Making Money

right.” She slipped this at the bottom of a number of working sheets that she was delivering to the in tray, dropped it in as the tray rumbled past, and then the sound of her little boots echoed as she rushed, weeping, the length of the hall to the ladies’ restroom, where she had hysterics.
    The remaining members of the staff looked around warily, like ancient monsters who can see a second sun getting bigger in the sky but have absolutely no idea what they should do about it. Mr. Bent was a fast man with an in tray and by the look of it there were about two minutes or less before he was confronted with the message. Suddenly and all at once, they fled for the exits.

    “AND HOW WAS that for you?” said Moist, stepping out into the sunlight.
    “Do I detect a note of peevishness?” said Adora Belle.
    “Well, my plans for today did not include dropping in to chat with a three-hundred-year-old letch.”
    “I think you mean lych, and anyway he was a ghost, not a corpse.”
    “He was letching!”
    “All in his mind,” said Adora Belle. “Your mind, too.”
    “Normally you go crazy if people try to patronize you!”
    “True. But most people aren’t able to translate a language so old that even golems can hardly understand a tenth of it. Get a talent like that and it could be you getting the girls when you are three centuries dead.”
    “You were just flirting to get what you wanted?”
    Adora Belle stopped dead in the middle of the square to confront him. “And? You flirt with people all the time. You flirt with the whole world! That’s what makes you interesting, because you’re more like a musician than a thief. You want to play the world, especially the fiddly bits. And now I’m going home for a bath. I got off the coach this morning, remember?”
    “This morning,” said Moist, “I found that one of my staff had swapped the mind of another of my staff with that of a turnip.”
    “Was that good?” said Adora Belle.
    “I’m not sure. In fact I’d better go and check. Look, we’ve both had a busy day. I’ll send a cab at half past seven, all right?”

    CRIBBINS WAS ENJOYING himself. He’d never been much for reading, up until now. Oh, he could read, and write too, in a nice cursive script that people thought was quite distinguished. And he’d always liked the Times for its clear, readable font, and had, with the aid of some scissors and a pot of paste, often accepted its assistance in producing those missives that attract attention not by fine writing but by having the messages created in cut-out words and letters and even whole phrases, if you were lucky. Reading for pleasure had passed him by, however. But he was reading now, oh yes, and it was extremely pleasurable, goodness yes! It was amazing what you could find if you knew what you were looking for! And now, all his Hogswatches were about to come at once—
    “A cup of tea, Reverend?” said a voice by his side. It was the plump lady in charge of the Times’ back issues department, who had taken to him as soon as he doffed his hat to her. She had the slightly wistful, slightly hungry look that so many women of a certain age wore when they’d decided to trust in gods because of the absolute impossibility of continuing to trust in men.
    “Why, thank you, shister,” he said, beaming. “And is it not written: ‘The eleemosynary cup is more worthy than the thrown hen’?”
    Then he noticed the discreet little silver ladle pinned to her bosom, and that her earrings were two tiny spatulas. The holy symbols of Anoia, yes. He’d just been reading about Anoia in the religious pages. All the rage these days, thanks to the help of young Spangler. Started out way down the ladder as the Goddess Of Things That Get Stuck In Drawers, but the talk in the religious pages was that she was being tipped for Goddess Of Lost Causes, a very profitable area, very profitable indeed for a man with a flexible approach but, and he sighed inwardly, it was not such a good idea to do business when the god in question was active, in case Anoia got angry and found a new use for a spatula. Besides, he’d soon be able to put all that behind him. What a clever lad young Spangler had turned out to be! Smarmy little devil! This wasn’t going to be over quick, oh no. This was going to be a pension for life. And it’d be a long, long life, or else—
    “Is there anything more I can get you, Reverend?” said the woman anxiously.
    “My cup runneth over,