Amanderella and the Marduk Affair Chapter 2

Chapter Two.

 

Packing.

 

The Lecture Theatre was emptying fast. Chairs scraped, bags thumped shut, and the last of the students drifted out in twos and threes. Amanderella stayed where she was, staring at the notes in her lap.

“We can’t go to Pentegfawr yet,” she said quietly. “I need to get back to Mrs Gaffletter’s house. I’ll have to pack a bag.”

Dotty blinked. “Oh. Yes. Of course. You’d need things.” She hesitated, as though trying to imagine what those things might be. “Do you want me to come with you?”

Amanderella nodded. “Please.”

Dotty stood at once, almost knocking her chair over. “Right. Yes. I can do that. I’m good at… coming with people.”

Amanderella managed a small smile. “Thank you.”

They slipped out of the Lecture Theatre and into the corridor, their footsteps echoing on the polished floor. Outside, the air felt cooler, sharper, as if the day itself knew they were about to begin something larger than either of them had planned.

Mrs Gaffletter’s house was only a short walk away.

She opened the door before Amanderella had even reached the top step. Her arms were already folded in that way that meant she had formed an opinion before hearing any facts.

“Oh no,” she said. “Not again.”

“I only need to pack a few things,” Amanderella said.

“That’s what you said last time,” Mrs Gaffletter replied, stepping aside. “And you were gone for three days and came back with a torn sleeve and a story about thieving birds.”

Dotty hovered behind Amanderella, unsure whether she was supposed to enter or wait on the step like a parcel.

Mrs Gaffletter spotted her and gave a resigned nod. “And you’ve brought a friend. Of course you have. You always bring a friend when there’s trouble brewing. At least it’s not another gentleman caller.”

“It’s not trouble,” Amanderella said, though she didn’t sound entirely convinced. “We just need to get to a place called Pentegfawr.”

Mrs Gaffletter made a tiny noise, not a sigh, never a sigh, but something in the same family, perhaps a distant cousin.

“That’s not a real place,” she said firmly. “It sounds like something you’ve just sneezed.”

“It is real,” Amanderella said. “We have to go.”

“Well, I’ve never heard of it. And I’ve heard of most things. Even the ones I wish I hadn’t.” She pointed up the stairs. “Go on, then. Pack your bag. Take your sensible shoes. And if this Penteg‑whatever turns out to be full of mud, don’t come crying to me.”

She turned to Dotty. “You’d better come in, dear. You look like you’re about to faint. There are biscuits in the tin.”

Amanderella hurried upstairs. Mrs Gaffletter shut the door behind Dotty with a firm click and looked her up and down, not unkindly, but with the air of someone assessing a new species of moth.

“So,” she said. “Who might you be?”

Dotty straightened. “I’m Dotty. Sorry.”

Mrs Gaffletter raised one eyebrow. “What for.”

“I don’t know,” Dotty admitted. “Just… in case.”

Mrs Gaffletter made a small noise, not a sigh, more like a tut that had changed its mind halfway through. “Well, you’re polite. That’s something. Lady Amanderella’s friends are usually the sort who leave muddy footprints or try to sell me something.”

Dotty wasn’t sure if she was meant to laugh, so she didn’t.

Mrs Gaffletter marched into the kitchen and pointed at a chair. “Sit. You look like you’re about to fold up like a deckchair.”

Dotty sat.

Mrs Gaffletter opened the biscuit tin with the solemnity of someone unlocking a safe. “Help yourself. They’re the good ones. I keep the boring ones for people I don’t trust.”

Dotty took a biscuit very carefully, as if it might explode. “Thank you.”

Mrs Gaffletter watched her. “So, you and Lady Amanderella are off to… what was it… Penteg‑something.”

“Pentegfawr,” Dotty said.

Mrs Gaffletter blinked. “That’s not a real place. It sounds like something you’d shout if you dropped a hammer on your foot.”

“It is real,” Dotty said. “I think.”

“You think,” Mrs Gaffletter repeated, folding her arms tighter. “Well, that’s reassuring.”

Dotty stared at her biscuit. “Lady Amanderella knows what she’s doing.”

“Oh, I know she does,” Mrs Gaffletter said. “That’s the problem. When she knows what she’s doing, it usually means I end up washing soot off the curtains.”

Dotty wasn’t sure how to respond, so she took another tiny bite.

Mrs Gaffletter softened, just a fraction. “Don’t worry, dear. She always comes back. And she usually brings the right number of limbs.”

Dotty blinked. “Usually.”

“Don’t think about it,” Mrs Gaffletter advised. “Have another biscuit.”

Dotty obeyed. “Thank you. This is very kind.”

“It’s not kindness,” Mrs Gaffletter said briskly. “It’s preventative. People fall over less when they’ve had a biscuit.”

Dotty nodded solemnly, as if this were a scientific fact.

Amanderella came back downstairs with her bag over one shoulder. Mrs Gaffletter gave it a quick, suspicious glance, then looked past her toward the street.

“At least,” she said, “you’re not taking that motorcycle.”

“No,” Amanderella said. “We’re going by train.”

Mrs Gaffletter brightened, or as close to bright as her eyebrows allowed. “Good. Trains are sensible. Trains stay on tracks. Trains don’t skid across pavements and frighten the neighbours.”

“I like trains,” Dotty said earnestly.

Mrs Gaffletter gave her a sideways look. “You won’t once you’ve sat next to someone who eats crisps loudly. But never mind. You’re young. You’ll learn.”

She marched them both to the door, opened it, and peered out as if checking for unexpected weather or lurking nonsense.

“Well,” she said. “Off you go, then. To your Penteg‑thing.”

“Pentegfawr,” Amanderella said gently.

Mrs Gaffletter waved a hand. “If you say so. Just don’t bring back anything that hisses. Or anything that needs a special permit.”

Dotty clutched her biscuit wrapper. “We’ll be careful.”

“You’d better be,” Mrs Gaffletter said. “And if the train is late, don’t come running back here complaining. Write a letter. To someone else. And make sure you get in a Ladies Only Carriage. You never know what sort of man you might meet. The sort who thinks the world is his footstool. Always has too many pockets. Always jingles when he walks. Talks as if he’s doing you a favour by breathing in your direction.”

She tilted her head, eyebrows sharpening. “The kind who calls every girl ‘my dear’ even when she’s just asked him not to. Wears a hat that’s either too small or too confident. Smells faintly of pipe smoke and bad decisions. Even if you are handy with your hatpins, it still ruins the journey.”

Amanderella stepped outside. “We’ll be back soon.”

“You always say that. And somehow, you always are.”

She closed the door with a click.

The girls set off toward the station, the cool air brushing their faces, the promise of Pentegfawr waiting somewhere down the line.