'Yes?'
'You don't want to know about the squid!'
'We don't?'
'Believe me! Are you sure it wasn't there?'
'It's the sort of thing you notice,' said Adora Belle.
'With any luck that one's worn off, then,' said Hicks, relaxing. 'It really is getting impossible. Last week everything in my filing cabinet filed itself under "W". No one seems to know why.'
'And you were going to tell us about the skulls,' said Adora Belle.
'All fake,' said Hicks.
'Excuse me?' The voice was dry and crackly and came from the shadows in the far corner.
'Apart from Charlie, of course,' Hicks added hurriedly. 'He's been here for ever!
'I'm the backbone of the department,' said the voice, a shade proudly.
'Look, shall we get started?' said Hicks, rummaging in a black velvet sack. 'There are some hooded black robes on the hook behind the door. They're just for show, of course, but nee - Post-Mortem Communications is all about theatre, really. Most of the people we... communicate with are wizards, and frankly they don't like change.'
'We're not going to do anything... ghoulish, are we?' said Adora Belle, looking at a robe doubtfully.
'Apart from talk to someone who's been dead for three hundred years,' said Moist. He was not naturally at ease in the presence of skulls. Humans have been genetically programmed not to be ever since monkey times, because a) whatever turned that skull into a skull might still be around and you should head for a tree now, and b) skulls look like they're having a laugh at one's expense.
'Don't worry about that,' said Hicks, taking a small ornamental jar out of the black bag and polishing it on his sleeve. 'Professor Flead willed his soul to the university. He's a bit crabby, I have to say, but he can be cooperative if we put on a decent show.' He stood back. 'Let's see... grisly candles, Circle of Namareth, Glass of Silent Time, the Mask, of course, the Curtains of, er, Curtains and' - here he put a small box down beside the jar - 'the vital ingredients.'
'Sorry? You mean all those expensive-sounding things aren't vital?' said Moist.
'They're more like... scenery,' said Hicks, adjusting the hood. 'I mean, we could all sit round reading the script out loud, but without the costumes and scenery who'd want to turn up? Are you interested in the theatre at all?' he added, in a hopeful voice.
'I go when I can,' said Moist guardedly, because he recognized the hope.
'You didn't by any chance see 'Tis Pity She's an Instructor in Unarmed Combat at the Little Theatre recently? It was put on by the Dolly Sisters Players?'
'Uh, no, I'm afraid not.'
'I played Sir Andrew Fartswell,' said Dr Hicks, in case Moist was due a sudden attack of recollection.
'Oh, that was you, was it?' said Moist, who'd met actors before. 'Everyone at work was talking about it!'
I'm okay just so long as he doesn't ask which night they talked about, he thought. There's always one night in every play when something hilariously dreadful happens. But he was fortunate; an experienced actor knows when not to push his luck.
Instead Hicks said: 'Do you know ancient languages?'
'I can do Basic Droning,' said Moist.
'Is this ancient enough for you?'
said Adora Belle, and made Moist's spine tingle. The private language of the golems was usually hell on the human tongue, but it sounded unbearably sexy when Adora Belle uttered it. It was like silver in the air.
'What was that?' said Hicks.
'The common language of golems for the last twenty thousand years,' said Adora Belle.
'Really? Most, er, moving... er... We'll begin...'