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

“About fifty dog dishes full,” Charmain said without thinking.

“Fifty!” said her mother.

“I was exaggerating,” Charmain said.

Waif, seeing them all looking at her, sat up into begging position with her paws under her chin. She contrived to look enchanting. It was the way she managed to make one ragged ear flop that did it, Charmain decided.

“Oh, what a sweet little doggie!” Mrs. Baker cried out. “Is ooh hungwy, then?” She gave Waif the rest of the cake she was eating. Waif took it politely, ate it in one gulp, and continued to beg. Mrs. Baker gave her a whole cake from the plate. This caused Waif to beg more soulfully than ever.

“I’m disgusted,” Charmain told Waif.

Aunt Sempronia graciously handed a cake over to Waif too. “I must say,” she said to Charmain, “with this great hound to guard you, no one need fear for your safety, although you might go rather hungry yourself.”

“She’s good at barking,” Charmain said. And there’s no need to be sarcastic, Aunt Sempronia. I know she isn’t a guard dog. But Charmain had no sooner thought this than she realized that Waif was guarding her. She had taken Mother’s attention completely away from kobolds, or the kitchen, or any dangers to Charmain herself, and she had contrived to reduce herself to the right size to do it. Charmain found herself so grateful that she gave Waif a cake as well. Waif thanked her very charmingly, by nosing her hand, and then turned her expectant attention to Mrs. Baker again.

“Oh, she is so sweet!” Mrs. Baker sighed, and rewarded Waif with a fifth cake.

She’ll burst, Charmain thought. Nevertheless, thanks to Waif, the rest of the visit went off most peacefully, until right at the end, when the ladies got up to go. Mrs. Baker said, “Oh, I nearly forgot!” and felt in her pocket. “This letter came for you, darling.” She held out to Charmain a long, stiff envelope with a red wax seal on the back of it. It was addressed to “Mistress Charmain Baker” in elegant quavery writing.

Charmain stared at the letter and found her heart was banging away in her ears and her chest like a blacksmith at an anvil. Her eyes went fuzzy. Her hand shook as she took the letter. The King had replied to her. He had actually answered. She knew it was the King. The address was in the same quavery writing that she had found on the letter in Great-Uncle William’s study. “Oh. Thanks,” she said, trying to sound casual.

“Open it, dear,” her mother said. “It looks very grand. What do you think it is?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Charmain said. “It’s only my Leavers’ Certificate.”

This was a mistake. Her mother exclaimed, “What? But your father is expecting you to stay on at school and learn a little culture, darling!”

“Yes, I know, but they always give everyone a certificate at the end of the tenth year,” Charmain invented. “In case some of us do want to leave, you know. My whole class will have got one too. Don’t worry.”

In spite of this explanation, which Charmain considered quite brilliant, Mrs. Baker did worry. She might have made a very great fuss, had not Waif suddenly sprung up onto her hind legs and walked at Mrs. Baker, with her front paws most appealingly tucked under her chin again.

“Oh, you sweetheart!” Mrs. Baker exclaimed. “Charmain, if your great-uncle lets you bring this darling little dog home with you when he’s better, I shan’t mind a bit. I really shan’t.”

Charmain was able to stuff the King’s letter into her waistband and kiss her mother and then Aunt Sempronia good-bye without either of them mentioning it again. She waved them happily off down the path between the hydrangeas and shut the front door behind them with a gasp of relief. “Thank you, Waif!” she said. “You clever dog!” She leaned against the front door and started to open the King’s letter—though I know in advance he’s bound to say no, she told herself, shivering with excitement. I would say no, if it was me!

Before she had the envelope more than half open, the other door was flung open by Peter. “Have they gone?” he said. “At last? I need your help. I’m being mobbed by angry kobolds in here.”

Chapter Six

WHICH CONCERNS THE COLOR BLUE

Charmain sighed and stuffed the King’s letter into her pocket. She did not feel like sharing whatever it said with Peter. “Why?” she said. “Why are they angry?”

“Come and see,” Peter said. “It all sounds ridiculous to me. I told them that you were in charge and they had to wait until you had finished being polite to those witches.”

“Witches!” said Charmain. “One of them was my mother!”

“Well, my mother’s a witch,” Peter said. “And you only had to look at the proud one in silk to see that she was a witch. Do come on.”

He held the door open for Charmain and she went through, thinking that Peter was probably right about Aunt Sempronia. No one in the Bakers’ respectable house ever mentioned witchcraft, but Charmain had thought that Aunt Sempronia was a witch for years, without ever putting it to herself so baldly.

She forgot about Aunt Sempronia as soon as she entered the kitchen. There were kobolds everywhere. Little blue men with different shapes of large blue noses were standing anywhere there was a space on the floor that was not full of dog dishes or spilled tea. They were on the table between teapots and in the sink balanced on dirty dishes. There were little blue women too, mostly perched on the laundry bags. The women were distinguished by their smaller, gentler noses and their rather stylish flounced blue skirts. I’d like a skirt like that, Charmain thought. Only larger, of course. There were so many kobolds that it took Charmain a moment to notice that the bubbles from the fireplace we

re nearly gone.

All the kobolds raised a shrill shout as Charmain came in. “We seem to have got the whole tribe,” Peter said.

Charmain thought he was probably right. “Very well,” she said above the yelling. “I’m here. What’s the problem?”