House of Many Ways (6 page)

Charmain said, “You’re from Montalbino. Is your family purple?”

Peter said, “You met a lubbock. Did it lay any eggs in you?”

Charmain said, “No.”

Peter said, “My mother’s
called
the Witch of Montalbino, but she’s from High Norland, really. And she is
not
purple. Tell me about this lubbock you met.”

Charmain explained how she had climbed out of the window and arrived in the mountain pasture where the lubbock lurked inside the blue flower and—

“But did it
touch
you?” Peter interrupted.

“No, because I fell off the cliff before it could,” Charmain said.

“Fell off the—Then why aren’t you dead?” Peter
demanded. He backed away from her slightly, as if he thought she might be some kind of zombie.

“I worked a spell,” Charmain told him, rather airily because she was so proud of having worked real magic. “A flying spell.”

“Really?” said Peter, half eager, half suspicious. “What flying spell? Where?”

“Out of a book in here,” Charmain said. “And when I fell, I started to float and came down quite safely in the garden path. There’s no need to look so disbelieving. There was a kobold called Rollo in the garden when I came down. Ask him, if you don’t believe me.”

“I will,” Peter said. “What was this book? Show me.”

Charmain tossed her plait haughtily across her shoulder and went over to the desk.
The Boke of Palimpsest
seemed to be trying to hide. It was certainly not where she had left it. Perhaps Peter had moved it. She found it in the end, squeezed in among the row of
Res Magica,
pretending to be another volume of the encyclopedia. “There,” she
said, banging it down on top of
Hex,
“and how dare you doubt my word! Now I’m going to find a book to read.”

She marched to one of the bookshelves and began picking out likely titles. None of the books seemed to have stories in them, which Charmain would have preferred, but some of the titles were quite interesting. What about
The Thaumaturge as Artist,
for instance, or
Memoirs of an Exorcist
? On the other hand,
The Theory and Practice of Choral Invocation
looked decidedly dry, but Charmain rather fancied the one next to it, called
The Twelve-Branched Wand.

Peter meanwhile sat himself down at the desk and leafed eagerly through
The Boke of Palimpsest.
Charmain was just discovering that
The Thaumaturge as Artist
was full of off-putting sayings like “thus our happy little magician can bring a sweet, fairylike music to our ears,” when Peter said irritably, “There’s no spell for flying in here. I’ve looked right through.”

“Perhaps I used it up,” Charmain suggested
vaguely. She took a look inside
The Twelve-Branched Wand
and found it a very promising read.

“Spells don’t work like that,” Peter said. “Where did you find it, really?”

“In there. I told you,” Charmain said. “And if you can’t believe a word I say, why do you keep asking me?” She dropped her glasses off her nose, snapped the book shut, and carried a whole pile of likely volumes out into the corridor, where she slammed the study door on Peter and marched off backward and forward through the bathroom door until she reached the living room. There, in spite of the mustiness, she decided to stay. After that entry in
Res Magica,
outside in the sun did not seem safe anymore. She thought of the lubbock looming above the hydrangeas and sat herself firmly down on the sofa instead.

She was deep in
The Twelve-Branched Wand
, and even beginning to understand what it was about, when there was a sharp rapping at the front door. Charmain thought, just as she usually did, Someone else can answer that, and read on.

The door opened with an impatient rattle. Aunt
Sempronia’s voice said, “Of
course
she’s all right, Berenice. She just has her nose in a book, as usual.”

Charmain tore herself out of the book and snatched off her glasses in time to see her mother following Aunt Sempronia into the house. Aunt Sempronia, as usual, was most impressively clothed in stiff silk. Mrs. Baker was at her most respectable in gray, with shining white collar and cuffs, and wore her most respectable gray hat.

How lucky I put on clean clothes this—, Charmain was beginning to think, when it dawned on her that the rest of the house was simply not fit for either of these two ladies to see. Not only was the kitchen full of dirty human dishes and dirty dog dishes, bubbles, laundry, and a vast white dog, but Peter was sitting in the study. Mother would probably only find the kitchen, and that was bad enough. But Aunt Sempronia was (pretty certainly) a witch, and she would find the study and come across Peter. Then Mother would want to know what an unknown boy was doing here. And when Peter was explained, Mother would say that in
that
case Peter could look
after Great-Uncle William’s house for him, and Charmain must do the respectable thing and come home at once. Aunt Sempronia would agree, and off home Charmain would be forced to go. And there would be an end to peace and freedom.

Charmain jumped to her feet and smiled terrifically, so broadly and welcomingly that she thought she might have sprained her face. “Oh,
hallo
!” she said. “I didn’t hear the door.”

“You never do,” said Aunt Sempronia.

Mrs. Baker peered at Charmain, full of anxiety. “Are you all right, my love?
Quite
all right? Why haven’t you put your hair up properly?”

“I like it like this,” Charmain said, shuffling across so that she was between the two ladies and the kitchen door. “Don’t you think it suits me, Aunt Sempronia?”

Aunt Sempronia leaned on her parasol and looked at her judiciously. “Yes,” she said. “It does. It makes you look younger and plumper. Is that how you want to look?”

“Yes, it is,” Charmain said defiantly.

Mrs. Baker sighed. “Darling, I wish you wouldn’t talk in that bold way. People don’t like it, you know. But I’m very glad to see you looking so well. I lay awake half the night listening to the rain and hoping that the roof on this house didn’t leak.”

“It doesn’t leak,” Charmain said.

“Or fearing that you might have left a window open,” added her mother.

Charmain shuddered. “No, I shut the window,” she said, and immediately felt sure that Peter was at that moment opening the window onto the lubbock’s meadow. “You really have nothing to worry about, Mother,” she lied.

“Well, to tell the truth, I
was
a little worried,” Mrs. Baker said. “Your first time away from the nest, you know. I spoke to your father about it. He said you might not be managing to feed yourself properly.” She held up the bulging embroidered bag she was carrying. “He packed you some more food in this. I’ll just go and put it in the kitchen for you, shall I?” she asked, and pushed past Charmain toward the inner door.

No!
Help! Charmain thought. She took hold of the embroidered bag in what she hoped was a most gentle, civilized way, rather than the grab for it that she would have liked to make, and said, “You needn’t bother, Mother. I’ll take it in a moment and fetch the other one for you—”

“Oh why? It’s no trouble, my love,” her mother protested, hanging on to the bag.

“—because I’ve got a surprise for you first,” Charmain said hurriedly. “You go and sit down. That sofa’s very comfortable, Mother.” And it has its back to this door. “
Do
take a seat, Aunt Sempronia—”

“But it won’t take me a moment,” Mrs. Baker said. “If I leave it on the kitchen table where you can find it—”

Charmain waved her free hand. Her other hand was hanging on to the bag for dear life. “Great-Uncle William!” she cried out. “Morning coffee! Please!”

To her enormous relief, Great-Uncle William’s kind voice replied, “Tap the trolley in the corner, my dear, and say ‘Morning Coffee.’”

Mrs. Baker gasped with amazement and looked round to see where the voice was coming from. Aunt Sempronia looked interested, looked quizzical, and went over to give the trolley a smart rap with her parasol. “Morning Coffee?” she said.

Instantly the room filled with a warm smell of coffee. A tall silver coffee pot stood on the trolley, steaming, together with tiny gilded cups, a gilded cream jug, a silver sugar boat, and a plate of little sugary cakes. Mrs. Baker was so astonished that she let go of the embroidered bag. Charmain put it quickly behind the nearest armchair.

“Very elegant magic,” Aunt Sempronia said. “Berenice, come and sit down here and let Charmain wheel the trolley over beside this sofa.”

Mrs. Baker obeyed, looking dazed, and to Charmain’s acute relief, the visit started to turn into an elegant, respectable coffee morning. Aunt Sempronia poured coffee, while Charmain handed round the sugary cakes. Charmain was standing facing the kitchen door, holding the plate out to Aunt Sempronia, when the door swung open and Waif ’s
huge face appeared round the edge of it, obviously fetched by the smell of little sugary cakes.

“Go
away
, Waif!” Charmain said. “Shoo! I mean it! You can’t come in here unless you’re…you’re…you’re
respectable.
Go!”

Waif stared wistfully, sighed hugely, and backed away. By the time Mrs. Baker and Aunt Sempronia, each carefully holding a brimming little coffee cup, had managed to turn round to see who Charmain was talking to, Waif was gone and the door was shut again.

“What was that?” Mrs. Baker asked.

“Nothing,” Charmain said soothingly. “Only Great-Uncle William’s guard dog, you know. She’s terribly greedy—”

“You have a
dog
here!” Mrs. Baker interrupted, in the greatest alarm. “I’m not sure I like that, Charmain. Dogs are so dirty. And you could get
bitten
! I hope you keep it chained up.”

“No, no, no, she’s terribly clean. And obedient,” Charmain said, wondering if this was true. “It’s just—it’s just that she overeats. Great-Uncle
William tries to keep her on a diet, so of course she was after one of these cakes—”

The kitchen door opened again. This time it was Peter’s face that came round the edge of it, with a look on it that suggested that Peter had something urgent to say. The look turned to horror as he took in Aunt Sempronia’s finery and Mrs. Baker’s respectability.

“Here she is again,” Charmain said, rather desperately. “Waif, go away!”

Peter took the hint and vanished, just before Aunt Sempronia could turn round again and see him. Mrs. Baker looked more alarmed than ever.

“You worry too much, Berenice,” Aunt Sempronia said. “I admit that dogs are smelly and dirty and noisy, but there’s nothing to beat a good guard dog for keeping a house safe. You should be glad that Charmain has one.”

“I suppose so,” Mrs. Baker agreed, sounding wholly unconvinced. “But—but didn’t you tell me this house is protected by—your great-uncle’s…er…wizardly arts?”

“Yes, yes, it
is
!” Charmain said eagerly. “The place is
doubly
safe!”

“Of course it is,” said Aunt Sempronia. “I believe that nothing can get in here that hasn’t been invited over the threshold.”

As if to prove Aunt Sempronia completely wrong there, a kobold suddenly appeared on the floor beside the trolley. “Now, look here!” he said, small and blue and aggressive.

Mrs. Baker gave a shriek and clutched her coffee cup to her bosom. Aunt Sempronia drew her skirts back from him in a stately way. The kobold stared at them, clearly puzzled, and then looked at Charmain. He was not the garden kobold. His nose was bigger, his blue clothing was of finer cloth, and he looked as if he was used to giving orders.

“Are you an important kobold?” Charmain asked him.

“Well,” the kobold said, rather taken aback, “you could say that. I’m chieftain in these parts, name of Timminz. I’m leading this deputation, and we’re all pretty annoyed. And now we’re told that
the wizard isn’t here, or won’t see us, or—”

Charmain could see he was working himself into a rage. She said quickly, “That’s true. He’s not here. He’s ill. The elves have taken him away to cure him, and I’m looking after his house while he’s away.”

The kobold hunched his eyes over his great blue nose and glowered at her. “Are you telling the truth?”

I seem to have spent all
day
being told I’m lying! Charmain thought angrily.

“It is the exact truth,” Aunt Sempronia said. “William Norland is not here at present. So will you be so kind as to take yourself off, my good kobold. You are frightening poor Mrs. Baker.”

The kobold glowered at her and then at Mrs. Baker. “Then,” he said to Charmain, “I don’t see any chance of this dispute being settled,
ever
!” And he was gone as suddenly as he had come.

“Oh, my goodness!” Mrs. Baker gasped, holding her chest. “So little! So blue! How did it get
in
? Don’t let it run up your skirt, Charmain!”

“It was only a kobold,” Aunt Sempronia said. “Pull yourself together, Berenice. Kobolds as a rule do not get on with humans, so I have no idea what it was doing here. But I suppose Great-Uncle William must have had some sort of dealings with the creatures. There’s no accounting for wizards.”

“
And
I’ve spilled coffee—” Mrs. Baker wailed, mopping at her skirt.

Charmain took the little cup and soothingly filled it with coffee again. “Have another cake, Mother,” she said, holding the plate out. “Great-Uncle William has a kobold to do the gardening, and that one was angry too when I met him—”

“What was the gardener doing in the
living room
?” Mrs. Baker demanded.

As often happened, Charmain began to despair of getting her mother to understand. She’s not stupid, she just never lets her mind out, she thought. “That was a different kobold,” she began.

The kitchen door opened and Waif trotted in. She was the right size again. That meant that she was, if anything, smaller than the kobold and very
pleased with herself for shrinking. She trotted jauntily across to Charmain and raised her nose wistfully toward the cake plate.