"Ensorcellement"
"'Pas de!' . . . Bollocks!"
Willow heard the shout from Giles's office. She approached cautiously.
"Stupid children! Can't they think?"
He was at his desk, shirt sleeves rolled, pinching his nose. He didn't notice her.
"Giles!"
He twitched.
She was staring at him, eyes like one of those damned Precious Moments figurines he'd seen at the mall.
"Are you mad at us, Giles?"
"No! I was just . . . grading for Mme Defarge." He pointed toward the tall stack of papers on his desk, which listed dangerously over the edge. "'Who was the British commander of the Seven Years' War?' Henry II! I ask—"
"Why are you doing these?"
He frowned.
She walked up to him, patted his lapel. Showed him the black, sparkly soot on her hand.
"You've got some shmutz there. You been doin' majicks without me, Mister?"
*****
Four female heads bent over the workroom coffeepots.
"Thought you'd be buried in papers all afternoon, Marianne."
Marianne smiled, wrapped red-tipped fingers around her mug.
"You know Mr. Giles?" The other three swooned. "He speaks five languages."
"Yes, but how did you—"
She shrugged, smiled.
"Just call it . . . a little ensorcellement."