Fire and Hemlock. Diana Wynne Jones

on most other things, but not on that.

      “Must I kill dragons?” he said, rather pleadingly, as they came up to the house from the back somewhere.

      “Yes,” said Polly. “It’s what our kind of heroes do.”

      “But most dragons seem to have rather interesting personalities – besides probably having quite good reasons for what they do, if only one could understand them,” Mr Lynn objected. “And almost every dragon-slayer I ever heard of came to a sticky end in the end.”

      “Don’t be a coward,” said Polly. “St George in my book didn’t come to a sticky end.”

      “I’m nothing like St George,” said Mr Lynn. “He didn’t wear glasses.”

      This was true, even though Polly had always imagined St George as tall and thin like Mr Lynn. He seemed so unhappy that she relented a little. “We’ll keep the dragon to the end, then, for when we’re properly trained.”

      “That’s a good idea,” Mr Lynn said gratefully. “Now come over here. There’s something I think you’ll like.”

      He led the way up the lawn, against the gusts of the wind, right up to the house. Three stone steps there led up to a closed door. On either side of the steps there was a short stone pillar with a stone vase on top of it. Mr Lynn stretched his arms out so that he had a hand on each stone vase. “Are you looking?” he said, standing in his bowed way between them. Like Samson in my book, Polly thought, getting ready to pull the temple down.

      “Yes,” she said. “What?”

      “Watch.” Mr Lynn’s hand moved on the right-hand vase. The vase began to spin slowly, grating a little. Two, three heavy turns and it stopped. Now Polly could see there were letters engraved on the front of the vase.

      “HERE,” she read.

      “Now watch again,” said Mr Lynn. His big left hand spun the other vase. This one went round much more smoothly. For a while it was a grey stone blur. Then it grated, slowed, and settled, and there were letters on it too.

      “NOW,” Polly read. “NOW – HERE. What does that mean?”

      Mr Lynn spun both vases, one slowly, grinding and groaning, the other smooth and blurring. They both stopped at exactly the same time.

      WHERE, said the one on the left. NOW, read the right-hand one.

      Upon which, Mr Lynn spun them again. This time when they stopped, the vases read NO and WHERE.

      “Oh I see!” said Polly. “NOWHERE! That’s clever!” She moved sideways to look round the curve of the vases and found they still said NOWHERE, though this was because the left-hand vase now seemed to say NOW and the right-hand one HERE from where she had moved to. Both vases really said NOWHERE, but the letters were so arranged on them that you could never see the whole word at once on the same vase. Polly made sure, by going right up to them, ducking under Mr Lynn’s arm, and putting her head sideways to read the letters round the other side.

      “Yes that’s right,” Mr Lynn said. “They both say NOWHERE really.” He spun them again, the slow grinding one and the fast smooth one, and this time they came up with HERE – NOW.

      “Heroes see things like that,” he said.

      “It’s obviously an enchantment of some kind,” Polly agreed, humouring him.

      “It must be,” he said. It sounded as if he was humouring her.

      Here, they both looked round, Polly was not sure why. The boy who had been at the funeral was standing behind them, still very smooth and neat in spite of the wind. Maybe he had snorted. At any rate, he was looking very scornful.

      “Oh hello, Seb,” Mr Lynn said. “You got out at last, then?”

      “Only because it’s over,” the boy said contemptuously.

      “Is it? Thank goodness for that!” Mr Lynn said.

      Instead of answering, the boy simply turned round and walked away. Mr Lynn’s face, Polly thought, showed just a trace of hurt feelings.

      “What a horrible, rude boy!” Polly exclaimed, hoping it was loud enough for the boy to hear as he walked. But he walked very quickly and was out of sight round the corner of the house before she had finished saying it. “What relation is he?” she asked.

      “Son of Laurel’s cousin – distant enough,” Mr Lynn said. He stood looking the way the boy had gone, in an absent, unhappy way that made Polly uncomfortable. But when he looked down at her, he seemed quite cheerful. “I think we could risk going back in again now,” he said. “They tell me I’m allowed to choose some of the old lady’s pictures. Would you like to help me choose?” He held out his hand to Polly and smiled.

      Polly almost took hold of it. Then she backed away. Mr Lynn stayed with his hand awkwardly stretched out, and the smile died off his face, leaving it perplexed and a good deal more hurt than he had looked over Seb’s rudeness. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

      It made Polly feel mean as well as dishonest. “I’m not a relation,” she blurted out. She could feel her cheeks stinging as they turned red. “I came in by mistake. I thought Nina was in there – being silly, you know.”

      “I had an idea it was something like that,” Mr Lynn said rather sadly. “So you’re not coming?”

      “I – I will if you want me to,” Polly said.

      “I’d be very much obliged if you would,” said Mr Lynn.

      His hand was still stretched out. Polly took hold of it, quite extraordinarily glad to have told him the truth, and they went on round the house the way Seb had gone.

      “So my first giant is to be in the Stow-Whatsis supermarket,” Mr Lynn said as they turned the corner.

      “Quite a small one, or he wouldn’t fit,” Polly said consolingly. This side of the house was the grand front. There was a large space of gravel with cars parked in it. These must have been the cars they had heard which had made Nina think they were coming to the road. Polly wondered where Nina was, but she was far too interested in her own adventures to worry about Nina. Numbers of people, dark-dressed and sober from the funeral, were drifting out of the open front door of Hunsdon House and wandering about on the gravel. Some seemed to have come out for fresh air. Some were getting into cars to leave.

      Polly and Mr Lynn went along the side of the house to the front door. “Even a small one would get into the local papers,” Mr Lynn said. “What do we say to the reporters?”

      “Leave all the interviewing to me,” Polly said grandly.

      Perhaps it was a strange conversation. Perhaps this accounted for the unfriendly looks they got from the people round the front door. Some pretended not to notice Polly and Mr Lynn. Others said, “Hello, Tom,” but they said it in a grudging sort of way, and raised their eyebrows at Polly before they turned away. By the time she and Mr Lynn had edged their way inside into the grand hall again, Polly was sure this had nothing to do with their conversation. The people crowding the hall, she could somehow tell, were the most important members of the family. Every one of these gave Mr Lynn a disapproving look – if they bothered to notice him at all – before turning away. Before they had pushed their way halfway across to the stairs, Polly did not wonder that Mr Lynn had wanted her to keep him company indoors.

      The one person who spoke to Mr Lynn was a man Polly did not like at all. He turned right round, in the middle of talking to someone else, in order to stare at Mr Lynn and Polly. He was a big, portly person with a dark, pouchy piece of skin under each eye.

      “Slithering off as usual, are you, Tom?” he said jovially. It was not nearly as jolly as it sounded.

      “No, I’m still here, Morton, as you see,” Mr Lynn said, ducking his head apologetically.

      “Then stick around,” the man said, “or you’ll be in real trouble.”