The Land of Ingary Trilogy. Diana Wynne Jones

too.

      “And you must be Miss Angorian,” said Howl. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I made a stupid mistake last week and carried off my nephew’s English homework instead of a rather important paper I had with me. I gather Neil gave it to you as proof that he wasn’t shirking.”

      “He did,” said Miss Angorian. “You’d better come in and collect it.”

      Sophie was sure the invisible eyes in all the houses goggled and the invisible necks craned as Howl and Michael and she trooped in through Miss Angorian’s door and up a flight of stairs to Miss Angorian’s tiny, severe living room.

      Miss Angorian said considerately to Sophie, “Won’t you sit down?”

      Sophie was still shaking from that horseless carriage. She sat down gladly on one of the two chairs. It was not very comfortable. Miss Angorian’s room was not designed for comfort but for study. Though many of the things in it were strange, Sophie understood the walls of books, and the piles of paper on the table, and the folders stacked on the floor. She sat and watched Michael staring sheepishly and Howl turning on his charm.

      “How is it you come to know who I am?” Howl asked beguilingly.

      “You seem to have to caused a lot of gossip in this town,” Miss Angorian said, busy sorting through papers on the table.

      “And what have those people who gossip told you?” Howl asked. He leaned languishingly on the end of the table and tried to catch Miss Angorian’s eye.

      “That you disappear and turn up rather unpredictably, for one thing,” Miss Angorian said.

      “And what else?” Howl followed Miss Angorian’s movements with such a look that Sophie knew Lettie’s only chance was for Miss Angorian to fall instantly in love with Howl too.

      But Miss Angorian was not that kind of lady. She said, “Many other things, few of them to your credit,” and caused Michael to blush by looking at him and then at Sophie in a way that suggested these things were not fit for their ears. She held a yellowish wavy-edged paper out to Howl. “Here it is,” she said severely. “Do you know what it is?”

      “Of course,” said Howl.

      “Then please tell me,” said Miss Angorian.

      Howl took the paper. There was a bit of a scuffle as he tried to take Miss Angorian’s hand with it. Miss Angorian won the scuffle and put her hands behind her back. Howl smiled meltingly and passed the paper to Michael. “You tell her,” he said.

      Michael’s blushing face lit up as soon as he looked at it. “It’s the spell! Oh, I can do this one – it’s enlargement, isn’t it?”

      “That’s what I thought,” Miss Angorian said rather accusingly. “I’d like to know what you were doing with such a thing.”

      “Miss Angorian,” said Howl, “if you have heard all those things about me, you must know I wrote my doctoral thesis on charms and spells. You look as if you suspect me of working black magic! I assure you, I never worked any kind of spell in my life.” Sophie could not stop herself making a small snort at this blatant lie. “With my hand on my heart,” Howl added, giving Sophie an irritated frown, “this spell is for study purposes only. It’s very old and rare. That’s why I wanted it back.”

      “Well, you have it back,” Miss Angorian said briskly. “Before you go, would you mind giving me my homework sheet in return? Photocopies cost money.”

      Howl brought out the grey paper willingly and held it just out of reach. “This poem now,” he said. “It’s been bothering me. Silly, really! – but I can’t remember the rest of it. By Walter Raleigh, isn’t it?”

      Miss Angorian gave him a withering look. “Certainly not. It’s by John Donne and it’s very well known indeed. I have the book with it in here, if you want to refresh your memory.”

      “Please,” said Howl, and from the way his eyes followed Miss Angorian as she went to her wall of books, Sophie realised that this was the real reason why Howl had come into this strange land where his family lived.

      But Howl was not above killing two birds with one stone. “Miss Angorian,” he said pleadingly, following her contours as she stretched for the book, “would you consider coming out for some supper with me tonight?”

      Miss Angorian turned round with a large book in her hand, looking more severe than ever. “I would not,” she said. “Mr Jenkins, I don’t know what you’ve heard about me, but you must have heard that I still consider myself engaged to Ben Sullivan—”

      “Never heard of him,” said Howl.

      “My fiancé,” said Miss Angorian. “He disappeared some years back. Now, do you wish me to read this poem out to you?”

      “Do that,” Howl said, quite unrepentant. “You have such a lovely voice.”

      “Then I’ll start with the second verse,” Miss Angorian said, “since you have the first verse there in your hand.” She read very well, not only melodiously, but in a way which made the second verse fit the rhythm of the first, which in Sophie’s opinion it did not do at all:

      “If thou beest born to strange sights,

      Things invisible to see,

       Ride ten thousand days and nights

      Till age snow white hairs on thee.

      Thou, when thou returnest, wilt tell me All strange wonders that befell thee,

       And swear

       No where

      Lives a woman true, and fair.

      If thou—”

      Howl had gone a terrible white. Sophie could see sweat standing on his face. “Thank you,” he said. “Stop there. I won’t trouble you for the rest. Even the good woman is untrue in the last verse, isn’t she? I remember now. Silly of me. John Donne, of course.” Miss Angorian lowered the book and stared at him. He forced a smile. “We must be going now. Sure you won’t change your mind about supper?”

      “I will not,” said Miss Angorian. “Are you quite well, Mr Jenkins?”

      “In the pink,” Howl said, and he hustled Michael and Sophie away down the stairs and into the horrible horseless carriage. The invisible watchers in the houses must have thought Miss Angorian was chasing them with a sabre, if they judged from the speed with which Howl packed them into it and drove off.

      “What’s the matter?” Michael asked as the carriage went roaring and grinding uphill again and Sophie clung to bits of seat for dear life. Howl pretended not to hear. So Michael waited until Howl was locking it into its shed and asked again.

      “Oh, nothing,” Howl said airily, leading the way back to the yellow house called Rivendell. “The Witch of the Waste has caught up with me with her curse, that’s all. Bound to happen sooner or later.” He seemed to be calculating or doing sums in his head while he opened the garden gate. “Ten thousand,” Sophie heard him murmur. “That brings it to about Midsummer Day.”

      “What is brought to Midsummer Day?” asked Sophie.

      “The time I’ll be ten thousand days old,” Howl said. “And that, Mrs Nose,” he said, swinging into the garden of Rivendell, “is the day I shall have to go back to the Witch of the Waste.” Sophie and Michael hung back on the path, staring at Howl’s back, so mysteriously labelled WELSH RUGBY. “If I keep clear of mermaids,” they heard him mutter, “and don’t touch a mandrake root—”

      Michael called out, “Do we have to go back into that house?” and Sophie called, “What will the Witch do?”

      “I shudder to think,” Howl said. “You