“Yes, please,” said Windle. “I’d love a cup of tea.”
“You shouldn’t,” said Mrs. Cake. “That stuff rots your teeth.”
Windle worked this one out.
“Two sugars, please,” he said.
“It’s all right.”
“This is a nice place you have here, Mrs. Cake,” said Windle, his mind racing. Mrs. Cake’s habit of answering questions while they were still forming in your mind taxed the most active brain.
“He’s been dead for ten years,” she said.
“Er,” said Windle, but the question was already there in his larynx, “I trust Mr. Cake is in good health?”
“It’s okay. Oi speaks to him occasional,” said Mrs. Cake.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Windle.
“All right, if it makes you feel any better.”
“Um, Mrs. Cake? I’m finding it a little confusing. Could you…switch off…your precognition…?”
She nodded.
“Sorry. Oi gets into the habit of leavin’ it on,” she said, “what with there only bein’ me an’ Ludmilla and One-Man-Bucket. He’s a ghost,” she added. “Oi knew you was goin’ to ask that.”
“Yes, I had heard that mediums have native spirit guides,” said Windle.
“’Im? ’E’s not a guide, ’e’s a sort of odd-job ghost,” said Mrs. Cake. “I don’t hold with all that stuff with cards and trumpets and Oo-jar boards, mind you. An’ I think ectoplasm’s disgustin’. Oi won’t have it in the ’ouse. Oi won’t. You can’t get it out of the carpets, you know. Not even with vinegar.”
“My word,” said Windle Poons.
“Or wailin’. I don’t hold with it. Or messin’ around with the supernatural. It’s unnatural, the supernatural. I won’t have it.”
“Um,” said Windle cautiously. “There are those who might think that being a medium is a bit…you know…supernatural?”
“What? What? Nothing supernatural about dead people. Load of nonsense. Everyone dies sooner or later.”
“I do hope so, Mrs. Cake.”
“So what is it you’d be wanting, Mr. Poons? I’m not precognitin’, so you have to tell me.”
“I want to know what’s happening, Mrs. Cake.”
There was a muted thump from under their feet and the faint, happy sound of Schleppel.
“Oh, wow! Rats, too!”
“I went up and tried to tell you wizards,” said Mrs. Cake, primly. “An’ no one listened. I knew they weren’t going to, but I ’ad to try, otherwise I wouldn’t ’ave known.”
“Who did you speak to?”
“The big one with the red dress and a mustache like he’s trying to swaller a cat.”
“Ah. The Archchancellor,” said Windle, positively.
“And there was a huge fat one. Walks like a duck.”