Enchanted Glass. Diana Wynne Jones

meter had just clicked to £17.60 when they came to a village, a long winding place, where the road was lined with old houses and new houses, gardens and telegraph poles. Downhill they went, past a pub and a village green beyond it, with a duck pond and big trees, then uphill again past a squat little church surrounded by more trees. Finally, they turned down a side lane with a mossy surface and stopped with a croak outside a big pair of iron gates, overarched by a massive copper beech tree. The meter now read £18.40.

      “Here we are,” the driver said, over the panting of the taxi. “Melstone House. Thirty quid, please.”

      Aidan was now so nervous that his teeth were chattering. “The meter says — says eighteen pounds — pounds forty,” he managed to say.

      “Out-of-town surcharge,” the driver said unblushingly.

      I think he’s cheating me, Aidan thought as he climbed out of the taxi. It made him feel a little better about handing over the two cash receipts, but not much. He simply hoped they wouldn’t change back too quickly.

      “Don’t give tips, eh?” the driver said as he took the apparent money.

      “It — it’s against my religion,” Aidan said. His nervousness made his eyes blur, so that he had to lean forward to read the words ‘Melstone House’ deeply carved into one of the stone gateposts. So that’s all right! he thought as the taxi drove noisily away on down the lane. He pushed open one of the iron gates with a clang and a lot of rusty grating and slipped inside on to a driveway beyond. He was so nervous now that he was shaking.

      It all seemed terribly overgrown beyond the gate, but when Aidan turned the corner beyond the bushes he came out into bright sunlight, where the grassy curve of driveway led up to an old, old sagging stone house. A nice house, Aidan thought. It had a sort of smile to its lopsided windows and there was a big oak tree towering behind it. He saw a battered but newish car parked outside the front door, which was promising. It looked as if old Mr Brandon must be at home then.

      Aidan went under the creepers round the front door and banged with the knocker.

      When nothing happened, he found the bell push buried among the creepers and pushed it. It went pongle-pongle somewhere inside. Almost at once, the door was thrown open by a thin lady with an imposing blonde hairstyle and a crisp blue overall.

      “All right, all right, I was coming!” this lady said. “As if I haven’t enough to do— Who are you? I made sure you was going to be our Shaun!”

      Aidan felt he ought to apologise for not being our Shaun, but he was not sure how to. “My — my name’s Aidan Cain,” he said. “Er — could I speak to Mr Jocelyn Brandon, please?”

      “That’s Professor Hope these days,” the lady told him rather triumphantly. “He’s the grandson. Old Mr Brandon died nearly a year ago.” She didn’t add, “And now go away!” but Aidan could see that was what she meant.

      He felt a horrible sick emptiness and a double shame. Shame that he had not known Mr Brandon had died, and further shame that he was now bothering an even more total stranger. Beyond that he had the feeling he had run into a wall. There was literally nowhere else he could go. He asked desperately, “Could I have a word with Professor Hope then?” It was all he could think of to do.

      “I suppose you could,” Mrs Stock admitted. “But I warn you, he’s got his head in that computall and probably won’t hear a word you say. I’ve been trying to talk to him all morning. Come on in then. This way.”

      She led Aidan down a dark stone hallway. She had a most peculiar bouncing walk, Aidan thought, with her legs wide apart, as if she were trying to walk on either side of a low wall or something. Her feet slapped the flagstones as she turned a corner and threw open a low black door. “Someone to see you,” she announced. “What was your name? Alan Cray? Here he is then,” she added to Aidan, and went slapping away.

      “It’s Aidan Cain,” Aidan said, blinking in the great blaze of light inside the heaped and crowded study.

      The man sitting at the computer beside one of the big windows turned and blinked back at him. He wore glasses too. Maybe all professors did. For the rest, his hair was a tangle of white and blond, and his clothes were as old and grubby as Aidan’s. His face struck Aidan as a bit mild and sheeplike. He seemed a lot older than someone’s grandson had any right to be. Aidan’s heart sank even further. He could not see this person being any help at all.

      Andrew Hope was puzzled by Aidan. He knew very few boys and Aidan was not one of them. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

      At least he has a nice voice, Aidan thought. He took a deep breath and tried to stop shaking. “I know you don’t know me,” he began. “But my gran — she brought me up — said — She — she died last week, you see—”

      Then, to his horror, he burst into tears. He couldn’t believe it. He had been so brave and restrained up to now. He had not cried once, not even that awful night when he had found Gran dead in her bed.

      Andrew was equally horrified. He was not used to people crying. But he could tell real distress when he saw it. He sprang up and babbled. “Hey, take it easy. There, there, there. I’m sure we can do something. Sit down, sit down, Aidan, get a grip and then tell me all about it.” He seized Aidan’s arm and sat him in the only empty chair — a hard upright one against the wall — and went on babbling. “You’re not from round here, are you? Have you come far?”

      “L-London,” Aidan managed to say in the middle of being shoved into the chair and trying to take his glasses off before they became covered in salty tears.

      “Then you’ll need something — something—” Not knowing what else to do, Andrew rushed to the door, opened it and bellowed, “Mrs Stock! Mrs Stock! We need coffee and biscuits in here at once, please!”

      Mrs Stock’s voice in the distance said something about, “When I’ve moved this dratted piano.”

      “No. Now!” Andrew yelled. “Leave the piano! For once and for all, I forbid you to move the damned piano! Coffee, please. Now!”

      There was a stunned silence from the distance.

      Andrew shut the door and came back to Aidan, muttering, “I’d get it myself, only she makes such a fuss if I disarrange her kitchen.”

      Aidan stared at Andrew with his glasses in his hand. Seen by his naked eyes, this man was not really mild and sheeplike at all. He had power, great and kindly power. Aidan saw it blazing around him. Perhaps he could be some help after all.

      Andrew tipped two computer manuals and a shower of history pamphlets off another chair and pulled it around to face Aidan. “Now,” he said as he sat down, “what did your grandmother say?”

      Aidan sniffed and then swallowed, firmly. He was determined not to break down again. “She — she told me,” he said, “that if I was ever in trouble after she died, I was to go to Mr Jocelyn Brandon in Melstone. She showed me Melstone on the map. She kept telling me.”

      “Ah. I see,” Andrew said. “So you came here and found he was dead. Now there’s only me. I’m sorry about that. Was your grandmother a great friend of my grandfather’s?”

      “She talked about him a lot,” Aidan said. “She said his field-of-care was much more important than hers and she always took his advice. They wrote to each other. She even phoned him once, when there was a crisis about a human sacrifice two streets away, and he told her exactly what to do. She was really grateful.”

      Andrew frowned. He remembered, when he was here as a boy, his grandfather giving advice to magic users from all over the country. There was a distraught Scottish Wise Woman, who turned up once at the back door. Jocelyn sent her away smiling. But there was also a mad-looking, bearded Man of Power, who had frightened Andrew half to death by leering in at him through the purple pane at breakfast time. Old Jocelyn had been very angry with that man. “Refuses to hand his field-of-care on to someone sane!” Andrew remembered his