The Chrestomanci series: 3 Book Collection. Diana Wynne Jones

fetch twenty quid in the open market?” Janet asked. They both knew that was unlikely. They were no nearer thinking of another way to earn twenty pounds when the dressing-gong went.

      Cat had warned Janet what dinner was like. She had promised not to jump when footmen passed things over her shoulder, and sworn not to try and talk about statues with Mr Saunders. She assured Cat she would not mind hearing Bernard talk of stocks and shares. So Cat thought that for once he could be easy. He helped Janet dress and even had a shower himself, and when they went into the drawing room he thought that they both did him credit.

      But Mr Saunders proved at last to have worn out his craze for statues. Instead, everyone began to talk about identical twins, and then about exact doubles who were no relation. Even Bernard forgot to talk about shares in his interest in this new subject.

      “The really difficult point,” he boomed, leaning forward with his eyebrows working up and down his forehead, “is how such people fit in with a series of other worlds.”

      And, to Cat’s dismay, the talk turned to other worlds. He might have been interested at any other time. Now he dared not look at Janet, and could only wish that everyone would stop. But they talked eagerly, all of them, particularly Bernard and Mr Saunders. Cat learnt that a lot was known about other worlds. Numbers had been visited. Those which were best known had been divided into sets, called series, according to the events in History which were the same in them. It was very uncommon for people not to have at least one exact double in a world of the same series – usually people had a whole string of doubles, all along the set.

      “But what about doubles outside a series?” Mr Saunders said. “I have at least one double in Series III, and I suspect the existence of another in—”

      Janet sat up sharply, gasping. “Cat, help! It’s like sitting on pins!”

      Cat looked at Julia. He saw the little smile on her face, and the tail-end of her handkerchief above the table. “Change places,” he whispered, feeling rather tired. He stood up. Everyone stared.

      “All of which makes me feel that a satisfactory classification has not yet been found,” Mr Saunders said, as he turned Cat’s way.

      “Do you think,” said Cat, “that I could change places with J—Gwendolen, please? She can’t quite hear what Mr Saunders is saying from there.”

      “Yes, and it’s rivetingly interesting,” Janet gasped, shooting from her chair.

      “If you find it essential,” Chrestomanci said, a little annoyed.

      Cat sat in Janet’s chair. He could feel nothing wrong with it. Julia put her head down and gave him a long, unpleasant look, and her elbows worked as she crossly untied her handkerchief. Cat saw that she was going to hate him, too, now. He sighed. It was one thing after another.

      Nevertheless, when Cat fell asleep that night, he was not feeling hopeless. He could not believe things could get any worse – so they had to get better. Perhaps Miss Bessemer would give them something very valuable, and they could sell it. Or, better still, perhaps Gwendolen would be back when he woke up, and already solving all his problems.

      But when he went to Gwendolen’s room in the morning, it was still Janet, struggling to tie her garters and saying over her shoulder, “These things are probably very bad for people. Do you wear them, too? Or are they a female torture? And one useful thing magic could do would be to hold one’s stockings up. It makes you think that witches can’t be very practical.”

      She did talk a lot, Cat thought. But it was better than having no one in Gwendolen’s place.

      At breakfast, neither Mary nor Euphemia were at all friendly, and, as soon as they left the room, one of the curtains wrapped itself round Janet’s neck and tried to strangle her. Cat took it away. It fought him like a live thing, because Julia was holding both ends of her handkerchief and pulling hard on the knot.

      “Oh, do stop it, Julia!” he begged her.

      “Yes, do,” Roger agreed. “It’s silly and it’s boring. I need to enjoy my food in peace.”

      “I’m quite willing to be friends,” Janet offered.

      “That makes one of us,” said Julia. “No.”

      “Then be enemies!” Janet snapped, almost in Gwendolen’s manner. “I thought at first that you might be nice, but I can see now that you’re just a tedious, pigheaded, cold-hearted, horny-handed, cross-eyed hag!”

      That, of course, was calculated to make Julia adore her.

      Luckily, Mr Saunders appeared earlier than usual. There had only been time for Janet’s marmalade to turn to orange worms, and change back again when Cat gave her his instead, and for Janet’s coffee to become rich brown gravy, and turn to coffee again when Cat drank it, before Mr Saunders stuck his head round the door. At least, Cat thought it was lucky, until Mr Saunders said, “Eric, Chrestomanci wants to see you now, in his study.”

      Cat stood up. His stomach, full of charmed marmalade as it was, made an unusually rapid descent to the Castle cellars. Chrestomanci’s found out, he thought. He knows about the dragon’s blood and about Janet, and he’s going to look at me politely and – Oh I do hope he isn’t an enchanter!

      “Where – where do I go?” he managed to say.

      “Take him, Roger,” said Mr Saunders.

      “And – and why?” Cat asked.

      Mr Saunders smiled. “You’ll find out. Off you go.”

       CHAPTER TWELVE

      Chrestomanci’s study was a large sun-filled room with books in shelves all round it. There was a desk, but Chrestomanci was not sitting at it. He was sprawled on a sofa in the sun, reading a newspaper and wearing a green dressing-gown with golden dragons on it. The gold embroidery of the dragons winked and glittered in the sun. Cat could not take his eyes off them. He stood just inside the door, not daring to go any further, and he thought: He has found out about the dragon’s blood.

      Chrestomanci looked up and smiled. “Don’t look so frightened,” he said, laying down his newspaper. “Come and sit down.”

      He pointed to a large leather armchair. It was all in his friendliest way, but, these days, Cat was sure this meant precisely nothing. He was sure that the friendlier Chrestomanci seemed, the angrier this meant he was. He stole over to the armchair and sat in it. It proved to be one of those deep, sloping kind of chairs. Cat slid backwards down the slippery leather slope of its seat until he found he was having to look at Chrestomanci from between his knees. He felt quite defenceless. He thought he ought to say something, so he whispered, “Good morning.”

      “You don’t look as if you thought so,” observed Chrestomanci. “No doubt you have your reasons. But don’t worry. This isn’t exactly about the frog again. You see, I’ve been thinking about you—”

      “Oh, you needn’t!” Cat said from his half-lying position. He felt that if Chrestomanci were to fix his thoughts on something on the other side of the universe, it would hardly be too far away.

      “It didn’t hurt much,” said Chrestomanci. “Thank you all the same. As I was saying, the frog affair set me thinking. And though I fear you probably have as little moral sense as your wretched sister, I wonder if I could trust you. Do you think I can trust you?”

      Cat had no idea where this could be leading, except that from the way Chrestomanci put it