Screams from the kitchen as a hundred cats leapt through the windows and into the pantry, bombarding Cook and servants alike, carried up to Mr Murston’s study where Frances, Winkit and Poppets quietly slipped through the door.
It wasn’t locked. Why should it be? Mr Murston never suspected that he had a Wytch for a maid, or that any of his servants would be bold enough to try tackling the combination lock on his safe.
‘Okay,’ Frances said, turning on one of the Kerical lamps by the desk. The safe was located on the wall opposite, hidden by a gold-framed portrait of Mr Murston and his wife, who was thankfully holidaying with her sister in the countryside. Frances shuddered at the thought of confronting her in this situation. Even in the portrait, her severity carried through. She had a sta
