The Chrestomanci series: 3 Book Collection. Diana Wynne Jones

in really bad trouble.

      But to his astonishment, nobody so much as mentioned the lawn. Euphemia came in a minute later, but all she said was, “You’ll both be late for your breakfast again.”

      Roger and Julia said nothing at all. They silently accepted the marmalade and Cat’s knife when he passed them over, but the sole thing either of them said was when Julia dropped Cat’s knife and picked it up again all fluffy. She said, “Bother!” And when Mr Saunders called them through for lessons, the only things he talked about were what he was teaching them. Cat decided that nobody knew Gwendolen had caused the moles. They could have no idea what a strong witch she was.

      There were no lessons after lunch that day. Mr Saunders explained that they always had Wednesday afternoons off. And at lunchtime, every molehill had gone. When they looked out of the playroom window, the lawn was like a sheet of velvet again.

      “I don’t believe it!” Gwendolen whispered to Cat. “It must be an illusion. They’re trying to make me feel small.”

      They went out and looked after lunch. They had to be fairly cautious about it, because Mr Saunders was taking his afternoon off in a deckchair under one of the cedars, reading a yellow paper-backed book which seemed to amuse him a great deal. Gwendolen sauntered out into the middle of the lawn and pretended to be admiring the Castle. She pretended to tie her bootlace and prodded the turf with her fingers.

      “I don’t understand it!” she said. Being a witch, she knew the close, smooth turf was no illusion. “It really is all right! How was it done?”

      “They must have carted in new turf while we were having lessons,” Cat suggested.

      “Don’t be stupid!” said Gwendolen. “New turf would all be in squares still, and this isn’t.”

      Mr Saunders called to them.

      Gwendolen looked, for a second, more apprehensive than Cat had ever seen her. But she hid it fairly well and led the way casually over to the deckchair. Cat saw that the yellow book was in French. Fancy being able to laugh at something in French! Mr Saunders must be a learned magician as well as a strong one.

      Mr Saunders laid the book face down on the once-more-beautiful grass and smiled up at them. “You two went away so quickly that you never gave me time to dish you out your pocket money. Here you are.” He handed them each a large silver coin. Cat stared at his. It was a crown piece – five whole shillings. He had never had so much money to spend in his life. Mr Saunders added to his amazement by saying, “You’ll get that every Wednesday. I don’t know whether you’re savers or spenders. What Julia and Roger usually do is to go down to the village and blue it all on sweets.”

      “Thank you,” said Cat, “very much. Shall we go down to the village, Gwendolen?”

      “We may as well,” Gwendolen agreed. She was divided between a defiant desire to stay at the Castle and face whatever trouble was coming over the moles, and relief at an excuse to get away. “I expect Chrestomanci will send for me as soon as he realises it was me,” she said as they walked down the avenue of trees.

      “Do you think it was Mr Saunders who put the lawn right?” Cat asked.

      Gwendolen frowned. “He couldn’t have. He was teaching us.”

      “Those gardeners,” suggested Cat. “Some of them could be warlocks. They did turn up awfully quickly to forbid us things.”

      Gwendolen laughed scornfully. “Think of the Willing Warlock.”

      Cat did, a little dubiously. The Willing Warlock was not much more gifted than Mrs Sharp. He was usually hired for heavy carrying jobs, or to make the wrong horse win at the races. “All the same,” he argued, “they could be specialists – garden warlocks.”

      Gwendolen only laughed again.

      The village was just beyond the Castle gates, at the foot of the hill where the Castle stood. It was a pretty place, round a big green. Across the green, there were shops: a beautiful bow-fronted baker’s and an equally beautiful sweet shop and Post Office. Cat wanted to visit both, but Gwendolen stopped at a third shop, which was a junk shop. Cat did not mind going into that, either. It looked interesting. But Gwendolen shook her head irritably and stopped a village boy who was loitering near it.

      “I was told a Mr Baslam lives in this village. Can you tell me where he lives?”

      The boy made a face. “Him? He’s no good. Down there, at the end of that alley, if you really want to know.” And he stood looking at them, with the air of someone who has earned sixpence for his pains.

      Neither Cat nor Gwendolen had any money beside their crown pieces. They had to go away without giving him anything. The boy shouted after them.

      “Stuck up little witch! Mingy little warlock!”

      Gwendolen did not mind this in the least, but Cat was so ashamed that he wanted to go back and explain.

      Mr Baslam lived in a shabby cottage with an ill-written notice propped in one window: Eggsotick Serplys. Gwendolen looked at it rather pityingly as she hammered on the door with the dingy knocker. When Mr Baslam opened his door, he proved to be a fat person in old trousers which sagged to make room for his fatness, and with red drooping eyes like a St Bernard’s. He started to shut the door again as soon as he saw them.

      “Not today, thank you,” he said, and a strong smell of beer came out with the words.

      “Mr Nostrum sent me,” said Gwendolen. “Mr William Nostrum.”

      The door stopped shutting. “Ah,” said Mr Baslam. “Then you better both come in. This way.” He led them into a poky room containing four chairs, a table, and several dozen cases of stuffed animals. There was hardly room for all the cases of stuffed animals. They stood higgledy-piggledy, one on top of another, and they were all very dusty. “Sit down then,” said Mr Baslam, rather grudgingly.

      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-coloured dress spread crisply round her and her broad hat becomingly shaded her golden hair. She looked at Mr Baslam with severe blue eyes.

      “I think your notice is spelt 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, nitre, 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 dragon’s blood,” she said.

      “Ooooh!” said Mr Baslam, dolefully shaking his head so that his hanging cheeks flapped. “Dragon’s 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