"He died two minutes after the will was signed." Luciano's face was devoid of color and expression. "It was the first time I'd seen him in over twenty years, and he died in my arms. t.i.tus, I would have allowed him to do anything. It was his last wish. The man on that bed wasn't a powerful criminal mastermind, he was just my poppa, an old man that I loved . . . despite it all. . . ."

"Dad . . . ," t.i.tus whispered. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean-"

"No, t.i.tus. You are right," Luciano interrupted, waving a hand for silence. "On the day my father died, I did what I'm always accusing your mother of doing. I didn't think. And now, here we are, and I've told you something you'd rather not know, putting you in the horrible position of having to decide what on earth to do with all that money. . . . You could always give it away to charity if you just want to get rid of it."

"Get rid of it," t.i.tus mumbled. "Destroy it, for it will destroy all who seek to possess it . . . destroy it."

The gla.s.s jar slipped out of Luciano's grip and plummeted to the floor, exploding on the flagstones with a crash. At once the floor was awash in blood-colored liquid and broken gla.s.s. Whatever had been preserved in the jar had long since decomposed, its tattered remains resembling some unidentifiable human organ.

Luciano and t.i.tus looked at each other, aghast, both wondering exactly what it was they were now standing in and thinking how apt it was to be paddling in what looked like gore, given their recent conversation.

"Oh lord," moaned Luciano, peering at his spattered shoes.

"Don't move," said t.i.tus. "I'll get a brush," and leaping out of the pantry, he ran past Pandora and out into the corridor, heading for the broom cupboard.

To his surprise one of his mother's guests was already there, raking through the various brushes and mops, searching for something that, judging by the hissing and muttering coming from her hooded figure, wasn't there. She was oblivious to everything in her effort to find whatever it was that she'd lost. t.i.tus cleared his throat to announce his presence. The witch spun round with a snarl, affording t.i.tus a glimpse of something so feral that he nearly shrieked.

"Oh, my heavens! What a fright you gave me! Didn't your precious nanny ever teach you not to sneak up on people like that?" Fiamma d'Infer rearranged her face into an approximation of a smile and ran a hand through her hair. "So . . . ," she purred, taking t.i.tus's stunned silence for normal teenage sulkiness. "Cat got your tongue?"

"We haven't got a cat," t.i.tus muttered. "Excuse me. I need to get a broom from the cupboard."

"Be my guest." Fiamma pressed herself against the wall, allowing t.i.tus just enough room to squeeze past her. Under her watchful eyes he felt his flesh creep. As he reached out for a long-handled brush, Fiamma murmured, "I don't think so. That one's Hecate's and I promise you it's got a major problem with its steering, not to mention its brakes . . . and we wouldn't want the young about-to-be inheritee to be wiped out in an avoidable broomstick accident, would we? At least not just yet . . ."

She paused and, pushing past t.i.tus, grabbed a larger broom and thrust it at him. "Take this one with my compliments. Totally safe, state-of-the-art ABS, enhanced twig-ruddering, twin air bags-"

"Air bags? On a broomstick?" t.i.tus couldn't help himself. He burst out laughing. "I suppose now you'll tell me it runs on unleaded and does zero to sixty in two seconds? Actually, what I'm after is a broom to sweep the floor with, not to fly on."

Avoiding Fiamma's offering, t.i.tus grabbed what he fervently hoped was a bog-standard, wood-and-bristle, floor-sweeping brush and, without saying good-bye, bolted back to the kitchen.

Tarantella Spills the Beans...

The grandfather clock in the hall chimed six times as Mrs. McLachlan let herself and Damp in the front door. "Perfect timing, pet," murmured the nanny, lifting the little girl onto the settle to remove her wellies. As she undid the zipper on Damp's jacket, the clock gave a deep and resonant twongg and began to chime again.

"Oh dear." Mrs. McLachlan hoisted the child up and made for the kitchen, pausing to peer at the clock's face as it continued to chime in what appeared to be a fit of temporal hysterics. Its filigreed hands were rotating in a counterclockwise direction that boded ill for its internal mechanism. Mrs. McLachlan checked her wrist.w.a.tch and tsked.

"Heavens, the battery must be dead," she muttered, crossing to the telephone and dialing the number for the time. In her arms, Damp reached out for the porcelain jar of pens kept on the hall table-for the express purpose of jotting down telephone messages but in reality used for doodling on the telephone directory during boring phone calls. Mrs. McLachlan immediately shifted Damp to her other hip, thus placing the pens out of the child's reach, and, patting her reprovingly on the nose, listened as the connection was made.

"-the time, sponsored by cccchhtssst will be sshttpssckshh precisely."

Mrs. McLachlan sighed and waited for the recording to advance to the next time.

"-the time, sponssssht by accupshhhht-ssss-twenty-five and pssss seconds."

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Mrs. McLachlan groaned. "The phone's not working very well, is it?"

"-the time, sponsored by ppppssssschhhhhh- Please replace the handset and try again."

Mrs. McLachlan dropped the receiver in its cradle and bore Damp off to the kitchen. Opening the door, she was greeted by a mouthwatering smell and the sight of Marie Bain sitting at the far end of the kitchen table, idly picking her ears with a pencil stub as she pored over the crossword in the newspaper. The sink was clear of dishes and a stack of pasta bowls sat on the warming plate of the range. Blue-and-white china platters of salad were lined up by the window, and someone had taken the trouble to wrap blue linen napkins round each individual place setting of cutlery, tying them in place with yellow raffia.

"Very nice, dear," Mrs. McLachlan said approvingly.

Marie Bain looked up from the paper and removed a pencil from one ear, wiping it on her sleeve. She gathered her pinched features into a frown. "Ees Eetalian, zat. Anyone can do eet. Eet takes ze real culinary genius to create Frrrrench food. . . ."

"I'm sure you're right, dear," Mrs. McLachlan agreed mildly. "Do you know when dinner is to be served? My watch doesn't appear to be working."

The cook rolled up the grease-spotted sleeve of her cardigan and peered at a tiny watch on her wrist. "Mon Dieu," she tutted. "My hands haff fallen oeurf. . . ."

Mrs. McLachlan blinked rapidly and then realized that Marie Bain was referring to the hands of her watch rather than the two red-knuckled appendages that poked out of the frayed sleeves of her cardigan. Mentally logging the cook's watch onto the growing list of non-functioning StregaSchloss timepieces, Mrs. McLachlan bore Damp upstairs to check the time with her Alarming Clock.

Closeted in the library in the company of his father and the estate lawyer, t.i.tus was uncomfortably aware of loud grumblings coming from his stomach. The library windows were open onto the lawn, and in the warm evening air a distant sound of laughter could be heard coming from the meadow, where Signora Strega-Borgia and Pandora were playing against Ffup and Tock at badminton. The faint aroma of singed feathers indicated that the dragon had incinerated a shuttlec.o.c.k in her enthusiasm for the game.

t.i.tus sighed as he watched his father and the lawyer riffling through boxes of papers, all stamped with the distinctive Borgia crest. In the dusty silence of the library, the digestive process going on inside t.i.tus's stomach was embarra.s.singly loud. t.i.tus's eyes roamed around the room, desperately seeking to fix his gaze upon something that might provide more entertainment than watching adults shuffle bits of paper from one side of a desk to the other. His attention was caught by a familiar hairy leg waving from behind the half-open door of the mantel clock.

Ughhh . . . that hideous tarantula again, he thought, watching in disgust as the leg curled and uncurled like a beckoning finger. . . .

Fed up with being ignored in her efforts to gain t.i.tus's attention, Tarantella made an exasperated tchhh noise and dragged herself closer to the light. This entailed moving a thimbleful of brandy (thoughtfully supplied by Mult.i.tudina for its postoperative a.n.a.lgesic effect), a small stack of miniature leather-bound books, and a sinister pile of bloodstained dressings. Negotiating past these was painful, and by the time Tarantella made eye contact with t.i.tus, she was exhausted. She watched as he stood up, yawned, and walked over to the mantelpiece. Peering round the edge of the clock door, Tarantella realized that they were not alone, and she slumped back onto her sickbed, toppling the brandy thimble as she did so.

"Auuukkkk!" she wailed, as the alcohol burned a fiery trail along her recently st.i.tched wound. "Aaaargh, ow, ouch, OW!" she shrieked, vaulting out of the clock in her desperation to put some distance between herself and the source of her agony.

"Aaagh, yeurrrrrch, no!" squeaked t.i.tus, as the twitching tarantula landed in his hair and immediately clung on with all her might.

"t.i.tus, for heaven's sake, we're trying to concentrate." Signor Strega-Borgia looked up from the paper mountain teetering in front of himself and the lawyer and removed his reading gla.s.ses with a sigh. "What is it?"

t.i.tus was standing with his back to his father, so Luciano was unable to witness the expression on his face, which was probably just as well, since t.i.tus looked as if he were about to expire from sheer terror. To add to his nightmare, Tarantella had scuttled down his face and was currently clamping his mouth shut in the furry grip of all seven of her remaining legs.

"Shhhh," she hissed. "Don't scream. Just make some excuse and get me out of here." The tarantula released t.i.tus's lips and dropped down the inside of his T-shirt.

"Ughhh . . . ahhh . . . got to . . . got to-got to go to the bathroom," t.i.tus squawked. He fled from the library and stumbled along the corridor to the family bathroom, where, after locking the door, he tore his shirt off, bundling Tarantella up in its folds and grabbing the showerhead for maximum protection.

"Right, spider-thing. One false move and I turn on the power shower," he said, restraining his desire to stamp on his discarded shirt. Tarantella dragged herself out onto the bathroom tiles and blinked up at t.i.tus towering above her, shower-head trembling in his hands.

"Listen up, boy-thing, and put that ridiculous hose down. Believe me, being up close and personal with you was every bit as painful for me as it was for you-" The tarantula broke off, looking down at her abdomen, where a trickle of bloodstained fluid was seeping from beneath a soggy dressing. "Oh lordy, I've sprung a leak. . . . Pa.s.s me a bit of toilet paper, would you?"

t.i.tus reluctantly replaced the showerhead and bent down to examine Tarantella. "You're bleeding," he gasped, his face turning white. "Did I do that? Heck-I'm really sorry. I never meant to hurt you, it's just . . ."

"It's just that you can't stand me and wish I was dead, isn't it? Nothing major, nothing I should feel too sensitive about. . . . Pa.s.s me something to plug the leak before I terminally exsanguinate."

t.i.tus tore off an extravagant length of toilet paper and pa.s.sed it over to the spider. "What-what happened? How did I manage to hurt you so badly? Oh no. You've lost a leg. I'm really, really sor-"

"Do shut up," Tarantella snapped, waving huffily at the hillock of toilet paper in front of her. "What am I supposed to do with all this? I asked for a bandage and you provide an entire Emergency Room."

"Sorry. Sorry, so sorry, I'm really-"

"Spare me. We haven't got all night, you know. Stop apologizing, tear me off a wee bit of toilet paper, and listen very carefully because this is very important."

As t.i.tus improvised a tiny dressing from a quarter sheet of toilet paper, folded up until it was the size of Damp's smallest fingernail, Tarantella told her reluctant nurse about what she'd overheard in the guest bathroom just before being attacked and mutilated.

"You're kidding." t.i.tus gasped, dropping the tiny wadded dressing, which caused it to slowly unfold once more.

"Oh, sigh. Do I look like I'm kidding? Do you think this is fake blood? I mean, I've heard of method acting, but ripping one's own limbs off for no better reason than thespian verisimilitude seems a tad . . . excessive."

"It's not that." t.i.tus caught himself in time. "I mean, Fiamma trying to kill you is awful, but . . . it's terrifying. Everything you've just told me-the mask she wears, the false teeth, the feet-her tail. What is she? And what's the Chronostone she was going on about? And who is the 'last male soul' and the 'baby magus'? What's going on, Tarantella?"

The spider sighed and examined her leaking wound. "What's going on is that I am bleeding to death while you are flapping your lips, dear boy. You'd make a lousy nurse. . . ."

"Oh lord-sorry, sorry, sorry." t.i.tus attempted once more to fold the tiny sheet of paper.

"There you go again." Tarantella covered her eyes and heaved a sigh. "Let's take your questions one at a time, shall we? 'What is she?' you squawk. Um, let me see, she's masked in makeup to disguise the fact that either she's thousands of years old or else has had an awfully hard life . . . wears false teeth for the same reasons . . . um, fake feet-well, if you had two cloven hooves you'd probably wear false feet, too-unless, that is, you were a pig, in which case you'd acquire two more and wear them with pride. Let's see, forked tail? Oh gosh. What animal has cloven hooves and a forked tail. Gosh and golly, that's a tough one. . . . Any ideas, team?"

"Not an animal," t.i.tus whispered, "a demon."

"And for your next question, 'What is the Chronostone?' Pa.s.s. All I know is that it's something that she and her 'Boss' want to get their hands on. Final question for many million lire: the 'last male soul' and the 'baby magus'? Come on, you know this one."

"Me?" t.i.tus volunteered in a shaky voice. "I'm the last male soul? And Damp? Is she the baby magus?"

"Absolutely. Well done. Is that the smell of burning brain cells I detect? OUCH! Gently with that dressing, you brute."

"You're just lucky that I can overcome my loathing of spiders," t.i.tus muttered, picking Tarantella up in his hands and gently securing the dressing in place with a tiny Band-Aid. "I'm going to put my shirt back on, tuck you inside it, and find Mrs. McLachlan. We have to warn her there's a monster in the house. Do me a favor and don't wriggle around. You're exceptionally hairy and you make me itch."

"And you are exceptionally dim and you make me despair-" Tarantella's words were m.u.f.fled in t.i.tus's T-shirt as, opening the bedroom door and checking that the corridor was empty, he set off to find the nanny.

...and Mrs. McLachlan Spills the Salt As instructed by Signor Strega-Borgia, Latch sounded the gong for dinner and scratched his gnat bites absentmindedly. He'd lit a small fire in the library, for the evening had turned chilly and fingers of mist were creeping up toward StregaSchloss from the waters of Lochnagargoyle.

Chewing the remains of a toasted shuttlec.o.c.k, Tock crawled out of the moat and picked a water lily to tuck behind his ear by way of ornament. He gazed at the lit windows of StregaSchloss in happy antic.i.p.ation of dinner before lolloping across the rose-quartz drive toward the front door. Just as he reached the first stone step the sound of a muted squeal caused him to stop and listen. It came again, apparently from ground level-the unmistakable sound of some creature in pain. As a vegetarian, he piously hoped that it wasn't someone else's dinner putting up a protest, but nonetheless he peered anxiously around, wondering where the sound was coming from. Bats flitted across the darkening sky, leaving their roost under the eaves of StregaSchloss to head for their nocturnal hunting grounds. The crocodile briefly entertained the notion that what he'd heard was the sound of the bat's high-pitched sonar squeaks; he was about to climb the remaining steps and head indoors when the sound came again, louder and clearer, repeating one word over and over in a rising scale of terror.

"Help-help-help-help!"

All at once Tock realized that the sound was coming from the dungeons. A ventilation shaft that allowed air to pa.s.s to and from the subterranean pa.s.sages under StregaSchloss had a mesh-covered outlet next to the front door. Something is happening down there, Tock thought, and by the sound of it, the something was happening to Nestor. The baby dragon's shrieks were so shrill that they carried in the still air, out across the meadow, along the jetty, and down into the deeps of Lochnagargoyle. From a wish to offer a.s.sistance coupled with a strong desire to make Nestor shut up, Tock bounded up the steps and was dutifully cleaning his claws on the boot sc.r.a.per when from the direction of the loch came a powerful roar-the awesome lung capacity of its unknown maker causing the crocodile to abandon all attempts at personal hygiene and scrabble frantically into the safety of StregaSchloss.

Chest heaving and eyes wide, he slammed the door behind him and sank back against it with a little gasp as Mrs. McLachlan came into view, sweeping down the stairs with Damp in her arms. Something about the nanny's demeanor set off alarm bells in Tock's head. Looking down at his claws, he realized that he had tracked rather a large quant.i.ty of slime from the bottom of the moat across the threshold of StregaSchloss, and by the expression on Mrs. McLachlan's face, it appeared that this lapse of protocol had not escaped her attention either.

"Wash those filthy, dirrrty claws before you come to the table," she said, turning her back and striding along the corridor to the kitchen.

"But-but-" Tock bleated, "there's something happening in the dungeons. . . . Nestor-"

"Nestor's mother will look after him," Mrs. McLachlan said over her shoulder, her voice chilly enough to freeze-dry the forlorn water lily drooping from Tock's ear, "and unless you wish to eat your dinner in the moat, you had better do as you're told."

From experience, Tock knew that resistance was futile, so he opened the door to the downstairs bathroom and meekly obeyed. Such was his fear of Mrs. McLachlan's ire that Tock didn't complain that some unknown houseguest appeared to have shaved off their chin warts with a blunt fish knife and had left all the grisly evidence of this do-it-yourself surgery dotted around the porcelain of the sink. When he emerged, squeaky clean and redolent of lily-scented soap, it was to find t.i.tus standing in the middle of the hall, apparently engaged in conversation with his T-shirt.

"Would you quit that?" he demanded, unaware that he was the subject of the crocodile's puzzled scrutiny. "I think we've just missed her. She's probably taken Damp in to dinner. No-ahhh-urgggh, you're so hairy-no, don't."

From above came the murmur of many voices, doors opening and closing, and approaching footsteps. The houseguests had responded to Latch's summons and were gathering for their nocturnal a.s.sault on the larders of StregaSchloss.

"For heaven's sake," t.i.tus hissed, peering down inside his T-shirt and, to the bewilderment of Tock, addressing one or both of his nipples. "Now I'm going to have to take you in to dinner. Keep still, or you might end up losing more than a leg-"

With a small honk, Tock bolted along the corridor to the kitchen and headed inside. The first guest had appeared at the head of the staircase and was sniffing appreciatively at the aromas wafting out from the kitchen.

"Something smells heavenly." Hecate Brinstone hastened downstairs and smiled at t.i.tus, her face still horribly swollen from her earlier encounter with the enraged hornets. "I look an absolute fright," she sighed, catching sight of her reflection in the highly polished case of the grandfather clock.

"Um-no-er, I've seen far worse frights," t.i.tus confessed with a teenager's awkward gallantry. "You look-um-fine."

A faint tchhhh came from inside his T-shirt as, flushing pink, t.i.tus offered the witch his arm and accompanied her in to dinner.

There were still two empty places laid at the kitchen table as Luciano staggered to the sink with a cauldron of pasta. Tipping it with effort into a ma.s.sive colander, he turned to the guests waiting at the table and wondered out loud what was keeping Pandora and Fiamma d'Infer. Just then, the missing witch appeared from the unexpected location of the wine cellar, a bottle of vintage Barolo in each hand. Luciano abandoned his pasta and leapt across the kitchen to block her path.

"I don't wish to sound churlish, but I really would prefer it if you would put those bottles back where you found them." Luciano attempted to minimize the embarra.s.sment of ordering a guest to unhand the wine by lowering his voice to an almost inaudible whisper, but his face betrayed his anger at Fiamma's presumption that she could plunder the wine cellar at will.

"I thought these would be quite gluggable with your heroic culinary efforts," the witch sneered, her body language indicating that she had little intention of obeying her host.

"Those are not 'gluggable' wines, Miss d'Infer." Luciano reached out to take the bottles from her and met with resistance. "Those are priceless vintages laid down with a special occasion in mind." Luciano began to tug at the bottles, having to redouble his efforts with every word he gasped out, as it began to dawn on him that this witch was ten times stronger than he. "This. Evening. Is. Not. Special. Enough."

The kitchen door opened to admit Pandora, who hesitated, unable to take her place at the table until Fiamma and Luciano moved out of the way. Slipping into the kitchen in Pandora's wake, Mult.i.tudina and Terminus scuttled across the stone floor and vanished beneath the dresser, not swiftly enough to avoid being spotted by Fiamma.

"Eughhh-disgusting!" she spat, releasing the bottles so abruptly that Luciano nearly lost his balance. "Running around the kitchen. Honestly, Baci darling, what with rat pee in the fish, rodent droppings in the coffee, and now free-range vermin at the dinner table, I'm beginning to wonder why on earth I ever agreed to come here. . . ."

Signora Strega-Borgia blushed deeply. As if watching Luciano playing tug-of-war with the bottles of Barolo wasn't humiliating enough, now to be confronted with her own utter lack of skills in the domestic-hygiene department was mortifying beyond belief. She looked up at where Fiamma was still standing, tapping one foot impatiently and staring at her as if to say, Right, serf, do something about this.

"Pandora." Baci's voice was icy. "I've told you countless times before about letting your rats run free. For the last time, I do not permit free-range rodents to roam around the house. Either you keep them under control or I am going to get a cat to do the job for you." Turning to Fiamma, she continued, her voice warm and conciliatory, "I do apologize for my daughter's disgusting practices. Honestly . . . children. Do take a seat, Fiamma. Pandora, get rid of them now."

Sitting round the corner of the table from his mother, t.i.tus was aghast. Poor Pandora, he thought, she loves those rats. And if Mum finds out that I've got a free-range tarantula down my shirt, she'll go bananas. Why on earth is she being so nice to that spider-murdering woman? Doesn't she know that she's dangerous?

Next to him, Mrs. McLachlan patted his arm. "Pa.s.s the salt, please, dear," she murmured, just as Luciano brought the first tureen of pasta to the table.

Hunched on the floor in front of the dresser, Pandora was endeavoring to entice her rats out from their hiding place. Her face on fire from the humiliation of public chastis.e.m.e.nt, she peered into the darkness to where the rats cowered behind a barrier of dust b.a.l.l.s and long-lost plastic medicine spoons.

"A c-c-c-cat?" Terminus stuttered. "She can't be serious, can she?"

"What's a 'cat'?" Mult.i.tudina was utterly confused. In all her lifetime she'd never encountered one, and was at a loss to understand what all the fuss was about.

Terminus, her literary skills honed by Tarantella's tutelage, was far more aware of the many dangers lurking in the world outside StregaSchloss. "Big, furry things with teeth," she explained. "Sometimes they vanish, leaving their smiles hanging in the air; occasionally they wear boots. They're renowned for riding pillion on broomsticks and hanging out with royalty, and they live on a diet of rats and cream."

"What's our trained biped doing?" Mult.i.tudina asked, distracted by the sight of Pandora.

"Trying to catch our attention, I believe." Terminus watched as Pandora squeezed her arm underneath the dresser with a small lump of Parmesan extended in her grasp.

"How thoughtful," Mult.i.tudina murmured, reaching out and s.n.a.t.c.hing the cheese greedily. "And look, she's brought some more. . . ."

Pandora's hand withdrew and reappeared slightly farther away, holding a fresh piece of Parmesan. Little by little she coaxed the rats out from under the dresser until, drowsy and replete with cheese, they allowed her to pick them up and remove them from the kitchen.

"Oh my goodness!" Mrs. McLachlan blurted. "I'm so sorry. Heavens, that was clumsy of me," as with a dramatic gesture akin to one of Luciano's operatic armsweeps, the nanny overturned the salt dish, spilling most of its contents across the table onto Fiamma's lap. With a hiss of annoyance, the witch sprang to her feet and ran out of the kitchen before anyone noticed that, in common with all her demon kin, she was unable to tolerate prolonged contact with salt.

Mrs. McLachlan watched her hasty exit and shrugged apologetically. "Dear, dear. That seems a bit extreme-" she continued, absolving herself. "It's only salt, when all's said and done. Never mind, at least I didn't spill it in the food. Mmmmm, this is simply delicious-my compliments to the chefs."

Sitting farther down the table, the estate lawyer gazed at his plate in dismay. He loathed Mediterranean food, and this meal confirmed all his worst nightmares about dealing with Italian clients. Still, he comforted himself, once the boy has signed the paperwork and banked his inheritance, my days of dining with the Borgias will be over. At long last I'll be able to sever my connection with this dodgy family and return to a career that doesn't involve laundering money for the criminal underworld. Under the pretext of dabbing his mouth with his napkin, he gazed at the bent heads around the table. Eighteen of them, he counted rapidly, plus the rat-girl, the woman who'd received a lapful of salt, plus-he swallowed rapidly-plus those . . . creatures . . . s...o...b..ring and dribbling at the other end of the table. He shuddered at the sheer number of mouths avidly consuming bowlfuls of disgusting pasta and mentally consigned the entire population of StregaSchloss to perdition. Meeting t.i.tus's eyes across the table, the lawyer attempted a smile, which faded rapidly as he realized that something large was moving beneath the child's shirt. A lump the size of a tennis ball appeared to be climbing up from his navel to his throat. The boy dropped his gaze to his lap and color flooded his cheeks.

Mumbling an excuse, t.i.tus fled from the kitchen, the speed of his exit causing Tarantella to tumble down to his waistband moaning, "Give me a break-ow, slow down! That hurts, you cretin."

Ignoring her, t.i.tus took the stairs two at a time and arrived, breathing heavily, at his sister's bedroom door. "Pan, it's me. Open up."