House of Many Ways (12 page)

Charmain laughed. “It’s dreadful. I hope she threw him over. Er…Your Majesty, who is the color…er…the gentleman who showed me in just now?”

“You mean my steward?” the King said. “Do you know, he’s been with us for years and years and years—and I can never remember the poor fellow’s name. You’ll have to ask the Princess, my dear. She remembers things like that.”

Oh, well, Charmain thought. I shall just have to think of him as the colorless gentleman, then.

The day passed peacefully. It made, Charmain felt, a pleasant change after such a hectic start. She
sorted out, and made notes about, bills from two hundred years ago, bills from one hundred years ago, and bills from a mere forty years back. Oddly enough, the older bills were for much larger sums of money than the newer ones. It looked as if the Royal Mansion was spending less and less. Charmain also sorted out letters from four hundred years back and more recent reports from ambassadors, from Strangia, Ingary, and even Rajpuht. Some ambassadors sent poems. Charmain read the worst ones out to the King. Farther down the stack, she came upon receipts. Papers saying things like “In payment for portrait of a lady, reputed to be by a grand master, 200 guineas” began to turn up more and more frequently, all from the last sixty years. It looked to Charmain as if the Royal Mansion had been selling its pictures for most of the King’s reign. She decided not to ask the King about it.

Lunch arrived, more of Jamal’s delicious spicy things. When Sim brought them, Waif jumped up, wagging her tail, stopped, looked disappointed, and trotted away out of the library. Charmain had no
idea if it was the cook’s dog or lunch that Waif wanted. Lunch, probably.

As Sim put the platter on the table, the King asked jovially, “How are things going out there now, Sim?”

“A little noisily, Sire,” Sim replied. “We have just received our sixth rocking horse. Master Morgan seems desirous of a live monkey, which, I am glad to report, Mrs. Pendragon has refused to allow him to have. A certain uproar resulted. In addition, Master Twinkle seems convinced that someone is denying him a pair of stripey trousers. He has been very loud on the subject all morning, Sire. And the fire demon has adopted the fire in the front parlor as his roosting place of choice. Will you be taking tea with us in the front parlor today, Sire?”

“I think not,” the King said. “I’ve nothing against the fire demon, but it gets a bit crowded in there with all those rocking horses. Be good enough to fetch us some crumpets here to the library, if you will, Sim.”

“Certainly, Sire,” Sim said, shakily backing from the room.

When the door was shut, the King said to Charmain, “It’s not the rocking horses, really. And I quite like the noise. But it all makes me think how much I’d have enjoyed being a grandfather. Pity, that.”

“Er…,” said Charmain, “people in town always say that Princess Hilda was disappointed in love. Is that why she never married?”

The King seemed surprised. “Not that I know of,” he said. “She had princes and dukes lining up to marry her for years when she was younger. But she’s not the marrying kind. Never fancied the idea, so she tells me. Prefers her life here, helping me. It’s a pity, though. Here’s my heir having to be Prince Ludovic, my fool of a cousin’s son. You’ll meet him soon, if we can only move a rocking horse or so—or maybe she’ll use the Grand Parlor instead. But the real pity is that there are no more youngsters around the Mansion nowadays. I miss that.”

The King did not seem too unhappy. He looked
matter-of-fact rather than mournful, but Charmain was suddenly struck by what a sad place the Royal Mansion really was. Huge, empty, and sad. “I understand, Your Majesty,” she said.

The King grinned and bit into a Jamal tasty. “I know you do,” he said. “You’re a very intelligent young lady. You’ll do your Great-Uncle William great credit one day.”

Charmain blinked a bit at this description. But before she could get too uncomfortable at being praised, she realized what the King had left out. I may be clever, she thought, quite sadly, but I’m not in the least kind or sympathetic. I think I may even be hard-hearted. Look at the way I treat Peter.

She brooded on this for the rest of the afternoon. The result was that, when it was time to stop for the day and Sim reappeared with Waif wandering along after him, Charmain stood up and said, “Thank you for being so good to me, Your Majesty.”

The King seemed surprised and told her to think nothing of it. But I
do
, Charmain thought. He’s been so kind that it should be a lesson to me. As she followed
Sim’s slow totter, with Waif, who seemed very sleepy and fat, toiling along behind both of them, Charmain made a resolution to be kind to Peter when she got back to Great-Uncle William’s house.

Sim had almost reached the front door, when Twinkle came rushing past from somewhere, energetically bowling a large hoop. He was followed at speed by Morgan, holding both arms out and bellowing, “Oop,
oop
, OOP!” Sim was sent reeling. Charmain tried to flatten herself against the wall as Twinkle shot past. There was an instant when she thought that Twinkle gave her a strange, searching look as he whipped by, but a yelp from Waif sent her speeding to the rescue and she thought no more about it. Waif had been knocked upside down and was very upset about it. Charmain scooped her up and nearly ran into Sophie Pendragon, chasing after Morgan.

“Which way?” Sophie panted.

Charmain pointed. Sophie hauled her skirts high and raced off, muttering something about guts and garters as she ran.

Princess Hilda appeared in the distance and stopped to drag Sim to his feet. “I really do apologize, Miss Charming,” she said as Charmain reached her. “That child is like an eel—well, they both are, actually. I shall have to take steps, or poor Sophie will have no attention left for
our
problems. Are you steady now, Sim?”

“Perfectly, ma’am,” said Sim. He bowed to Charmain and let her out through the front door into bright afternoon sunlight, as if nothing had happened.

If I ever marry, Charmain thought, striding across Royal Square with Waif in her arms, I shall never have children. They would make me cruel and hard-hearted after a week. Perhaps I shall be like Princess Hilda and never marry. That way, I might stand a chance of learning to be kind. Anyway, I shall practice on Peter, because he’s truly hard work.

She was full of sternly kind resolve when she reached Great-Uncle William’s house. It helped, as she marched up the path between the ranks of blue
hydrangeas, that there was no sign of Rollo. Being kind to Rollo was something Charmain was sure she could never do.

“Not humanly possible,” she remarked to herself as she put Waif down on the living room carpet. The room struck her as being unusually clean and tidy. Everything was orderly, from the suitcase neatly put back beside one of the armchairs to the vase of variously colored hydrangeas on the coffee table. Charmain frowned at this vase. It was surely the one that had disappeared when it was put on the trolley. Maybe Peter ordered Morning Coffee and it came back then, she thought—rather vaguely, because she suddenly remembered that she had left damp clothing all over her bedroom and bedclothes trailing over the floor. Bother! I have to tidy up.

She stopped short in the doorway of her bedroom. Someone had made her bed. Her clothes, dry now, were neatly folded on top of the chest of drawers. It was an outrage. Feeling anything but kind, Charmain stormed into the kitchen.

Peter was sitting at the kitchen table, looking so
virtuous that Charmain knew he had been up to something. Behind him, on the fire, a large black pot was bubbling out strange, weak, savory smells.

“What do you mean by tidying up my room?” Charmain demanded.

Peter looked injured, even though Charmain could tell he was full of secret, exciting thoughts. “I thought you’d be pleased,” he said.

“Well, I’m
not
!” Charmain said. She was surprised to find herself almost in tears. “I was just beginning to learn that if I drop something on the floor it
stays
dropped unless I pick it up, and if I make a mess
I
have to clear it away because it doesn’t go by itself, and then you go and clear it up
for
me! You’re as bad as my mother!”

“I’ve got to do
something
while I’m alone here all day,” Peter protested. “Or do you expect me to just sit here?”

“You can do anything you like,” Charmain yelled. “Dance. Stand on your head. Make faces at Rollo. But don’t spoil my learning process!”

“Feel free to learn,” Peter retorted. “You’ve got
a long way to go. I won’t touch your room again. Are you interested in some of the things
I’ve
learned today? Or are you thoroughly self-centered?”

Charmain gulped. “I was meaning to be kind to you this evening, but you make it very difficult.”

“My mother says difficulties help you learn,” Peter said. “You should be pleased. I’ll tell you one thing I’ve learned today, and that’s how to get enough supper.” He pointed with his thumb to the bubbling pot. That thumb had a piece of green string round it. The other thumb had red string and one of his fingers was decorated with blue string.

He’s been trying to go in three directions at once, Charmain thought. Striving mightily to sound friendly, she said, “How do you get enough supper, then?”

“I kept banging on the pantry door,” Peter said, “until enough things landed on the table. Then I put them in that pot to boil.”

Charmain looked at the pot. “What things?”

“Liver and bacon,” Peter said. “Cabbage. More
turnips and a chunk of rabbit. Onions, two more chops, and a leek. It was easy, really.”

Yuk! thought Charmain. In order not to say something really rude, she turned round to go to the living room.

Peter called after her, “Don’t you want to know how I got that vase of flowers back?”

“You sat on the trolley,” Charmain said coldly, and went away to read
The Twelve-Branched Wand
.

But it was no good. She kept looking up and seeing that vase of hydrangeas and then looking over at the trolley and wondering if Peter had truly sat there and vanished away with an Afternoon Tea. Then wondering how he had got back. And every time she looked, she was more aware that her resolve to be kind to Peter had come to absolutely nothing. She stood it for nearly an hour and then went back to the kitchen. “I apologize,” she said. “
How
did you get the flowers back?”

Peter was prodding at the stuff in the pot with a spoon. “I don’t think this is ready yet,” he said. “This spoon bounces off.”

“Oh, come on,” Charmain said. “I’m being polite.”

“I’ll tell you over supper,” Peter said.

He kept his word, maddeningly. He hardly said a word for an hour, until the contents of the pot had been shared into two bowls. Dividing the food was not easy, because Peter had not bothered to peel anything or cut it up before he put it in the pot. They had to hack the cabbage apart with two spoons. Nor had Peter remembered that a stew needs salt. Everything—white, soggy bacon, hunk of rabbit, whole turnip, and flabby onion—floated in weak watery juice. To put it mildly, the food was quite horrible. Doing her best to be kind, Charmain did not say it was.

The only good thing was that Waif liked it. That is to say, she lapped up the weak juice and then carefully ate the meaty bits out from among the cabbage. Charmain did much the same and tried not to shudder. She was glad to take her mind off it by listening to what Peter had to tell.

“Are you aware,” he began, rather pompously, to
Charmain’s mind. But she could tell that he had everything worked out in his mind like a story and was going to tell it just as he had it worked out. “Are you aware that when things vanish from the trolley, they go back into the past?”

“Well, I suppose the past makes quite a good waste dump,” Charmain said. “As long as you make sure it really
is
past and things don’t turn up again all moldy—”

“Do you want to hear or not?” Peter demanded.

Be kind, Charmain told herself. She ate another piece of nasty cabbage and nodded.

“And that parts of this house are in the past?” Peter continued. “I didn’t sit on the trolley, you know. I just went exploring with a list of the ways I needed to turn, and I found out by accident, really. I must have turned the wrong way once or twice.”

Doesn’t surprise me, Charmain thought.

“Anyway,” said Peter, “I got to a place where there were hundreds of kobold ladies all washing teapots and stacking food on trays for breakfasts
and teas and things. And I was a bit nervous of them, because of the way you’d annoyed them over the hydrangeas, but I tried to look pleasant as I went by and nodded and smiled and things. And I was really surprised when they all nodded and smiled back and said ‘Good morning’ in a perfectly friendly way. So I went on nodding and smiling and walking past, until I came to a room I hadn’t seen before. As soon as I opened the door, the first thing I saw was that vase of flowers sitting on the front of a long, long table. The
next
thing I saw was Wizard Norland, sitting behind the table—”

“Good gracious!” said Charmain.

“It surprised me too,” Peter admitted. “I just stood there and stared, to tell the truth. He looked quite healthy—you know, strong and pink, and he had a lot more hair than I remembered—and he was busy working on the chart that was in the suitcase. He had it all spread out along the table and he’d only filled in about a quarter of it. I suppose that gave me a clue. Anyway, he looked up and said, quite politely, ‘Would you mind closing the door?
There’s quite a draft.’ Then before I could say anything, he looked up again and said, ‘Who on earth are
you
?’

“I said, ‘I’m Peter Regis.’

“That made him frown. He said, ‘Regis, Regis? Does that make you some relation of the Witch of Montalbino, perhaps?’

“‘She’s my mother,’ I said.

“And he said, ‘I didn’t think she had any children.’

“‘She only has me,’ I said. ‘My dad was killed in a big avalanche at Transmontain just after I was born.’