"Esther M. Friesner - At These Prices" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friesner Esther M)

the-provider-of-the-caffeine-is-always-right mindset with his new mistress. “Shame
to the Tiernan! Hail to the Franklin!” He leaped to his feet and swept Bella’s bulging
suitcase onto his shoulder as if it weighed no more than a used tea bag. “Shall we
go?”
“Not so fast,” Bella said. “I’ve got to get dressed first. And pay that
miserably inflated bill.” She gave him a cunning look. “I don’t suppose you can
make it go bye-bye?”
Bixby hung his head. “Alas, the workings within these walls are no longer
within the scope of my powers to affect.”
“Damn. Well, tell you what: You go let your boss know that you’re working
for me now while I get dressed, pay the bill, and—”
“There will be no need for me to give notice, milady,” Bixby said. He
twitched, and his otherworldly appearance was once again swallowed up by the
rather unglamorous glamour of his chosen human form. “I assure you, that as a
humble brownie, no one will miss me at all.”
 ****
Though Bella Franklin possessed the piranha-like ability to strip a hotel room
to the bones while simultaneously justifying the garnered loot as “Just getting my
money’s worth,” her own apartment suffered for want of similar minimalizing
treatment. It was an Aladdin’s cave of clutter, showcasing some of Bella’s prouder
trophies from previous Speranza Storm conventions. Notepads, pens, coffee mugs,
and assorted décor accessories including that endangered species, the ashtray,
littered all available surfaces. Plates, cutlery, and mini-ketchups from ransacked
room service trays crammed the kitchen. Home goods liberally decked with the
logos of every major lodging chain in the United States were everywhere.
All of that changed once Bixby arrived. The first thing he did was to shed his
human glamour. The second was to junk all hotel-plundered toiletries whose
seniority had become gloppy senility. The third was to do a spot of Dumpster-diving
to retrieve what he’d trashed after Bella yowled that he was trying to reduce her to
penury by throwing away decade-old shampoo. The fourth was to stow the
remaining clutter, then give the entire establishment a thorough scrub-up, from
floorboards to soffits. All this took a week. It would have taken longer if he’d been
allowed any downtime, but Bella was adamant about getting the full value of his
indentured services. She did not permit the harried brownie one moment’s rest, save
the unavoidable necessity of letting him observe the Holy Hour (or, as mere mortal
unbelievers would term it, a daily coffee break). He told her early on that without it,
he would die.
“Well, we can’t have that,” said Bella. “I’ve hardly begun to get my money’s
worth out of you.”
“Milady is too kind,” said Bixby.
On the seventh day, when the brownie looked ready to drop from exhaustion,
his new mistress commanded him to change his glamour to her specifications, just
for giggles. Soon Bixby stood transformed into a poi-and-passion Romance hero,
bronzed body glistening with coconut oil, blue-black hair streaming past his waist,
skimpy sarong holding on by a literal thread, and one hibiscus blossom for garnish.
Bella was still licking her lips in approval when there came a knock on the door.
“That had better not be old Mrs. Kenmore from across the hall,” she
muttered. She opened the door with a loud, “No, you cannot borrow a cup of
sugar!” but instead of finding that aged pest dithering on the doormat, she
confronted a quartet of uninvited callers.