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“Who in there?”
Marco opened his mouth, but it was Fred who spoke. He was looking in the bag, and he didn’t seem happy. Maybe because he’d squashed it in all the agitation, and a smear of red had bloomed like blood on one side.
He grabbed a plate and turned it upside down, dumping out the contents. And then he just stood there, staring at three sadly mushed pastries. “What are those?” he demanded.
“What do they look like?” I snapped. Damn it, most of the powdered sugar had come off, and that was the best part.
Big gray eyes lifted to meet mine, with the look of a man seeing his doom. “What did you buy?” he squeaked.
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know! They have all kinds of things down there—dainty tea cakes and tiny tarts and pain au chocolate and finger sandwiches and those cute little baby macaroons! Why didn’t you get the baby macaroons?”
“I don’t like macaroons.”
He stared at me. “What do you mean you don’t like macaroons? Everybody likes macaroons!”
“Well, I’m somebody and I don’t,” I said, reaching for the plate. And getting my hand slapped for my trouble.
“But . . . but I can’t serve them these,” he said, a little madly. “And room service takes forever and there’s always a line downstairs and what am I supposed to do?”
“You’re supposed to tell me what’s going on before I strangle you,” I said ominously.
But Fred was past that. Fred looked like he thought strangling would be a step up. He was hunched over the plate, his eyes darting around the kitchen’s gleaming surfaces as if he thought a tea service and accompanying canapés were sure to appear somewhere.
“Oh God . . .” he said miserably when this did not happen.
I looked at Marco, expecting a little sanity. Only to find him regarding the plate, too. “Maybe you could . . . fluff ’em up,” he said, apparently serious.
“Fluff ’em up? Fluff ’em up?” Fred hissed. “They’re jelly doughnuts! There’s nothing to fluff!”
“They’re my doughnuts,” I said, reaching for the plate again. And had it snatched away.
“Have an apple,” Fred snarled, tossing me one from a bowl.
“If I’d wanted an apple, I wouldn’t have bought doughnuts!”
“Well, that’s too bad,” he hissed, hunched over my dinner like Gollum with the ring. “Because I’m not going out there and telling a bunch of mumble—”
“What?”
“—that we don’t have anything for them. I’m not, do you hear?”
Not really. “A bunch of what?” I asked, for clarification.
The darting eyes made a return, and his tone was barely audible. “Wumble,” he said reverently.
“What?”
He looked up, a faintly annoyed frown creasing his forehead. “Wichel!”
“What’s a wichel?”
Marco sighed. “Witches,” he translated.
“Witches?” I frowned.
“Yes!” Fred said vehemently. “Witches! Witches! Wi—” He suddenly realized he’d been yelling, and bit off the word. And
