Cat sat down gently and tried not to breathe too deeply. Beside the beery smell from Mr. Baslam, there was a faint rotting smell and a smell like pickles. Cat thought that some of the stuffed animals had not been properly cured. The smell did not seem to bother Gwendolen. She sat looking like a picture of a perfect little girl. Her cream-colored dress spread crisply around her and her broad hat becomingly shaded her golden hair. She looked at Mr. Baslam with severe blue eyes.
“I think your notice is spelled wrong.”
Mr. Baslam drooped his St. Bernard eyes and made gestures that were meant to be joking. “I know. I know. But I don’t want to be taken serious, do I? Not on the very threshold, as it were. Now what was you wanting? Mr. William Nostrum don’t tell me too much of his plans. I’m only a humble supplier.”
“I want some supplies, of course,” said Gwendolen.
Cat listened, rather bored, to Gwendolen bargaining for the materials of witchcraft. Mr. Baslam fumbled in the backs of stuffed animal cases and fetched out newspaper screws of this and that—newts’ eyes, snakes’ tongues, cardamom, hellebore, mummy, niter, seed of moly, and various resins—which probably accounted for the unpleasant smell. He wanted more for them than Gwendolen would pay. She was determined to lay out her five shillings to the best possible advantage. Mr. Baslam seemed to resent it. “Know your own mind, don’t you?” he said peevishly.
“I know how much things should cost,” said Gwendolen. She took her hat off, packed the little screws of newspaper carefully into its crown, and put it neatly back on her head again. “And last, I think I shall be wanting some dragons’ blood,” she said.
“Ooooh!” said Mr. Baslam, dolefully shaking his head so that his hanging cheeks flapped. “Dragons’ blood is banned from use, young lady. You ought to know that. I don’t know as I can manage you any of that.”
“Mr. Nostrum—both Mr. Nostrums—told me you could get anything,” said Gwendolen. “They said you were the best agent they knew. And I’m not asking for dragons’ blood now. I’m ordering some.”
Mr. Baslam looked gratified at being praised by the Nostrum brothers, but he was still dubious. “It’s a fearful strong charm needs dragons’ blood,” he said plaintively. “You won’t be doing anything that strong yourself, a young lady like you, now.”
“I don’t know yet,” said Gwendolen. “But I think I might. I’m on Advanced Magic, you know. And I want dragons’ blood in case I need it.”
“It’ll come dear,” Mr. Baslam warned her. “It’s costly stuff. There’s the risk to pay for, you see. I don’t want the law on me.”
“I can pay,” said Gwendolen. “I’ll pay in installments. You can take the rest of the five shillings on account.”
Mr. Baslam was unable to resist this. The way he looked at the crown piece Gwendolen handed to him made Cat see vividly a long row of frothing pints of beer. “Done,” said Mr. Baslam. Gwendolen smiled graciously and got up to go. Cat thankfully leaped up too. “What about you, young gentleman?” Mr. Baslam asked wheedlingly. “Aren’t you going to try your hand at a bit of necromancy at all?”
“He’s just my brother,” said Gwendolen.
“Oh. Ah. Um. Yes,” said Mr. Baslam. “He’s that one, of course. Well, good day to you both. Come again, any time.”
“When will you have the dragons’ blood?” Gwendolen asked him on the doorstep.
Mr. Baslam thought. “Say a week?”
Gwendolen’s face glowed. “How quick! I knew you were a good agent. Where do you get it from so quickly?”
“Now that would be telling, wouldn’t it?” said Mr. Baslam. “It has to come from another world, but which one is a trade secret, young lady.”
Gwendolen was jubilant as they went back along the alley. “A week!” she said. “That’s the quickest I’ve ever heard. It has to be smuggled in from this other world, you know. He must have awfully good connections there.”
“Or he’s got some already, inside a stuffed bird,” said Cat, who had not liked Mr. Baslam at all. “Whatever do you want dragons’ blood for? Mrs. Sharp says it costs fifty pounds an ounce.”
“Be quiet,” said Gwendolen. “Oh, quick! Hurry, Cat! Get into that sweet shop. She mustn’t know where I’ve been.”
Out on the village green, a lady carrying a parasol was talking to a clergyman. She was Chrestomanci’s wife. Cat and Gwendolen bundled themselves into the shop and hoped she had not seen them. There, Cat bought them a bag of tof-fee each. Millie was still there, so he bought some licorice too. Millie was still talking to the clergyman even then, so he bought Gwendolen a pen wiper and himself a postcard of the Castle. Millie was still there. But Cat could not think of anything else to buy, so they had to come out of the shop.
Millie beckoned to them as soon as they did. “Come and meet the dear vicar.”
The vicar, who was old, with a weak and wandering look, shakily shook hands with them and said he would see them on Sunday. Then he said he really must be going now.
“And so must we,” said Millie. “Come on, my dears. We’ll walk back to the Castle together.”
There was nothing to do but walk beside her under the shadow of her parasol, across the green and between the lodge gates. Cat was afraid she was going to ask them why they had been visiting Mr. Baslam. Gwendolen was sure she was going to ask her about the moles in the lawn. But what Millie said was, “I am glad of a chance to talk to you, my loves. I haven’t had a moment to see how you were getting on. Are you all right? Are you finding it very strange?”
“A—a little,” Cat admitted.
“The first few days are always the worst, anywhere,” said Millie. “I’m sure you’ll soon find your way around. And don’t hesitate to use the toys in the playroom if you want. They’re for everyone. Private toys are in one’s own room. How are you liking your rooms?”
Cat looked up at her in astonishment. She was talking as if moles and witchcraft had never existed. Millie beamed back at him. Despite her elegant ruched dress and her lacy parasol, she was a most ordinary, kind, good-natured lady. Cat liked her. He assured Millie that he liked his room, and his bathroom—particularly the shower—and explained that he had never had a bathroom to himself before.
“Oh, I’m glad. I did so hope you’d like it,” said Millie. “Miss Bessemer wanted to put you next to Roger, but I thought that room was so dull—and it doesn’t have a shower. Look at it sometime and you’ll see what I mean.”
She walked on up the avenue, chattering away, and Cat found himself doing all the rest of the talking. As soon as it was clear that Millie was not going to mention either lawns or exotic supplies, Gwendolen began to despise her. She kept up a scornful silence, and left Cat to talk. After a while, Millie asked Cat what thing about the Castle he was finding strangest.
Cat answered shyly, but without hesitation, “The way everyone talks at supper.”
Millie let out such a yell of despair that Cat jumped and Gwendolen was more scornful than ever. “Oh dear! Poor Eric! I’ve seen you looking! Isn’t it awful? Michael gets these enthusiasms, and then he can talk of nothing else. It should be wearing off in a day or so, though, and then we can have reasonable talk again and make a few jokes. I like to laugh at dinner, don’t you? I’m afraid nothing will stop poor Bernard talking about stocks and shares, but you mustn’t take any notice of that. Nobody listens to Bernard. Do you like eclairs, by the way?”
“Yes,” said Cat.
“Oh good!” said Millie. “I’ve ordered tea for us on the lawn, since this is your first Wednesday and I didn’t want to waste this lovely weather. Isn’t it funny how September’s nearly always fine? If we slip through the trees here, we should be on the lawn as soon as tea is.”
Sure enough, they followed Millie out of the shrubbery to find a whole cluster of deck chairs around the one where Mr. Saunders was, and footmen putting out tables and carrying trays. Most of the Family were gathering among the deck chai
rs. Gwendolen followed Millie and Cat over, looking nervous and defiant. She knew Chrestomanci was going to speak to her about the lawn now and, to make matters worse, she was not going to have a chance to take the exotic supplies out of her hat before he did.
But Chrestomanci was not there, though everyone else was. Millie pushed between stocks-and-shares Bernard and Julia, and past the old lady with mittens, to point her parasol sternly at Mr. Saunders. “Michael, you are absolutely forbidden to talk about Art during tea,” she said, and spoiled the sternness rather by laughing.
The Family evidently felt much the same as Cat. Several of them said “Hear, hear!” and Roger said, “Can we start, Mummy?”
Cat enjoyed the tea. It was the first time he had enjoyed anything since he came to the Castle. There were paper-thin cucumber sandwiches and big squashy eclairs. Cat ate even more than Roger did. He was surrounded by cheerful, ordinary chat from the Family, with a hum of stocks and shares in the background, and the sun lay warm and peaceful on the green stretches of the lawn. Cat was glad someone had somehow restored it. He liked it better smooth. He began to think he could almost be happy at the Castle, with a little practice.
Gwendolen was nothing like so happy. The newspaper packets weighed on her head. Their smell spoiled the taste of the eclairs. And she knew she would have to wait until dinner before Chrestomanci spoke to her about the lawn.
Dinner was later that night because of the tea. Dusk was falling when they filed into the dining room. There were lighted candles all down the polished table. Cat could see them, and the rest of the room, reflected in the row of long windows facing him. It was a pleasing sight, and a useful one. Cat could see the footman coming. For once he was not taken by surprise when the man thrust a tray of little fish and pickled cabbage over his shoulder. And, as he was now forbidden to use his right hand, Cat felt quite justified in changing the serving things over. He began to feel he was settling in.
Because he had not been allowed to talk about Art at tea, Mr. Saunders was more than usually eloquent at dinner. He talked and he talked. He took Chrestomanci’s attention to himself, and he talked at him. Chrestomanci seemed dreamy and good-humored. He listened and nodded. And Gwendolen grew crosser every minute. Chrestomanci said not a word about lawns, neither here nor in the drawing room beforehand. It became clearer and clearer that no one was going to mention the matter at all.
Gwendolen was furious. She wanted her powers recognized. She wanted to show Chrestomanci she was a witch to be reckoned with. So there was nothing for it but to begin on another spell. She was a little hampered by not having any ingredients to hand, but there was one thing she could do quite easily.
The dinner went on. Mr. Saunders talked on. Footmen came around with the next course. Cat looked over at the windows to see when the silver plate would come to him. And he nearly screamed.
There was a skinny white creature there. It was pressed against the dark outside of the glass, mouthing and waving. It looked like the lost ghost of a lunatic. It was weak and white and loathsome. It was draggled and slimy. Even though Cat realized almost at once that it was Gwendolen’s doing, he still stared at it in horror.
Millie saw him staring. She looked herself, shuddered, and tapped Chrestomanci gently on the back of the hand with her spoon. Chrestomanci came out of his gentle dream and glanced at the window too. He gave the piteous creature a bored look, and sighed.
“And so I still think Florence is the finest of all the Italian states,” said Mr. Saunders.
“People usually put in a word for Venice,” said Chrestomanci. “Frazier, would you draw the curtains, please? Thank you.”
“No, no. In my opinion, Venice is overrated,” Mr. Saunders asserted, and he went on to explain why, while the butler drew the long orange curtains and shut the creature out of sight.
“Yes, maybe you’re right. Florence has more to offer,” Chrestomanci agreed. “By the way, Gwendolen, when I said the Castle, I meant of course the Castle grounds as well as indoors. Now, do carry on, Michael. Venice.”
Everyone carried on, except Cat. He could imagine the creature still mouthing and fumbling at the glass behind the orange curtains. He could not eat for thinking of it.
“It’s all right, stupid! I’ve sent it away,” said Gwendolen. Her voice was sticky with rage.
6
G WENDOLEN GAVE VENT to her fury in her room after dinner. She jumped on her bed and threw cushions about, screaming. Cat stood prudently back against the wall waiting for her to finish. But Gwendolen did not finish until she had pledged herself to a campaign against Chrestomanci.
“I hate this place!” she bawled. “They try to cover everything up in soft, sweet niceness. I hate it, I hate it!” Her voice was muffled among the velvets of her room and swallowed up in the prevailing softness of the Castle. “Do you hear it?” Gwendolen screamed. “It’s an eiderdown of hideous niceness! I wreck their lawn, so they give me tea. I conjure up a lovely apparition, and they have the curtains drawn. Frazier, would you draw the curtains, please! Ugh! Chrestomanci makes me sick!”
“I didn’t think it was a lovely apparition,” Cat said, shivering.
“Ha, ha! You didn’t know I could do that, did you?” said Gwendolen. “It wasn’t to frighten you, you idiot. It was to give Chrestomanci a shock. I hate him! He wasn’t even interested.”
“What did he have us to live here for, if he isn’t interested in you either?” Cat wondered.
Gwendolen was rather struck by this. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she said. “It may be serious. Go away. I want to think about it. Anyway,” she shouted, as Cat was going to the door, “he’s going to be interested, if it’s the last thing I do! I’m going to do something every day until he notices!”
Once again, Cat was mournfully on his own. Remembering what Millie had said, he went along to the playroom. But Roger and Julia were there, playing with soldiers on the stained carpet. The little tin grenadiers were marching about. Some were wheeling up cannon. Others were lying behind cushions, firing their rifles with little pinpricks of bangs. Roger and Julia turned around guiltily.
“You won’t mention this, will you?” said Julia.
“Would you like to come and play too?” Roger asked politely.
“Oh, no thanks,” Cat said hastily. He knew he could never join in this kind of game unless Gwendolen helped him. But he did not dare disturb Gwendolen in her present mood. And he had nothing to do. Then he remembered that Millie had obviously expected him to poke about the Castle more than he had done. So he set off to explore, feeling rather daring.
The Castle seemed strange at night. There were dim little electric lights at regular intervals. The green carpet glowed gently, and things were reflected in the polished floor and walls even more strongly than they were by day. Cat walked softly along, accompanied by several reflected ghosts of himself, until he hardly felt real. All the doors he saw were closed. Cat listened at one or two and heard nothing. He had not quite the courage to open any of them. He went on and on.
After a while he found he had somehow worked around to the older part of the Castle. Here the walls were whitewashed stone and all the windows went in nearly three feet before there was any glass. Then Cat came to a staircase which was the twin of the one that twisted up to his room, except that it twisted in the opposite direction. Cat went cautiously up it.
He was just on the last bend when a door at the top opened. A brighter square of light shone on the wall at the head of the stairs, and a shadow stood in it that could only belong to Chrestomanci. No one else’s shadow could be so tall, with such a smooth head and such a lot of ruffles on its shirt front. Cat stopped.
“And let’s hope the wretched girl won’t try that again,” Chrestomanci said, out of sight above. He sounded a good deal more alert than usual, and rather angry.
Mr. Saunders’ voice, from farther away, said, “I’ve had about enough of her already, fran
kly. I suppose she’ll come to her senses soon. What possessed her to give away the source of her power like that?”
“Ignorance,” said Chrestomanci. “If I thought she had the least idea what she was doing, it would be the last thing she ever did in that line—or any other.”
“My back was to it,” said Mr. Saunders. “Which was it? Number five?”
“No. Number three, by the look of its hair. A revenant,” said Chrestomanci. “For which we must be thankful.” He began to come down the stairs. Cat was too scared to move. “I’ll have to get the Examining Board to revise their Elementary Magic Courses,” Chrestomanci called back as he came downstairs, “to include more theory. These hedge wizards push their good pupils straight on to advanced work without any proper grounding at all.” Saying this, Chrestomanci came down around the corner and saw Cat. “Oh, hello,” he said. “I’d no idea you were here. Like to come up and have a look at Michael’s workshop?”
Cat nodded. He did not dare do otherwise.
Chrestomanci seemed quite friendly, however, and so did Mr. Saunders when Chrestomanci ushered Cat into the room at the top of the stairs. “Hello, Eric,” he said in his cheerful way. “Have a look around. Does any of this mean anything to you?”
Cat shook his head. The room was round, like his own, but larger, and it was a regular magician’s workshop. That much he could see. He recognized the five-pointed star painted on the floor. The smell coming from the burning cresset hanging from the ceiling was the same smell that had hung about Coven Street, back in Wolvercote. But he had no idea of the use of the things set out on the various trestle tables. One table was crowded with torts and limbecks, some bubbling, some empty. A second was piled with books and scrolls. The third bench had signs chalked all over it and a mummified creature of some sort lying among the signs.