Diana Wynne Jones - Chrestomanci 1 - Charmed Life & The Lives of Christopher Chant

Diana Wynne Jones

The Chronicles of Chrestomanci,

Volume I

"Mad about Harry? Try Diana." ---U.s. News & World Report

Books by Diana Wynne Jones

Believing Is Seeing: Seven Stories

Castle in the Air

The Chronicles of Chrestomanci, Volume I

Charmed Life 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16 )

The Lives of Christopher Chant 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15 , 16, 17, 18, 19, 20,

21 )

The Chronicles of Chrestomanci, Volume II

The Magicians of Caprona

Witch Week

The Dalemark Quartet

Book 1: Cart and Cwidder

Book 2: Drowned Ammet

Book 3: The Spellcoats

Book 4: The Crown of Dalemark

Dark Lord of Derkholm

Hexwood

Howl's Moving Castle

Stopping for a Spell

The Time of the Ghost

Year of the Griffin

Harper Trophy is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Publishers Inc.

The Chronicles of Chrestomanci, Volume I

written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Printed

in the United States of America. For information address HarperCollins Children's Books, a division of

HarperCollins Publishers, 1350 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10019. Library of Congress

Cataloging-in-Publication Data Jones, Diana Wynne. Chronicles of Chrestomanci / Diana Wynne Jones.

p. cm.

Contents: v. 1. Charmed life. The lives of Christopher Chant — v. 2. Witch Week. The magicians of

Caprona.

Summary: Adventures of the Chrestomanci, an enchanter with nine lives, whose job is to control the

practice of magic in the infinite parallel universes of the Twelve Related Worlds.

ISBN 0-06-447268-X (v. 1 : pbk.) — ISBN 0-06-447269-8 (v. 2 : pbk.)

[I. Fantasy. 2. Magic—Fiction. 3. Witchcraft—Fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.J684CJ 2001

00-39614

[Fic]—dc21

First Harper Trophy edition, 2001

Visit us on the World Wide Web! www.hyperchildrens.com

There are thousands of worlds, all different from ours. Chrestomanci's world is the one next door to us,

and the difference here is that magic is as common as music is with us. It is full of people working

magic—warlocks, witches, thaumaturges, sorcerers, fakirs, conjurors, hexers, magicians, mages,

shamans, diviners and many more—from the lowest Certified witch right up to the most powerful of

enchanters. Enchanters are strange as well as powerful. Their magic is different and stronger and many of

them have more than one life. Now, if someone did not control all these busy magic-users, ordinary

people would have a horrible time and probably end up as slaves. So the government appoints the very

strongest enchanter there is to make sure no one misuses magic. This enchanter has nine lives and is

known as "the Chrestomanci. " You pronounce it KREST-OH-MAN-SEE. He has to have a strong

personality as well as strong magic. Diana Wynne Jones

Charmed Life

1

Cat Chant admired his elder sister Gwendolen. She was a witch. He admired her and he clung to her.

Great changes came about in their lives and left him no one else to cling to.

The first great change came about when their parents took them out for a day trip down the river in a

paddle steamer. They set out in great style, Gwendolen and her mother in white dresses with ribbons,

Cat and his father in prickly blue-serge Sunday suits. It was a hot day. The steamer was crammed with

other people in holiday clothes, talking, laughing, eating whelks with thin slices of white bread and butter,

while the paddleboat steam organ wheezed out popular tunes so that no one could hear themselves talk.

In fact the steamer was too crowded and too old. Something went wrong with the steering. The whole

laughing, whelk-eating, Sunday-dressed crowd was swept away in the current from the dam. They hit

one of the posts which were supposed to stop people being swept away, and the paddle steamer, being

old, simply broke into pieces. Cat remembered the organ playing and the paddles beating the blue sky.

Clouds of steam screamed from broken pipes and drowned the screams from the crowd, as every single

person aboard was swept away through the dam. It was a terrible accident. The papers called it the

Saucy Nancy Disaster. The ladies in their clinging skirts were quite unable to swim. The men in tight blue

serge were very little better off. But Gwendolen was a witch, so she could not drown. And Cat, who

flung his arms around Gwendolen when the boat hit the post, survived too. There were very few other

survivors.

The whole country was shocked by it. The paddleboat company and the town of Wolvercote between

them paid for the funerals. Gwendolen and Cat were given heavy black clothes at public expense, and

rode behind the procession of hearses in a carriage pulled by black horses with black plumes on their

heads. The other survivors rode with them. Cat looked at them and wondered if they were witches and

warlocks, but he never found out. The Mayor of Wolvercote had set up a Fund for the survivors. Money

poured in from all over the country. All the other survivors took their share and went away to start new

lives elsewhere. Only Cat and Gwendolen were left and, since nobody could discover any of their

relations, they stayed in Wolvercote.

They became celebrities for a time. Everyone was very kind. Everyone said what beautiful little orphans

they were. It was true. They were both fair and pale, with blue eyes, and looked good in black.

Gwendolen was very pretty, and tall for her age. Cat was small for his age. Gwendolen was very

motherly to Cat, and people were touched. Cat did not mind. It made up a little for the empty, lost way

he was feeling. Ladies gave him cake and toys. Town Councillors came and asked how he was getting

on; and the Mayor called and patted him on the head. The Mayor explained that the money from the

Fund was being put into a Trust for them until they were grown up. Meanwhile, the town would pay for

their education and upbringing.

"And where would you little people like to live?" he asked kindly.

Gwendolen at once said that old Mrs. Sharp downstairs had offered to take them in. "She's been ever so

kind to us," she explained. "We'd love to live with her."

Mrs. Sharp had been very kind. She was a witch too—the printed sign in her parlor window said

Certified Witch—and interested in Gwendolen. The Mayor was a little dubious. Like all people who

had no talent for witchcraft, he did not approve of those who had. He asked Cat how he felt about

Gwendolen's plan. Cat did not mind. He preferred living in the house he was used to, even if it was

downstairs. Since the Mayor felt that the two orphans ought to be made as happy as possible, he agreed.

Gwendolen and Cat moved in with Mrs. Sharp.

Looking back on it, Cat supposed that it was from this time on that he was certain Gwendolen was a

witch. He had not been sure before. When he had asked his parents, they had shaken their heads,

sighed, and looked unhappy. Cat had been puzzled, because he remembered the terrible trouble there

had been when Gwendolen gave him cramps. He could not see how his parents could blame Gwendolen

for it unless she truly was a witch. But all that was changed now. Mrs. Sharp made no secret of it.

"You've a real talent for magic, dearie," she said, beaming at Gwendolen, "and I wouldn't be doing my

duty by you if I let it go to waste. We must see about a teacher for you right away. You could do worse

than go to Mr. Nostrum next door for a start. He may be the worst necromancer in town, but he knows

how to teach. He'll give you a good grounding, my love."

Mr. Nostrum's charges for teaching magic turned out to be £1 an hour for the Elementary Grades, and a

guinea an hour for the Advanced Grades beyond. Rather expensive, as Mrs. Sharp said. She put on her

best hat with black beads and ran around to the Town Hall to see if the Fund would pay for Gwendolen's

lessons.

To her annoyance, the Mayor refused. He told Mrs. Sharp that witchcraft was not part of an ordinary

education. Mrs. Sharp came back rattling the beads on her hat with irritation, and carrying a flat

cardboard box the Mayor had given her, full of the odds and ends the kind ladies had cleared out of

Gwendolen's parents' bedroom.

"Blind prejudice!" Mrs. Sharp said, dumping the box on the kitchen table. "If a person has a gift, they

have a right to have it developed—and so I told him! But don't worry, dearie," she said, seeing that

Gwendolen was looking decidedly stormy. "There's a way around everything. Mr. Nostrum would teach

you for nothing, if we found the right thing to tempt him with. Let's have a look in this box. Your poor ma

and pa may have left something that might be just the thing."

Accordingly, Mrs. Sharp turned the box out onto the table. It was a queer collection of things— letters

and lace and souvenirs. Cat did not remember having seen half of them before. There was a marriage

certificate, saying that Francis John Chant had married Caroline Mary Chant twelve years ago at St.

Margaret's Church, Wolvercote, and a withered nosegay his mother must have carried at the wedding.

Underneath that, he found some glittery earrings he had never seen his mother wear.

Mrs. Sharp's hat rattled as she bent swiftly over these. "Those are diamond earrings!" she said. "Your ma

must have had money! Now, if I took those to Mr. Nostrum—But we'd get more for them if I took them

around to Mr. Larkins." Mr. Larkins kept the junk shop on the corner of the street—except that it was

not always exactly junk. Among the brass fenders and chipped crockery you could find quite valuable

things, and also a discreet notice saying Exotic Supplies—which meant that Mr. Larkins also stocked

bats' wings, dried newts, and other ingredients of magic. There was no question that Mr. Larkins would

be very interested in a pair of diamond earrings. Mrs. Sharp's eyes pouched up, greedy and beady, as

she put out her hand to pick up the earrings.

Gwendolen put out her hand for them at the same moment. She did not say anything. Neither did Mrs.

Sharp. Both their hands stood still in the air. There was a feeling of fierce invisible struggle. Then Mrs.

Sharp took her hand away. "Thank you," Gwendolen said coldly, and put the earrings away in the pocket

of her black dress.

"You see what I mean?" Mrs. Sharp said, making the best of it. "You have real talent, dearie!" She went

back to sorting the other things in the box. She turned over an old pipe, ribbons, a spray of white

heather, menus, concert tickets, and picked up a bundle of old letters. She ran her thumb down the edge

of it. "Love letters," she said. "His to her." She put the bundle down without looking at it and picked up

another. "Hers to him. No use." Cat, watching Mrs. Sharp's broad mauve thumb whirring down a third

bundle of letters, thought that being a witch must save a great deal of time. "Business letters," said Mrs.

Sharp. Her thumb paused, and went slowly back up the pile again. "Now what have we here?" she said.

She untied the pink tape from around the bundle and carefully took out three letters. She unfolded them.

"Chrestomanci!" she exclaimed. And, as soon as she said it, she clapped one hand over her mouth and

mumbled behind it. Her face was red. Cat could see she was surprised, frightened, and greedy, all at the

same time. "Now what was he doing writing to your pa?" she said, as soon as she had recovered.

"Let's see," said Gwendolen.

Mrs. Sharp spread the three letters out on the kitchen table, and Gwendolen and Cat bent over them.

The first thing that struck Cat was the energy of the signature on all three:

The next thing he saw was that two of the letters were written in the same energetic writing as the

signature. The first was dated twelve years ago, soon after his parents had been married. It said:

Dear Frank,

Now don't get on your high horse. I only offered because I thought it might help. I still will help, in

any way I can, if you let me know what I can do. I feel you have a claim on me.

Yrs ever, Chrestomanci

The second letter was shorter:

Dear Chant,

The same to you. Go to blazes.

Chrestomanci

The third letter was dated six years ago, and it was written by someone else. Chrestomanci had only

signed it.

Sir,

You were warned six years ago that something like what you relate might come to pass, and you

made it quite clear that you wished for no help from this quarter. We are not interested in your

troubles. Nor is this a charitable institution.

Chrestomanci

"What did your pa say to him?" Mrs. Sharp wondered, curious and awestruck. "Well—what do you

think, dearie?"

Gwendolen held her hands spread out above the letters, rather as if she was warming them at a fire. Both

her little fingers twitched. "I don't know. They feel important—especially the first one and the last

one—awfully important."

"Who's Chrestomanci?" Cat asked. It was a hard name to say. He said it in pieces, trying to remember

the way Mrs. Sharp had said it: KREST—OH—MAN—SEE. "Is that the right way?"

"Yes, that's right—and never you mind who he is, my love," said Mrs. Sharp. "And important's a weak

word for it, dearie. I wish I knew what your pa had said. Something not many people'd dare say, by the

sound of it. And look what he got in return! Three genuine signatures! Mr. Nostrum would give his eyes

for those, dearie. Oh, you're in luck! He'll teach you for those all right! So would any necromancer in the

country."

Gleefully, Mrs. Sharp began packing the things away in the box again. "What have we here?" A little red

book of matches had fallen out of the bundle of business letters. Mrs. Sharp took it up carefully and,

quite as carefully, opened it. It was less than half full of flimsy cardboard matches. But three of the

matches had been burned, without being torn out of the book first. The third one along was so very

burned that Cat supposed it must have set light to the other two.

"Hm," said Mrs. Sharp. "I think you'd better keep this, dearie." She passed the little red book to

Gwendolen, who put it in the pocket of her dress along with the earrings. "And what about you having

this, my love?" Mrs. Sharp said to Cat, remembering that he had a claim too. She gave him the spray of

white heather. Cat wore it in his buttonhole until it fell to pieces.

Living with Mrs. Sharp, Gwendolen seemed to expand. Her hair seemed brighter gold, her eyes deeper

blue, and her whole manner was glad and confident. Perhaps Cat contracted a little to make room for

her—he did not know. Not that he was unhappy. Mrs. Sharp was quite as kind to him as she was to

Gwendolen. Town Councillors and their wives called several times a week and patted him on the head in

the parlor. They sent him and Gwendolen to the best school in Wolvercote. Cat was happy there. The

only drawback was that Cat was left-handed, and schoolmasters always punished him if they caught him

writing with his left hand. But they did that at all the schools Cat had been to, and he was used to it. He

had dozens of friends. All the same, at the heart of everything, he felt lost and lonely. So he clung to

Gwendolen, because she was the only family he had.

Gwendolen was often rather impatient with him, though usually she was too busy and happy to be

downright cross. "Just leave me alone, Cat," she would say. "Or else." Then she would pack exercise

books into a music case and hasten next door for a lesson with Mr. Nostrum.

Mr. Nostrum was delighted to teach Gwendolen for the letters. Mrs. Sharp gave him one every term for

a year, starting with the last. "Not all at once, in case he gets greedy," she said. "And we'll give him the

best last."

Gwendolen made excellent progress. Such a promising witch was she, indeed, that she skipped the First

Grade Magic exam and went straight on to the Second. She took the Third and Fourth grades together

just after Christmas and, by the following summer, she was starting on Advanced Magic. Mr. Nostrum

regarded her as his favorite pupil—he told Mrs. Sharp so over the wall—and Gwendolen always came

back from her lessons with him pleased and golden and glowing. She went to Mr. Nostrum two evenings

a week, with her magic case under her arm, just as many people might go to music lessons. In fact, music

lessons were what Mrs. Sharp put Gwendolen down as having, on the accounts she kept for the Town

Council. Since Mr. Nostrum never got paid, except by the letters, Cat thought this was rather dishonest

of Mrs. Sharp.

"I have to put something by for my old age," Mrs. Sharp told him crossly. "I don't get much for myself out

of keeping you, do I? And I can't trust your sister to remember me when she's grown-up and famous. Oh

dear me no—I've no illusions about that!"

Cat knew Mrs. Sharp was probably right. He was a little sorry for her, for she had certainly been kind,

and he knew by now that she was not a very good witch herself. The Certified Witch which the notice in

Mrs. Sharp's parlor window claimed her to be was, in fact, the very lowest qualification. People only

came to Mrs. Sharp for charms when they could not afford the three Accredited Witches farther down

the street. Mrs. Sharp eked out her earnings by acting as an agent for Mr. Larkins at the junk shop. She

got him Exotic Supplies—that is to say, the stranger ingredients needed for spells— from as far away as

London. She was very proud of her contacts in London. "Oh yes," she often said to Gwendolen, "I've

got the contacts, I have. I know those that can get me a pound of dragons' blood any time I ask, for all

it's illegal. While you have me, you'll never be in need."

Perhaps, in spite of having no illusions about Gwendolen, Mrs. Sharp was really hoping to become

Gwendolen's manager when Gwendolen grew up. Cat suspected she was, anyway. And he was sorry for

Mrs. Sharp. He was sure that Gwendolen would cast her off like an old coat when she became

famous—like Mrs. Sharp, Cat had no doubt that Gwendolen would be famous. So he said, "There's me

to look after you, though." He did not fancy the idea, but he felt he ought to say it.

Mrs. Sharp was warmly grateful. As a reward, she arranged for Cat to have real music lessons. "Then

that Mayor will have nothing to complain of," she said. She believed in killing two birds with one stone.

Cat started to learn the violin. He thought he was making good progress. He practiced diligently. He

never could understand why the new people living upstairs always banged on the floor when he started to

play. Mrs. Sharp, being tone-deaf herself, nodded and smiled while he played, and encouraged him

greatly.

He was practicing away one evening when Gwendolen stormed in and shrieked a spell in his face. Cat

found, to his dismay, that he was holding a large striped cat by the tail. He had its head tucked under his

chin, and he was sawing at its back with the violin bow. He dropped it hurriedly. Even so, it bit him under

the chin and scratched him painfully.

"What did you do that for?" he said. The cat stood in an arch, glaring at him.

"Because that's just what it sounded like!" said Gwendolen. "I couldn't stand it a moment longer. Here,

pussy, pussy!" The cat did not like Gwendolen either. It scratched the hand she held out to it. Gwendolen

smacked it. It ran away, with Cat in hot pursuit, shouting, "Stop it! That's my fiddle! Stop it!" But the cat

escaped, and that was the end of the violin lessons.

Mrs. Sharp was very impressed with this display of talent from Gwendolen. She climbed on a chair in the

yard and told Mr. Nostrum about it over the wall. From there, the story spread to every witch and

necromancer in the neighborhood.

That neighborhood was full of witches. People in the same trade like to cluster together. If Cat came out

of Mrs. Sharp's front door and turned right down Coven Street, he passed, besides the three Accredited

Witches, two Necromancy Offereds, a Soothsayer, a Diviner, and a Willing Warlock. If he turned

left, he passed Mr. Henry Nostrum A.R.C.M. Tuition in Necromancy, a Fortune-Teller, a Sorcery

For All Occasions, a Clairvoyant, and lastly Mr. Larkins' shop. The air in the street, and for several

streets around, was heavy with the scent of magic being done.

All these people took a great and friendly interest in Gwendolen. The story of the cat impressed them

enormously. They made a great pet of the creature—naturally, it was called Fiddle. Though it remained

bad-tempered, captious, and unfriendly, it never went short of food. They made an even greater pet of

Gwendolen. Mr. Larkins gave her presents. The Willing Warlock, who was a muscular young man

always in need of a shave, popped out of his house whenever he saw Gwendolen passing and presented

her with a bull's-eye. The various witches were always looking out simple spells for her.

Gwendolen was very scornful of these spells. "Do they think I'm a baby or something? I'm miles beyond

this stuff!" she would say, casting the latest spell aside.

Mrs. Sharp, who was glad of any aid to witchcraft, usually gathered the spell up carefully and hid it. But

once or twice, Cat found the odd spell lying about. Then he could not resist trying it. He would have liked

to have had just a little of Gwendolen's talent. He always hoped that he was a late developer and that,

someday, a spell would work for him. But they never did—not even the one for turning brass buttons to

gold, which Cat particularly fancied.

The various fortune-tellers gave Gwendolen presents too. She got an old crystal ball from the Diviner and

a pack of cards from the Soothsayer. The Fortune-Teller told her fortune for her. Gwendolen came in

golden and exultant from that.

"I'm going to be famous! He said I could rule the world if I go the right way about it!" she told Cat.

Though Cat had no doubt that Gwendolen would be famous, he could not see how she could rule the

world, and he said so. "You'd only rule one country, even if you married the King," he objected. "And

the Prince of Wales got married last year."

"There are more ways of ruling than that, stupid!" Gwendolen retorted? "Mr. Nostrum has lots of ideas

for me, for a start. Mind you, there are some snags. There's a change for the worse that I have to

surmount, and a dominant Dark Stranger. But when he told me I'd rule the world my fingers all twitched,

so I know it's true!" There seemed no limit to Gwendolen's glowing confidence.

The next day, Miss Larkins the Clairvoyant called Cat into her house and offered to tell his fortune too.

2

Cat was alarmed by Miss Larkins. She was the daughter of Mr. Larkins at the junk shop. She was young

and pretty and fiercely red-headed. She wore the red hair piled into a bun on top of her head, from

which red tendrils of hair escaped and tangled becomingly with earrings like hoops for parrots to sit on.

She was a very talented clairvoyant and, until the story of the cat became known, Miss Larkins had been

the pet of the neighborhood. Cat remembered that even his mother had given Miss Larkins presents.

Cat knew Miss Larkins was offering to tell his fortune out of jealousy of Gwendolen. "No. No, thank you

very much," he said, backing away from Miss Larkins' little table spread with objects of divination. "It's

quite all right. I don't want to know."

But Miss Larkins advanced on him and seized him by his shoulders. Cat squirmed. Miss Larkins used a

scent that shrieked VIOLETS! at him, her earrings swung like manacles, and her corsets creaked when

she was close to. "Silly boy!" Miss Larkins said, in her rich, melodious voice. "I'm not going to hurt you. I

just want to know."

"But—but I don't," Cat said, twisting this way and that.

"Hold still," said Miss Larkins, and tried to stare deep into Cat's eyes.

Cat shut his eyes hastily. He squirmed harder than ever. He might have got loose, had not Miss Larkins

abruptly gone off into some kind of trance. Cat found himself being gripped with a strength that would

have surprised him even in the Willing Warlock. He opened his eyes to find Miss Larkins staring blankly

at him. Her body shook, creaking her corsets like old doors swinging in the wind. "Oh, please let go!"

Cat said. But Miss Larkins did not appear to hear. Cat took hold of the fingers gripping his shoulders,

and tried to prise them loose. He could not move them. After that, he could only stare helplessly at Miss

Larkins' blank face.

Miss Larkins opened her mouth, and quite a different voice came out. It was a man's voice, brisk and

kindly. "You've taken a weight off my mind, lad," it said. It sounded pleased. "There'll be a big change

coming up for you now. But you've been awfully careless—four gone already, and only five left. You

must take more care. You're in danger from at least two directions, did you know?"

The voice stopped. By this time, Cat was so frightened that he dared not move. He could only wait until

Miss Larkins came to herself, yawned, and let go of him in order to cover her mouth elegantly with one

hand.

"There," she said, in her usual voice. "That was it. What did I say?"

Finding Miss Larkins had no idea what she had said brought Cat out in goose pimples. All he wanted to

do was to run away. He dashed for the door.

Miss Larkins pursued him, seized his arms again, and shook him. "Tell me! Tell me! What did I say?"

With the violence of her shaking, her red hair came down in sheets. Her corsets sounded like bending

planks. She was terrifying. "What voice did I use?" she demanded.

"A—a man's voice," Cat faltered. "Sort of nice, and no nonsense about it."

Miss Larkins seemed dumbfounded. "A man? Not Bobby or Doddo—not a child's voice, I mean?"

"No," said Cat.

"How peculiar!" said Miss Larkins. "I never use a man. What did he say?"

Cat repeated what the voice had said. He thought he would never forget it if he lived to ninety.

It was some consolation to find that Miss Larkins was quite as puzzled by it as he was. "Well, I suppose

it was a warning," she said dubiously. She also seemed disappointed. "And nothing else? Nothing about

your sister?"

"No, nothing," said Cat.

"Oh well, can't be helped," Miss Larkins said discontentedly, and she let go of Cat in order to put her

hair up again.

As soon as both her hands were safely occupied in pinning her bun, Cat ran. He shot out into the street,

feeling very shaken.

And he was caught by two more people almost at once.

"Ah. Here is young Eric Chant now," said Mr. Nostrum, advancing down the pavement. "You are

acquainted with my brother, William, are you, Young Chant?"

Cat was once more caught by an arm. He tried to smile. It was not that he disliked Mr. Nostrum. It was

just that Mr. Nostrum always talked in this jocular way and called him Young Chant every few words,

which made it very difficult to talk to Mr. Nostrum in return. Mr. Nostrum was small and plumpish, with

two wings of grizzled hair. He had a cast in his left eye too, which always stared out sideways. Cat found

that added to the difficulty of talking to Mr. Nostrum. Was he looking and listening? Or was his mind

elsewhere with that wandering eye?

"Yes—yes, I've met your brother," Cat reminded Mr. Nostrum. Mr. William Nostrum came to visit his

brother regularly. Cat saw him almost once a month. He was quite a well-to-do wizard, with a practice in

Eastbourne. Mrs. Sharp claimed that Mr. Henry Nostrum sponged on his wealthier brother, both for

money and for spells that worked. Whatever the truth of that, Cat found Mr. William Nostrum even

harder to talk to than his brother. He was half as large again as Mr. Henry and always wore morning

dress with a huge silver watch-chain across his tubby waistcoat. Otherwise, he was the image of Mr.

Henry Nostrum, except that both his eyes were out of true. Cat always wondered how Mr. William saw

anything. "How do you do, sir," he said to him politely.

"Very well," said Mr. William in a deep, gloomy voice, as if the opposite was true.

Mr. Henry Nostrum glanced up at him apologetically. "The fact is, Young Chant," he explained, "we have

met with a little setback. My brother is upset." He lowered his voice, and his wandering eye wandered all

around Cat's right side. "It's about those letters from-—You Know Who. We can find out nothing. It

seems Gwendolen knows nothing. Do you, Young Chant, perchance know why your esteemed and

lamented father should be acquainted with—with, let us call him, the August Personage who signed

them?"

"I haven't the faintest idea, I'm afraid," said Cat.

"Could he have been some relation?" suggested Mr. Henry Nostrum. "Chant is a Good Name."

"I think it must be a bad name too," Cat answered. "We haven't any relations."

"But what of your dear mother?" persisted Mr. Nostrum, his odd eye traveling away, while his brother

managed to stare gloomily at the pavement and the rooftops at once.

"You can see the poor boy knows nothing, Henry," Mr. William said. "I doubt if he would be able to tell

us his dear mother's maiden name."

"Oh, I do know that," said Cat. "It's on their marriage lines. She was called Chant too."

"Odd," said Mr. Nostrum, swirling an eye at his brother.

"Odd, and peculiarly unhelpful," Mr. William agreed.

Cat wanted to get away. He felt he had taken enough strange questions to last till Christmas. "Well, if you

want to know that badly," he said, "why don't you write and ask Mr.—er—Mr. Chres—"

"Hush!" said Mr. Henry Nostrum violently.

"Hum!" said his brother, almost equally violently.

"August Personage, I mean," Cat said, looking at Mr. William in alarm. Mr. William's eyes had gone right

to the sides of his face. Cat was afraid he might be going off into a trance, like Miss Larkins.

"It will serve, Henry, it will serve!" Mr. William cried out. And, with great triumph, he lifted the silver

watch-chain off his middle and shook it. "Then for silver!" he cried.

"I'm so glad," Cat said politely. "I have to be going now." He ran off down the street as fast as he could.

When he went out that afternoon, he took care to turn right and go out of Coven Street past the Willing

Warlock's house. It was rather a nuisance, since that was the long way around to where most of his

friends lived, but anything was better than meeting Miss Larkins or the Nostrums again. It was almost

enough to make Cat wish that school had started.

When Cat came home that evening, Gwendolen was just back from her lesson with Mr. Nostrum. She

had her usual glowing, exulting look, but she was looking secretive and important too.

"That was a good idea of yours of writing to Chrestomanci," she said to Cat. "I can't think why I didn't

think of it. Anyway, I just have."

"Why did you do it? Couldn't Mr. Nostrum?" Cat asked.

"It came more naturally from me," said Gwendolen. "And I suppose it doesn't matter if he gets my

signature. Mr. Nostrum told me what to write."

Diana Wynne Jones - Chrestomanci 1 - Charmed Life & The Lives of Christopher Chant

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