Witch Week (25 page)

As he said this, Chrestomanci’s eyes turned, vaguely and absently, towards Charles. Charles gave his blankest and nastiest look in reply. If Chrestomanci thought he could make him take the spell off this way, Chrestomanci could just think again. What Charles did not notice was that Chrestomanci’s eyes moved towards Nan after that. Nobody else noticed at all, because three people had put their hands up: Delia, Karen, and Theresa. Delia spoke for all three.

“Mr. Inquisitor, sir, we told you who the witch is. It’s Nan Pilgrim.”

Estelle’s desk went over with a crash. Books, journal, papers, and knitting skidded in all directions. Estelle stood in the middle of them, red with anger. “It is
not
Nan Pilgrim!” she shouted. “Nan never harmed anyone in her life! It’s you lot that do the harm, spreading tales all the time, you and Theresa and Karen. And I’m ashamed I was ever friends with Karen!”

Nan put her hot face in her hands. Estelle was a bit too loyal for comfort.

“Pick that desk up, Estelle,” said Mr. Wentworth.

Simon forgot himself and opened his mouth to make a jeering comment. Chrestomanci’s eyes just happened to glance at him. Simon’s mouth shut with a snap and his eyes popped.

And that was all the notice Chrestomanci took of the interruption. “If you will all attend,” he said. Everyone did, immediately. “Thank you. Before we name the witch, I want you all to give the name of a second historical personage. You in the front, you begin—er—um—Theresa—er—Fish.”

Everyone had already given one name. Everyone was convinced that the inquisitor would know the witch by the name they gave. It was obviously important not to name anybody wicked. So Theresa, although she was offended by the way the inquisitor got her name wrong, thought very carefully indeed. And, as usually happens, her mind was instantly filled with all the villains in history. She sat there dumbly, running through Burke and Hare, Crippen, Judas Iscariot, Nero, and Torquemada, and quite unable to think of anybody good.

“Come along—er—Tatiana,” said Chrestomanci.

“Theresa,” said Theresa. And then, with inspiration, “
Saint
Theresa, I mean.”

Chrestomanci wrote that down in his gold notebook and pointed to Delia. “Saint George,” said Delia.

“Didn’t exist in any world,” said Chrestomanci. “Try again.”

Delia racked her brains and eventually came up with Lady Godiva. Chrestomanci’s pointing finger moved on around the class, causing everyone the same trouble. Villains poured through their minds—Attila the Hun, Richard III, Lucrezia Borgia, Joseph Stalin—and when they did manage to think of anyone less villainous, it always seemed to be people like Anne Boleyn or Galileo, who had been put to death. Most people did not like to mention those either, though Nirupam, because he knew Chrestomanci was not really an inquisitor, took a risk and said Charles I. Chrestomanci turned to Mr. Wentworth after most names were mentioned, and Mr. Wentworth told him who they were. Most of 6B could not think why the inquisitor needed to do that, unless it was to prove that Mr. Wentworth was a mastermind, but Nan thought, He’s collecting symptoms again. Why? Somebody in history must be very important, I think.

Charles watched Chrestomanci’s finger point toward him. He thought, You don’t get me like that! “Saint Francis,” he said. Chrestomanci’s finger simply moved on to Dan Smith.

Dan was stumped. “Please, sir, I’ve got a stomachache. I can’t think.”

The finger went on pointing.

“Oh,” said Dan. “Er—Dick Turpin.”

This evoked a gasp from 6B, and a near-groan of disappointment when Chrestomanci’s finger moved on, across the gangway, and pointed to Estelle.

Estelle had picked up her desk and most of her books by now, but her knitting wool had rolled under several desks and come unwound as it went. Estelle was on her knees reeling it in, grayer than ever, and did not notice. Nan leaned down and poked her. Estelle jumped. “Is it me now? Sorry. Guy Fawkes—has anyone had Guy Fawkes yet?” She went back to her wool.

“One moment,” said Chrestomanci. A curious hush seemed to grow in the room. “Can you tell me about Guy Fawkes?”

Estelle looked up again. Everyone was looking at her, wondering if she was the witch, but Estelle was only thinking about her wool. “Guy Fawkes?” she said. “They put him on a bonfire for blowing up the Houses of Parliament.”

“Blowing them
up
?” said Chrestomanci. “But Guy Fawkes never managed to blow up Parliament in any world I ever heard of!”

Simon opened his mouth to say Estelle was quite right, and shut it again hastily. Estelle nodded. A number of people called out, “Yes, sir. He did, sir!”

Chrestomanci looked at Mr. Wentworth. Mr. Wentworth said, “In 1605, Guy Fawkes was smuggled into the Parliament cellars with some kegs of gunpowder, in order to blow up the government and the king. But he seems to have made a mistake. The gunpowder blew up in the night and destroyed both Houses, without killing anyone. Guy Fawkes got out unhurt, but they caught him almost at once.”

It sounded like all the other times Mr. Wentworth had told Chrestomanci a piece of history, but somehow it was not. Chrestomanci’s eyes had a special gleam, very bright and black, and he looked straight at Nan as he remarked, “A mistake, eh? That doesn’t surprise me. That fellow Fawkes never could get anything right. So this is the world where he got things wronger even than usual.” He pointed at Nan.

“Richard the Lionheart,” said Nan. And she thought, He’s got it! Guy Fawkes is the reason our world went different. But why? He’ll want me to describe it and I don’t know why. She thought and thought, while Chrestomanci was collecting names no one needed now from the rest of 6B. November 5, 1605. All Nan could remember was something her mother had once said, long ago, before the inquisitor took her away. Mum had said November 5 was the last day of Witch Week. Witch Week began on Halloween, and today was Halloween. Did that help? It must do, though Nan could not see how. But she knew she was right, and that Chrestomanci
had
found the answer, because he had such a smooth, pleased look as he stood beside Mr. Wentworth.

“Now,” he said. “We shall reveal the witch.”

He had gone vague again. He was slowly fetching a slim golden case from a dove-gray pocket and, if he was looking at anyone, it was at Charles now. Good, thought Nan. He’s giving me time to think. And Charles thought, All right. Reveal me then. But I’m still not going to help.

Chrestomanci held the flat gold box out so that everyone could see it. “This,” he said, “is the very latest modern witch-finder. Look at it carefully.” Charles did. He was almost certain that the witch-finder was a gold cigarette case. “When I let go of this machine,” Chrestomanci said, “it will travel by itself through the air, and it will point to everyone in turn, except Simon. When it points to a witch, it is programmed to make a noise. I want the witch it points to to come and stand beside me.”

6B stared at the gold oblong, tense and excited. There were gasps. It had bobbled in Chrestomanci’s hand. Chrestomanci let go of it and it stayed in the air, bobbing about by itself. Charles glowered. He understood. Brian. Brian was going to carry it invisibly around. That did it! If Chrestomanci thought he could get around Charles by giving Brian all the fun, he was going to be really disappointed.

The bobbing case upended itself. Charles saw it split open a fraction along the top edge, as Brian took a quick peep to see if it was indeed a cigarette case. It was. Charles glimpsed white cigarettes in it.

“Off you go,” Chrestomanci said to it.

The gold box shut with a loud snap, making everybody jump, and then traveled swiftly to the first desk. It stopped level with Ronald West’s head. It gave out a shrill beeping sound. Everybody jumped again, including Ronald and the gold box.

“Come out here,” Chrestomanci said.

Ronald, looking quite dumbfounded, got out of his desk and stumbled towards Chrestomanci. “I never—!” he protested.

“Yes, you are, you know,” Chrestomanci said. And he said to the gold box, “Carry on.”

A little uncertainly, the box traveled to Geoffrey Barnes. It beeped again. Chrestomanci beckoned. Out came Geoffrey, white-faced but not protesting.

“How did it know?” he said drearily.

“Modern technology,” said Chrestomanci.

This time the gold box went on without being told. It beeped, moved, and beeped again. Person after person got miserably up and trailed out to the front. Charles thought it was a dirty trick. Chrestomanci was just trying to break his nerve. The box was level with Lance Osgood now. Everyone waited for it to beep. And waited. The box stayed beside Lance, pointing until Lance’s eyes were crossed with looking at it. But nothing happened.

“Go on,” said Chrestomanci. “He’s not a witch.”

The box moved to Dan Smith. Here, it made the longest, loudest noise yet. Dan blenched. “I covered up my tracks!” he said.

“Out here,” said Chrestomanci.

Dan got up slowly. “It’s not fair! My stomach aches.”

“No doubt you deserve it,” said Chrestomanci. “By the noise, you’ve used witchcraft quite recently. What did you do?”

“Only hid a pair of running shoes,” Dan mumbled. He did not look at Charles as he slouched up the gangway. Charles did not look at Dan either. He was beginning to see that Chrestomanci was not pretending that people were witches.

By now, the front of the class was quite crowded. The box went to Nirupam next. Nirupam was waiting for it. It beeped even louder for him than it had for Dan. The moment it did, Nirupam got up and fled with long strides to the front of the room, in order not to be asked what witchcraft he had done. Then the box came to Charles. The noise was deafening.

“All right, all right!” Charles muttered. He too trudged to the front of the class. So Chrestomanci was playing fair, but he was still obviously trying to teach Charles a lesson by devaluing witchcraft. Charles looked around at the other people standing out in front. He knew his was the strongest magic of the lot. And he wanted to keep it. There were still a thousand things he could do with it. He did not want to blend with another world, even if they did not burn witches there. As to being burned—Charles looked down at his blister—he found he rather enjoyed being frightened, once he got used to it. It made life interesting.

Meanwhile, the gold box followed Charles down the gangway and pointed to Delia. There was silence. Delia did not try to hide her smirk. But the smirk came off her face when the box moved to Theresa. It gave one small clear beep.

Theresa stood up, scandalized. “Who?
Me
!”

“Only a very small, third-grade sort of witch,” Chrestomanci told her comfortingly.

It did not comfort Theresa in the least. If she was to be a witch, she felt she should at least be a first-class one. It was a disgrace either way. She was really angry when the box moved to Karen and did not beep for Karen either. But she was equally annoyed when the box went on and beeped for Heather, Deborah, and all her other friends. She stood there with the most dreadful mixed feelings.

Then the box beeped for Estelle too. Theresa tossed her head angrily. But Estelle sprang up beaming. “Oh good! I’m a witch! I’m a witch!” She skipped out to the front, grinning all over her face.

“Some people!” Theresa said unconvincingly.

Estelle did not care. She laughed when the box beeped loudly for Nan and Nan came thoughtfully to join her. “I think most people in the world must be witches,” Estelle whispered to her. Nan nodded. She was sure it was true. She was sure this fitted in with all the other things Chrestomanci had discovered, but she still could not think how to explain it.

This left four people scattered about the room. They were all, even Simon, looking peevish and left out.

“It’s not fair!” said Karen.

“At least
we
won’t be burned,” said Delia.

Chrestomanci beckoned to the box. It wandered up the gangway and put itself in his hand. Chrestomanci put it back in his pocket while he looked around the crowd of witches. He ignored Charles. He had given him up. He looked at Nan and then across at Mr. Wentworth, who had been crowded against the door in the crush. “Well, Wentworth,” he said. “This looks quite promising, doesn’t it? We’ve got a fair amount of witchcraft to draw on here. I suggest we make our push now. If Nan is ready to explain to everyone—”

Nan was nothing like ready. She was about to say so, when the classroom door flew open. Mr. Wentworth was barged aside. And Miss Cadwallader stood in his place, stiff and upright and stringy with anger.

“What are you all doing, 6B?” she said. “Back to your seats with the utmost rapidity.”

Mr. Wentworth was behind the door, white and shaking. Everyone looked doubtfully at Chrestomanci. He had gone very vague. So everybody did the prudent thing and scuttled back to their desks. As they went, three more people came into the room behind Miss Cadwallader.

Miss Cadwallader faced Chrestomanci in angry triumph. “Mr. Chant,” she said, “you are an imposter. Here is the real inquisitor. Inquisitor Littleton.” She stood aside and shut the door, so that everyone could see the inquisitor.

Inquisitor Littleton was a small man in a blue pin-striped suit. He had a huge man on either side of him in the black uniform of the Inquisition. Each of these huge men had a gun holster, a truncheon, and a folded whip in his belt. At the sight of them, Charles’s burned finger doubled itself up and hid inside his fist like a guilty secret.

“You move, and I’ll order you shot!” Inquisitor Littleton snapped at Chrestomanci. His voice was harsh. His little watery eyes glared at Chrestomanci from a little blunt face covered with bright red veins. His blue suit did not fit him very well, as if Inquisitor Littleton had shrunk and hardened some time after the suit was bought, into a new shape, dense with power.

“Good afternoon, inquisitor,” Chrestomanci said politely. “I’d been half expecting you.” He looked across his shoulder, to Simon. “Nod, if I’m right,” he said. “Did you say an inquisitor would be here before lunch?”

Simon nodded, looking shattered.

Inquisitor Littleton narrowed his watery eyes. “So it was witchcraft that made my car break down?” he said. “I knew it!” He unslung a black box he was carrying on a strap over his shoulder. He pointed it at Chrestomanci and turned a knob. Everyone saw the violent twitching of the dials on top. “Thought so,” grated Inquisitor Littleton. “It’s a witch.” He jerked his blunt chin at Mr. Wentworth. “Now get me that one.”