The Lives of Christopher Chant. Diana Wynne Jones

under the bed – and looked at Christopher. “He seems a bit pale,” she said. “Do we need a doctor?”

      “I saw to all that, Madam,” said the Last Governess.

      “Thank you,” said Mama. “Make sure it doesn’t interrupt his education.”

      When Mama had gone, the Last Governess fetched her umbrella and poked it under the bed and behind the furniture, looking for Throgmorten. “Where has it got to?” she said, climbing up to jab at the space on top of the wardrobe.

      “I don’t know,” Christopher said truthfully, since he knew Throgmorten would be many streets away by now. “He was here before I went to sleep.”

      “It’s vanished!” said the Last Governess. “A cat can’t just vanish!”

      Christopher said experimentally, “He was an Asheth Temple cat.”

      “True,” said the Last Governess. “They are wildly magic by all accounts. But your uncle’s not going to be at all pleased to find it gone.”

      This made Christopher feel decidedly guilty. He could not go back to sleep, and when, about an hour later, he heard brisk heavy feet approaching the door, he sat up at once, wondering what he was going to say to Uncle Ralph.

      But the man who came in was not Uncle Ralph. He was a total stranger – no, it was Papa! Christopher recognised the black whiskers. Papa’s face was fairly familiar too, because it was quite like his own, except for the whiskers and a solemn, anxious look. Christopher was astonished because he had somehow thought – without anyone ever having exactly said so – that Papa had left the house in disgrace after whatever went wrong with the money.

      “Are you all right, son?” Papa said, and the hurried, worried way he spoke, and the way he looked round nervously at the door, told Christopher that Papa had indeed left the house and did not want to be found here. This made it plain that Papa had come specially to see Christopher, which astonished Christopher even more.

      “I’m quite well, thank you,” Christopher said politely. He had not the least idea how to talk to Papa, face to face. Politeness seemed safest.

      “Are you sure?” Papa asked, staring attentively at him. “The life-spell I have for you showed—In fact it stopped, as if you were – um—Frankly I thought you might be dead.”

      Christopher was more astonished still. “Oh no, I’m feeling much better now,” he said.

      “Thank God for that!” said Papa. “I must have made an error setting the spell – it seems a habit with me just now. But I have drawn up your horoscope too, and checked it several times, and I must warn you that the next year and a half will be a time of acute danger for you, my son. You must be very careful.”

      “Yes,” said Christopher. “I will.” He meant it. He could still see the curtain rod coming down if he shut his eyes. And he had to keep trying not to think at all of the way the spear had stuck out of him.

      Papa leant a little closer and looked furtively at the door again. “That brother of your mama’s – Ralph Argent – I hear he’s managing your mama’s affairs,” he said. “Try to have as little to do with him as you can, my son. He is not a nice person to know.” And having said that, Papa patted Christopher’s shoulder and hurried away. Christopher was quite relieved. One way and another, Papa had made him very uncomfortable. Now he was even more worried about what he would say to Uncle Ralph.

      But to his great relief, the Last Governess told him that Uncle Ralph was not coming. He said that he was too annoyed about losing Throgmorten to make a good sick-visitor.

      Christopher sighed thankfully and settled down to enjoy being an invalid. He drew pictures, he ate grapes, he read books, and he spun out his illness as long as he could. This was not easy. The next morning his wound was only a round itchy scab, and on the third day it was hardly there at all. On the fourth day, the Last Governess made him get up and have lessons as usual; but it had been lovely while it lasted.

      On the day after that, the Last Governess said, “Your uncle wants to try another experiment tomorrow. He wants you to meet the man at Series Eight this time. Do you think you feel well enough?”

      Christopher felt perfectly well, and provided nobody wanted him to go near Series Ten again, he was quite willing to go on another dream.

      Series Eight turned out to be the bleak and stony Anywhere up above Nine. Christopher had not cared for it much when he had explored it on his own, but Tacroy was so glad to see him that it would have made up for a far worse place.

      “Am I glad to see you!” Tacroy said, while Christopher was firming him up. “I’d resigned myself to being the cause of your death. I could kick myself for persuading your uncle to get you to fetch an animal! Everyone knows living creatures cause all sorts of problems, and I’ve told him we’re never going to try that again. Are you really all right?”

      “Fine,” said Christopher. “My chest was smooth when I woke up.” In fact the funny thing about both accidents was that Throgmorten’s scratches had taken twice as long to heal as either wound. But Tacroy seemed to find this so hard to believe and to be so full of self-blame that Christopher got embarrassed and changed the subject. “Have you still got the young lady who’s stern stuff?”

      “Sterner than ever,” Tacroy said, becoming much more cheerful at once. “The wretched girl’s setting my teeth on edge with that flute at this moment. Take a look down the valley. Your uncle’s been busy since you – since your accident.”

      Uncle Ralph had perfected the horseless carriage. It was sitting on the sparse stony grass beside the stream as firm as anything, though it looked more like a rough wooden sled than any kind of carriage. Something had been done so that Tacroy was able to take hold of the rope fastened to the front. When he pulled, the carriage came gliding down the valley after him without really touching the ground.

      “It’s supposed to return to London with me when I go back to my garret,” he explained. “I know that doesn’t seem likely, but your uncle swears he’s got it right this time. The question is, will it go back with a load on it, or will the load stay behind? That’s what tonight’s experiment is to find out.”

      Christopher had to help Tacroy haul the sled up the long stony trail beyond the valley. Tacroy was never quite firm enough to give a good pull. At length they came to a bleak stone farm crouched half-way up the hill, where a group of thick-armed silent women were waiting in the yard beside a heap of packages carefully wrapped in oiled silk. The packages smelt odd, but that smell was drowned by the thick garlic breath from the women. As soon as the sled came to a stop, garlic rolled out in waves as the women picked up the packages and tried to load them on the sled. The parcels dropped straight through it and fell on the ground.

      “No good,” said Tacroy. “I thought you were warned. Let Christopher do it.”

      It was hard work. The women watched untrustingly while Christopher loaded the parcels and tied them in place with rope. Tacroy tried to help, but he was not firm enough and his hands went through the parcels. Christopher got tired and cold in the strong wind. When one of the women gave a stern, friendly smile and asked him if he would like to come indoors for a drink, he said yes gladly.

      “Not today, thank you,” Tacroy said. “This thing’s still experimental and we’re not sure how long the spells will hold. We’d better get back.” He could see Christopher was disappointed. As they towed the sled away downhill, he said, “I don’t blame you. Call this just a business trip. Your uncle aims to get this carriage corrected by the way it performs tonight. My devout hope is that he can make it firm enough to be loaded by the people who bring the load, and then we can count you out of it altogether.”

      “But I like helping,” Christopher protested. “Besides, how would you pull it if I’m not there to firm you up?”

      “There is that,” Tacroy said. He thought about it while they got to the bottom of the