul mirror, but the manufacturers prefer us to call it the i’mat.”
    â€œIs this what you swapped your makeup case for?” Pandora peered at the golden compact, admiring the intricate filigree engraved on its surface.
    â€œSort of.” Mrs. McLachlan smiled but didn’t volunteer any more information as to its provenance. Pandora held the i’mat gingerly in the palm of her hand. “Don’t worry,” Mrs. McLachlan continued, “it won’t bite you, and unlike my makeup case, you can’t actually use it to
change
anything; it’s really just for
seeing
things. . . .”
    Pandora was only half-listening. The compact lay in her hand, surprisingly heavy for such a small object. Something about its weight, its sheer presence, made her wary. Sensing this, Mrs. McLachlan leaned across and opened it for her. “Go on,” she said. “Try it out. See what Damp is dreaming of.”
    Carefully, as if it might detonate in her hand, Pandora pointed the compact at her baby sister. Instantly, the mirror turned to gold and the powder popped out the incomprehensible message:
    NUM NUM NUMM
    â€œ
What
?” Pandora squeaked. “What on earth . . . ?” Tinted with gold, the mirrored image was of a huge breast. “For heaven’s sake, Damp, what
is
this?” Pandora groaned, not understanding at all. In the mirror, a tiny winged Damp clamped herself to the breast with a beatific smile.
    â€œEughhh. GROSS,” Pandora gagged. “I’m
never
going to have babies when I grow up.”
    The powder in the compact shuffled to form the single word:
    YUM
    Snapping the compact shut, Pandora returned it to its owner. Damp stirred in her stroller, her lashes fluttered, and she awoke. In front of her, a bowl of tomato soup steamed invitingly. Trying to reconcile the food of her dreams with the hot soupiness of reality was too much for the baby. When Mrs. McLachlan dipped a spoon in the bowl and offered it to her, Damp took one look, opened her mouth, and burst into tears.
    Despite Mrs. McLachlan’s best efforts, Damp was still sobbing when they arrived back at the hotel. Signora Strega-Borgia was having an afternoon nap, and Pandora found her father in the residents’ lounge helping Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell trim the Christmas tree. To Pandora’s disgust, Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell had turned this innocent activity into an opportunity for close physical contact with Signor Strega-Borgia. To wit: “Luciano, be a
darling
and pass me up that glass angel—oh, I’m
so
sorry, I simply can’t reach, you’ll have to come up the ladder here beside me. . . .” and: “Can I just pass this garland over your shoulder like
so
. . . ?”
    At this tender moment, Pandora announced her arrival by jumping onto a box of decorations. “Oh, heck! What
have
I done? Gosh, sorry—I hope it wasn’t too valuable?” Glancing upward as she delivered this patently insincere apology, Pandora distinguished her father’s look of utter relief as he disentangled himself from Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell’s garlandy embrace as well as the manageress’s slitty-eyed gaze of utter loathing.
    Signor Strega-Borgia descended the ladder and wrapped an arm round Pandora’s shoulders. “Let’s go and wake Mum up, shall we?”
    â€œWith a kiss,” said Pandora, smiling fixedly up to where Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell perched, stranded in a tangle of abandoned greenery, looking for all the world like the Wicked Fairy in a geriatric version of
Sleeping