“I think we’ll leave my daughter to cope with her guests,” the King said, ushering Charmain and Waif out of the parlor. He shut the door upon more and more toys appearing and the child Twinkle looking highly demure, while everyone else ran about in confusion. “Wizards are often very vigorous guests,” the King remarked on the way back to the library, “although I had no idea they started so young. A bit trying for their mothers, I imagine.”
Half an hour later, Charmain was on her way back to Great-Uncle William’s house with Waif pattering behind her looking as demure as the child Twinkle.
“Ooof!” Charmain said to her. “You know, Waif, I’ve never lived so much life in three days, ever!” She felt a bit wistful all the same. It made sense for the King to give her the bills and love letters, but she did wish they could have taken turns with the books. She would have loved to spend some of the day at least going through a thoroughly elderly and musty leather-bound volume. It was what she had been hoping for. But never mind. As soon as she got back to Great-Uncle William’s house, she could bury herself in The Twelve-Branched Wand, or perhaps Memoirs of an Exorcist would be better, since it seemed to be the kind of book you were happier to read by daylight. Or try a different book altogether, maybe?
She was looking forward so much to a good read that she hardly noticed the walk, except to pick Waif up again when Waif began panting and toiling. With Waif in her arms, she kicked Great-Uncle William’s gate open and found herself confronting Rollo halfway up the path, scowling all over his small blue face.
“What is it now?” Charmain said to him, and seriously wondered whether to pick Rollo up too and throw him into the hydrangeas. Rollo was small enough to hurl beautifully, even when she had one arm wrapped round Waif.
“Them flowerheads you got all over that outside table,” Rollo said. “You expect me to stick them back on, or something?”
“No, of course not,” Charmain said. “They’re drying in the sun. Then I’ll have them in the house.”
“Huh!” said Rollo. “Prettifying in there, are you? How do you think the wizard’ll like that?”
“None of your business,” Charmain said haughtily, and strode forward so that Rollo was forced to hop out of her way. He shouted something after her as she was opening the front door, but she did not bother to listen. She knew it was rude. She slammed the door shut on his yells.
Indoors, the smell of the living room was more than musty. It was like a stagnant pond. Charmain put Waif on the floor and sniffed suspiciously. So did Waif. Long brown fingers of something were oozing under the door to the kitchen. Waif tiptoed up to them warily. Charmain, equally warily, put out her toe and prodded the nearest brown trickle. It squished like a marsh.
“Oh, what has Peter done now?” Charmain exclaimed. She flung the door open.
Two inches of water rippled all over the kitchen floor. Charmain could see it seeping darkly up the six bags of laundry beside the sink.
“Doh!” she cried out, slammed the door shut, opened it again, and turned left.
The corridor there was awash. Sunlight from the end window flared on the water in a way that suggested a strong current coming from the bathroom. Angrily, Charmain splashed her way there. All I wanted to do was sit down and read a book! she thought, and I come home to a flood!
As she reached the bathroom, with Waif paddling unhappily after her, its door opened and Peter shot out of it, damp down his front and looking thoroughly harassed. He had no shoes on and his trousers were rolled up to his knees.
“Oh good, you’re back,” he said, before Charmain could speak. “There’s this hole in one of the pipes in here. I’ve tried six different spells to stop it, but all they do is make it move about. I was just going to turn the water off at that woolly tank through there—or try to anyway—but perhaps you could do something instead.”
“Woolly tank?” Charmain said. “Oh, you mean that thing covered in blue fur. What makes you think that will do any good? Everywhere’s flooded!”
“It’s the only thing I haven’t tried,” Peter snarled at her. “The water has to come from there somehow. You can hear it trickling. I thought I might find a stopcock—”
“Oh, you’re useless!” Charmain snarled back. “Let me have a look.” She pushed Peter aside and flounced into the bathroom, raising a sheet of water as she went.
There was indeed a hole. One of the pipes between the washbasin and the bath had a lengthwise slit in it, and water was spraying out of it in a merry fountain. Here and there along the pipe were gray magical-looking blobs which must have been Peter’s six useless spells. And this is all his fault! she snarled to herself. He was the one who made the pipes red hot. Oh, honestly!
She rushed at the spraying slit and angrily planted both hands on it. “Stop this!” she commanded. Water sprayed out round her hands and into her face. “Stop it at once!”
All that happened was that the slit moved sideways from under her fingers for about six inches and sprayed water over her pigtail and her right shoulder. Charmain scooped her hands along to cover it again. “Stop that! Stop it!”
The slit moved off sideways again.
“So that’s how you want it, is it?” Charmain said to it, and scooped some more. The slit moved off. She followed it with her hands. In a moment or so she had it cornered above the bath and the water spraying harmlessly into the bath and running away down the plughole. She kept it there, by leaning on the pipe with one hand, while she thought what next to do. I wonder Peter didn’t think of this, she thought in a sort of mutter, instead of running about casting useless spells. “Great-Uncle William,” she called out, “how do I stop the bathroom pipe leaking?”
There was no answer. This was obviously not something Great-Uncle William thought Charmain would need to know.
“I don’t think he knows much about plumbing,” Peter said from the doorway. “There’s nothing useful in the suitcase either. I had it all out to see.”
“Oh, did you?” Charmain said nastily.
“Yes, some of the stuff in there is really interesting,” Peter said. “I’ll show you if you—”
“Be quiet and let me think!” Charmain snapped at him.
Peter seemed to realize that Charmain might not be in a very good mood. He stopped talking and waited while Charmain stood in the bath and leaned on the pipe, thinking. You had to come at this leak two ways, so that it couldn’t slide off again. First you fixed it in one place and then you covered it up. But how? Quick, before my feet are quite soaked. “Peter,” she said, “go and get me some dishcloths. At least three.”