Pure Dead Wicked by Debi Gliori Read Free Book Online Page B

ten linen napkins: a hundred and fifty pounds; two bread baskets: fifteen pounds forty; damage to table: two hundred and ninety-three pounds—”
    â€œGood morning. Is everything in order?”
    Signor Strega-Borgia started guiltily. The hotel manageress, Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell, had appeared as if on oiled wheels beside the table and was fixing upon the family a smile that was remarkable only for its lack of sincerity. Her hooded eyes told a different story altogether.
    Pandora’s cereal spoon clattered into her bowl, bounced out across the tablecloth, and catapulted its milk-sodden contents straight onto the manageress’s left shoe. Pandora gave a small squeak of dismay, inwardly logging another item onto the day’s bill—one pink ostrich-skin shoe: two hundred pounds. She gritted her teeth and decided not to apologize—the ghastly woman was a walking advertisement for humanity’s history of cruelty to animals: her shirt was the product of overworked silkworms, her rabbit’s-foot brooch a gross reminder that somewhere out there was a bunny amputee limping across the heather, and her suede skirt had cost some innocent sheep dear. Why, then, Pandora wondered, was Dad being so
chummy
with her? She clenched her fists as a loud peal of laughter rang out across the dining room.
    â€œOh, Luciano,” Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell shrieked, “you’re such a scream!”
    â€œIndeed,”
muttered Signora Strega-Borgia, raising her coffee cup and her eyebrows in tandem. “Could I have some more coffee,
Mrs
. Fforbes-Campbell?”
    Uh-oh, thought Pandora, registering the chill in her mother’s voice.
    â€œCertainly, Signora,” said the manageress. “I’ll just make some fresh . . . myself, I never drink the stuff—so bad for the complexion.”
    One all, thought Pandora, dreading what she knew from experience was to come.
    â€œPersonally,” said Signora Strega-Borgia to no one in particular, “I rely on our impeccable genetic heritage to look after my complexion.” She smiled to herself and idly smoothed a stray hair back into place, looking up to deliver the final thrust straight between Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell’s eyes. “You will discover in the fullness of time that good breeding
always
wins hands down over mere diet and artifice.”
    Game, set, and match, thought Pandora, restraining a desire to stand on the tabletop and cheer.
    Apparently embarrassed by this catty interchange, Mrs. McLachlan had taken refuge behind her powder compact, peering into its oval mirror and tutting as she made ineffectual little dabs at her nose with a tiny sugar-pink puff. Latch sighed and buttered another slice of toast. Personally, he thought, Flora McLachlan had no need for such lily-gilding. The boss was absolutely right: good genes knocked spots off paint and powder. . . .
    Something in the nanny’s mirror had displeased her, though—displeased her mightily—for Mrs. McLachlan snapped her compact shut, hurled it into her handbag, and stood up abruptly, shooting Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell the look that Latch had privately defined as “The Hairy Eyeball.” She hoisted Damp out of her high chair, scrubbed porridge off the baby’s cheek with a napkin, and turned to Signora Strega-Borgia. “If you have no objections, madam, I thought I would take the girls into the village for a spot of Christmas shopping.”
    â€œGood idea,” agreed Signora Strega-Borgia, “and Titus . . . ?”
    â€œPandora, dear, run and fetch your coat and we’ll meet you at the front door.” Mrs. McLachlan smiled at Titus. “I haven’t asked you to join us because I know you’ve done your shopping already.”
    â€œI did mine online,” Titus said with unbearable smugness. “So much easier. Avoid the crush and rush. No parcels to carry. No old ladies spearing you with their umbrellas. No grumpy crowds on the