Making Money - Terry Pratchett [27]
They’d been rich for centuries. The key players in the current crop of Lavishes, apart from Topsy, were her brother-in-law Marko Lavish and his wife, Capricia Lavish, daughter of a famous trust fund. They lived in Genua, as far away from other Lavishes as possible, which was a very Lavish thing to do. Then there were Topsy’s stepchildren, the twins Cosmo and Pucci, who had, the story ran, been born with their little hands around each other’s throats, like true Lavishes. There were also plenty more cousins, aunts, and genetic hangers-on, all watching one another like cats. From what he’d heard, the family business was traditionally banking, but the recent generations, buoyed by a complex network of long-term investments and ancient trust funds, had diversified into disinheriting and suing one another, apparently with great enthusiasm and a commendable lack of mercy. He recalled pictures of them in the Times’ society pages, getting in or out of sleek black coaches and not smiling very much, in case the money escaped.
There was no mention of Topsy’s side of the family. They were Turvys, apparently not grand enough to be Whoms. Topsy Turvy…there was a music-hall sound to it, and Moist could believe that.
Moist’s in box had been topped up in his absence. It was all unimportant stuff, and really didn’t need anything from him, but it was this newfangled carbon paper that was the trouble. He got copies of everything, and they took up time.
It wasn’t that he wasn’t good at delegating. He was extremely good at delegating. But the talent requires people on the other end of the chain to be good at being delegated onto. They weren’t. Something about the Post Office discouraged original thinking. The letters went in the slots, okay? There was no room for people who wanted to experiment with sticking them in their ear, up the chimney, or down the privy. It’d do them good to—
He spotted the flimsy pink clacks among the other stuff and tugged it out quickly.
It was from Spike!
He read:
SUCCESS. RETURNING DAY AFTER TOMORROW.
ALL WILL BE REVEALED. S.
Moist put it down carefully.
Obviously she’d missed him terribly and was desperate to see him again, but she was stingy about spending Golem Trust money. Also, she’d probably run out of cigarettes.
Moist drummed his fingers on the desk. A year ago he’d asked Adora Belle Dearheart to be his wife, and she’d explained that, in fact, he was going to be her husband.
It was going to be…well, it was going to be sometime in the near future, when Mrs. Dearheart finally lost patience with her daughter’s busy schedule and arranged the wedding herself.
But he was a nearly married man, however you looked at it. And nearly married men didn’t get mixed up with the Lavish family. A nearly married man was steadfast and dependable and always ready to hand his nearly wife an ashtray. He had to be there for his oneday children, and make sure they slept in a well-ventilated nursery.
He smoothed out the message.
And he would stop the night-climbing, too. Was it grownup? Was it sensible? Was he a tool of Vetinari? No!
But a memory stirred. Moist got up and went over to his filing cabinet, which he normally avoided at all costs.
Under “Stamps” he found the little report he’d had two months ago from Stanley Howler, the head of stamps. It noted in passing the continued high sales of one-and two-dollar stamps, which was higher than even Stanley had expected. Maybe “stamp money” was more prevalent than he’d thought. After all, the government