House of Many Ways (Howl's Moving Castle 3)

“What is it, my dear?” the King asked, putting his finger on his place in his book.

Charmain read the ancient bill out to him. He chuckled and shook his head a little. “So it was definitely done by magic, was it?” he said. “I must confess I had always hoped it would turn out to be real gold, hadn’t you?”

“Yes, but it looks like gold anyway,” Charmain said consolingly.

“And a very good spell too, to last two hundred years,” the King said, nodding. “Expensive as well. Two hundred guineas was a lot of money in those days. Ah, well. I never did hope to solve our financial problems that way. Besides, it would look shocking if we climbed up and stripped all the tiles off the roof. Keep looking, my dear.?

??

Charmain kept looking but all she found was someone charging two guineas to plant a rose garden and someone else getting paid ten guineas to refurbish the treasury—no, not someone else, the same Wizard Melicot who did the roof!

“Melicot was a specialist, I fancy,” the King said, when Charmain had read this out. “Looks to me like a fellow who went in for faking precious metals. The treasury was certainly empty by that date. I’ve known my crown was a fake for years. Must be this Melicot’s work. Are you getting peckish at all, my dear? A bit cold and stiff? We don’t bother with regular lunch—my daughter doesn’t hold with it—but I generally ask the butler to bring in a snack around this time. Why not get up and stretch your legs while I ring the bell?”

Charmain stood up and walked about, causing Waif to roll to her feet and watch inquiringly, while the King limped over to the bell rope by the door. He was decidedly frail, Charmain thought, and very tall. It was as if his height was too much for him. While they waited for someone to answer the bell, Charmain seized the chance to look at the books in the shelves. They seemed to be books about everything, higgledy-piggledy, travel books next to books of algebra and poems rubbing shoulders with geography. Charmain had just opened one called Secrets of the Universe Revealed, when the library door opened and a man in a tall cook’s hat came in carrying a tray.

To Charmain’s surprise, the King nimbly skipped behind the table. “My dear, pick up your dog!” he called out urgently.

Another dog had come in, pressed close to the cook’s legs as if it felt unsafe, a bitter-looking brown dog with gnarly ears and a ratty tail. It was growling as it came. Charmain had no doubt that this was the dog that slew other dogs, and she dived to pick Waif up.

But Waif somehow slipped through her hands and went trotting toward the cook’s dog. The other dog’s growls increased to a snarl. Bristles rose along its haggard brown back. It looked so menacing that Charmain did not dare go any nearer to it. Waif, however, seemed to feel no fear. She went right up to the snarling dog in her jauntiest way, raised herself on her tiny hind legs, and cheekily dabbed her nose on its nose. The other dog started back, so surprised that it stopped snarling. Then it pricked its lumpy ears and, very cautiously, nosed Waif in return. Waif gave an excited squeak and frisked. Next second, both dogs were gamboling delightedly all over the library.

“Well!” said the King. “I suppose that’s all right, then. What is the meaning of this, Jamal? Why are you here instead of Sim?”

Jamal—who had only one eye, Charmain noticed—came and apologetically put his tray down on the table. “Our princess has taken Sim away to receive the guest, Sire,” he explained, “leaving no one but me to bring food. And my dog would come. I think,” he added, watching the two prancing dogs, “that my dog has never enjoyed life until now.” He bowed to Charmain. “Please bring your small white dog here again often, Miss Charming.”

He whistled to his dog. It pretended not to hear. He went to the door and whistled again. “Food,” he said. “Come for squid.” This time both dogs came. And to Charmain’s surprise and dismay, Waif went trotting out of the door beside the cook’s dog, and the door shut after them both.

“Not to worry,” the King said. “They seem to be friends. Jamal will bring her back. Very reliable fellow, Jamal. If it wasn’t for that dog of his, he’d be the perfect cook. Let’s see what he’s brought us, shall we?”

Jamal had brought a jug of lemonade and a platter piled with crisp brown things under a white cloth. The King said, “Ah!” as he eagerly lifted the cloth. “Have one while they’re hot, my dear.”

Charmain did so. One bite was enough to assure her that Jamal was an even better cook than her father—and Mr. Baker was renowned for being the best cook in town. The brown things were crunchy, but soft at the same time, with a rather hot taste that Charmain had never met before. They made you need the lemonade. She and the King polished off the whole platterful between them and drank all the lemonade. Then they got back to work.

By this time they were on extremely friendly terms. Charmain now had no shyness about asking the King anything she wanted to know. “Why would they need two bushels of rose petals, Sire?” she asked him, and the King answered, “They liked them underfoot in the dining saloon in those days. Messy habit, to my mind. Listen to what this philosopher has to say about camels, my dear.” And he read out a page from his book that made them both laugh. The philosopher had clearly not got on with camels.

Quite a long time later, the library door opened and Waif trotted in, looking very pleased with herself. She was followed by Jamal. “Message from our Princess, Sire,” he said. “The lady has settled in, and Sim is taking tea to the front parlor.”

“Ah,” said the King. “Crumpets?”

“Muffins too,” Jamal said and went away.

The King banged his book shut and stood up. “I had better go and greet our guest,” he said.

“I’ll go on with the bills, then,” Charmain said. “I’ll make a pile of the ones I want to ask about.”

“No, no,” said the King. “You come too, my dear. Bring the little dog. Helps break the ice, you know. This lady is my daughter’s friend. Never met her myself.”

Charmain at once felt highly nervous again. She had found Princess Hilda thoroughly intimidating and much too royal for comfort, and any friend of hers was likely to be just as bad. But she could hardly refuse, when the King was expectantly holding the door open for her. Waif was already trotting after him. Charmain felt forced to get up and follow.

The front parlor was a large room full of faded sofas with slightly frayed arms and rather ragged fringes. There were more pale squares on the walls, where pictures must once have hung. The biggest pale square was over the grand marble fireplace, where to Charmain’s relief a cheerful fire was burning. The parlor, like the library, was a cold room, and Charmain had gone cold with nerves again.

Princess Hilda was sitting bolt upright on a sofa beside the fireplace, where Sim had just pushed a large tea trolley. As soon as she saw Sim pushing a trolley, Charmain knew where she had seen Sim before. It was when she had got lost beside the Conference Room and had that glimpse of the old man pushing a trolley along a strange corridor. That’s odd! she thought. Sim was in the act of shakily placing a plate of buttered crumpets in the hearth. At the sight of those crumpets, Waif’s nose quivered and she made a dash toward them. Charmain was only just in time to catch her. As she stood up holding the wriggling Waif firmly in both arms, the Princess said, “Ah, my father, the King.” Everyone else in the parlor stood up. “Father,” said the Princess, “may I introduce my great friend, Mrs. Sophie Pendragon?”

The King strode limpingly forward, holding out his hand and making the large room look quite a little smaller. Charmain had not realized before quite how large he was. Quite as tall as those elves, she thought.

“Mrs. Pendragon,” he said. “Delighted to meet you. Any friend of our daughter’s is a friend of ours.”

Mrs. Pendragon surprised Charmain. She was quite young, younger than the Princess by a long way, and modishly dressed in a peacock blue that set off her red gold hair and blue-green eyes to perfection. She’s lovely! Charmain thought, rather enviously. Mrs. Pendragon dropped the King a little curtsy as they shook hands, and said, “I’m here to do my best, Sire. More I can’t say.”