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not reassuring. Silhouetted against the light with two hairy legs dangling down into the depths of the jug was a giant spider. A spider with a distinctly menacing attitude. A spider that was, for the time being, ignoring Terminus’s attempts to escape the milk bath and appeared to be combing her copious body hair with a small comb made out of bone.
    â€œAttractive, isn’t it?” observed Tarantella, twiddling the comb idly, turning it over and over all the better to admire it. “If memory serves me correctly, I think it used to belong to a relative of yours . . . um, was it your father? Brother? Great-aunt?
Yes,
that was it. It was your great-aunt Indiscretiona’s. Her left femur, I believe. . . .”
    Just before Terminus fainted in sheer terror, she saw the spider bend down toward her, its mouthparts coming closer and closer until the ratlet’s entire field of vision was filled with pink. The last thought that passed through her head as she slid beneath the surface of the milk was that for some perverse reason, the spider appeared to be wearing lipstick.
    Since her intention had not been to harm Terminus, just to put the frighteners on her, Tarantella draped the unconscious rat-baby over the edge of the milk jug and sauntered off in search of something more appetizing.

Compliments to the Chef
    T he girl behind the reception desk at the Auchenlochtermuchty Arms appeared to be slightly stunned by the arrival of the entourage from StregaSchloss. Her brief experience of the hotel trade had failed to prepare her for the odd assortment of guests and luggage attempting to negotiate the revolving door at the hotel’s main entrance. Towed by Tock on a chain, Pandora skidded across the marble floor and fetched up under an antique chaise longue. The revolving door slowed to a more sedate pace and Mrs. McLachlan stepped into the hotel with Damp, a handbag, and Sab on a tight leash.
    â€œSit, boy,” she commanded, flashing the receptionist a brief smile and gently lowering Damp to the floor.
    â€œWhat’s this
sit
nonsense?” demanded the griffin under his breath. “What d’you think I am—a
dog
?”
    â€œGood afternoon,” Mrs. McLachlan addressed the receptionist. “We’re part of the Strega-Borgia party. I believe you have some rooms booked in that name. . . .”
    â€œWhat PARTY?” screeched Ffup, barging through the revolving door, his chain clanking behind him. “No one told
me
there was going to be a party.”
    â€œ. . . So if you could just tell me where our rooms are,” continued Mrs. McLachlan serenely, “and where I might find the stable block for the animals . . . ?”
    The receptionist had turned deathly pale and slumped over her desk, scattering pens and ledgers as she did so. Sensing that all was not going well, Mrs. McLachlan turned round in time to see Tock ambling across the tartan carpeting, dragging his dripping bag of lily pads behind him as he smiled a wide and toothsome greeting at the receptionist. Through the revolving door came Titus, Latch, and Signora Strega-Borgia, loudly informing anyone within earshot that Knot was outside in the parking lot being copiously sick.
    â€œDis
gus
ting,” said Signora Strega-Borgia, holding something infinitely unpleasant at arm’s length. “But at least I got it back. Oh, Latch, be a
dear,
would you, and give this a bit of a rinse?”
    The butler twitched slightly, but obediently took hold of the regurgitated ectoplasm and bore it off to a bathroom.
    Â 
    Exactly one half-hour later, the family, minus Knot, reconvened in the dining room, immensely cheered by the discovery that the Auchenlochtermuchty Arms had indeed earned its four-star reputation. The family had variously bounced on the beds, peered into the mini-bars, turned on the televisions, and channel-surfed, and even Damp had spent a happy twenty minutes ironing her teddy bears flat in the trouser