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lunch and swallowed it without noticing the many small flecks of jalapeño pepper that garnished her plate. She was so hungry that she managed to devour five more mouthfuls before the full effect of the chilies struck her.
    â€œI’m not eating
raw
meat,” said Titus, pushing his plate in Sab’s direction.
    The griffin frowned at the blood-stained steak that was Titus’s rejected lunch. “What d’you think it was?” he said, poking it with a talon and adding darkly, “Or
who,
for that matter?”
    Pandora’s eyes watered, her throat closed up, and her tongue announced its intention of spontaneously self-combusting. “Wa . . . te . . . r . . . ,” she croaked, seized by a chili-induced coughing fit.
    â€œGive it five seconds with both nostrils,” advised Sab, passing Titus’s lunch over to Ffup.
    The waitress returned with another water carafe in time to witness Ffup aiming a blast of dragon fire onto Titus’s raw steak. Ffup misfired and the bread baskets burst into flames.
    â€œFor heaven’s sake!” yelled Signor Strega-Borgia, leaping to his feet just as the tablecloth caught fire. Unaccustomed to dealing with guests who were attempting to flame-grill their own food, the waitress flung the contents of the water carafe at the burning tablecloth and fled to the kitchen. Drenched in icy water and picking up on the general mood, Damp began to sob.
    â€œGood Lord,” came a woman’s voice, “the chilies weren’t
that
hot.” Bearing down on the remains of the Strega-Borgia’s table was an overdressed woman carrying a fire extinguisher. She pointed its nozzle at the table and sprayed everything in sight with foam. The Strega-Borgias regarded the blackened ruins of their lunch in dismay. In the interval of stunned silence that followed, Pandora decided that she loathed this woman on sight. Clad from head to toe in a clinging jumpsuit made from real zebra skin, the wielder of the fire extinguisher smiled a cold little welcome and adjusted her fox-fur collar in such a fashion that the glassy eyes of the deceased mammal fixed their accusing gaze on the floor.
    â€œI need some fresh air,” whispered Pandora, sidling out of the dining room before she was sick over the woman’s crocodile-skin shoes. Running into the hall, she saw that the young Tock-phobic receptionist had been replaced by a middle-aged man who was too engrossed in pouring himself a drink from a flower vase to pay any attention to her hasty flight upstairs. From the dining room came a mocking peal of laughter and the ringing tones of a woman’s voice caroling, “Oh, she’s your
daughter,
is she? What a funny little thing she is. And
what
a handsome crocodile.
Lovely
skin. . . .”
    Pandora, eyes, throat, and now face aflame, fled for the shelter of her bedroom.

Something’s Cooking
    D espite the smoke damage in the dining room, business at the Auchenlochtermuchty Arms carried on as usual. The disgraced beasts and Tock were relegated to the stable block and Signor and Signora Strega-Borgia installed themselves on the sofas in the residents’ lounge. Mrs. McLachlan and Damp explored the gardens in the company of Latch while Titus and Pandora discovered the true meaning of boredom.
    In the bedroom she shared with Mrs. McLachlan, Pandora sat glassy-eyed in front of the television while Titus crawled under her bed in search of a telephone socket into which he could plug his laptop and access the Internet. He retreated backward from under the bed, muttering, “Right—surf’s up,” and logged on. Beeping sounds came from the laptop as it dialed out to an ISP located somewhere in deepest Argyll. Waiting for the connection to establish itself, Titus idly chewed his fingernails, gazed unseeingly out of the window, and wished with all his heart that he could return to StregaSchloss. I’ve only been here for twenty-four hours and