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

There was no answer. Charmain sighed. Evidently Peter had got thoroughly lost, even worse than she had, and there was no knowing when he would turn up now.

“Too many pieces of colored string!” Charmain muttered to Waif as she tapped the fireplace for dog food. “Stupid boy!”

She felt far too tired to do any cooking. When Waif had eaten two dishes of food and drunk the water Charmain fetched from the bathroom, Charmain staggered into the living room and had Afternoon Tea. After some thought, she had Afternoon Tea a second time. Then she had Morning Coffee. Then she wondered whether to go to the kitchen and have breakfast, but found she was too tired and picked up a book instead.

A long time later, Waif woke her up by climbing on the sofa beside her.

“Oh, bother this!” Charmain said. She went to bed without even trying to wash and fell asleep with her glasses still on her nose.

When she woke next morning, she could hear that Peter was back. There were bathroom noises and footsteps and the sound of doors opening and shutting. He sounds awfully brisk, Charmain thought. I wish I did. But she knew she really had to get to the Royal Mansion today, so she groaned and got up. She dug out her last set of clean clothes and took such great care washing and doing her hair that Waif arrived anxiously from somewhere to fetch her.

“Yes. Breakfast. All right. I know,” Charmain said. “The trouble is,” she admitted, as she picked Waif up, “I’m scared of that colorless gentleman. I think he’s even worse than the prince.” She shoved the door open with one foot, turned, and turned left into the kitchen, where she stopped and stared.

A strange woman was sitting at the kitchen table calmly eating breakfast. She was the kind of woman who you know at once is completely efficient. She had efficiency all over her narrow sun-weathered face and competence all over her strong narrow hands. Those hands were busy efficiently cutting up a mighty pile of pancakes in syrup and slicing the stack of crispy bacon beside it.

Charmain stared, both at the pancakes and the woman’s gypsy-like clothes. She wore bright, faded flounces all over and a colorful scarf across her faded fairish hair. The woman turned and stared back.

“Who are you?” they both said at once, the woman with her mouth full.

“I’m Charmain Baker,” Charmain said. “I’m here to look after Great-Uncle William’s house while he’s away being cured by the elves.”

The woman swallowed her mouthful. “Good,” she said. “I’m glad to see he left someone in charge. I didn’t like to think of the dog being left all alone with Peter. She’s been fed, by the way. Peter is not a dog person. Is Peter still asleep?”

“Er…,” said Charmain. “I’m not sure. He didn’t come in last night.”

The woman sighed. “He always vanishes as soon as I turn my back,” she said. “I know he must have got here safely.” She waved a fork loaded with pancake and bacon at the window. “That washing out there has Peter all over it.”

Charmain felt her face go hot and red. “Some of it was my fault,” she admitted. “I boiled a robe. Why do you think it was Peter?”

“Because,” said the woman, “he has never been able to get a spell right in his life. I should know. I’m his mother.”

Charmain was rather shaken to realize she was talking to the Witch of Montalbino. She was impressed. Of course Peter’s mother is hyper-efficient, she thought. But what is she doing here? “I thought you’d gone to Ingary,” she said.

“I had,” said the Witch. “I’d got as far as Strangia, when Queen Beatrice told me that Wizard Howl had gone to High Norland. So back I came across the mountains and dropped in on the elves, where they told me that Wizard Norland was with them. I was extremely alarmed then, because I realized that Peter was probably all alone here. I’d sent him here to be safe, you see. I came here at once.”

“I think Peter was safe,” Charmain said. “Or he was until he got lost yesterday.”

“He’ll be safe now that I’m here,” the Witch said. “I can feel he’s somewhere quite near.” She sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to go and look for him. He doesn’t know his right hand from his left, you see.”

“I know,” Charmain said. “He uses colored string. He’s quite efficient, really.” But she thought as she spoke that to someone as super-efficient as the Witch of Montalbino, Peter was bound to seem as hopeless as Peter thought Charmain herself was. Parents! she thought. She put Waif on the floor and asked politely, “Excuse me for asking, but how did you get the breakfast spell to send you those pancakes?”

“By giving the right order, of course,” said the Witch. “Want some?” Charmain nodded. The Witch flicked efficient fingers toward the fireplace. “Breakfast,” she commanded, “with pancakes, bacon, juice, and coffee.” The loaded tray appeared at once, with a most satisfactory heap of pancakes, trickling in syrup, in the center of it. “See?” said the Witch.

“Thank you,” Charmain said, gratefully taking hold of the tray.

Waif’s nose tilted up at the smell, and she ran round in little circles, squeaking. It was clear that, to Waif, being fed by the Witch did not count as proper breakfast. Charmain put the tray on the table and gave Waif the crunchiest piece of bacon.

“That’s an enchanting dog you’ve got there,” the Witch remarked, going back to her own breakfast.

“She is rather sweet,” Charmain admitted as she sat down and began to enjoy the pancakes.

“No, I didn’t mean that,” the Witch said impatiently. “I never gush. I meant that is what she is—an enchanting dog.” She ate more pancake and added with her mouth full, “Enchanting dogs are quite rare and very magical. This one is doing you a great honor by adopting you as her human. I’m guessing that she even changed her sex to match yours. I hope you appreciate her as you should.”

“Yes,” said Charmain. “I do.” And I’d almost rather have breakfast with Princess Hilda, she thought. Why does she have to be so severe? She went on with her breakfast, remembering that Great-Uncle William had seemed to think that Waif was a male dog. Waif had seemed to be a male dog at first. Then Peter had picked her up and said she was female. “I’m sure you’re right,” Charmain added politely. “Why is Peter not safe here on his own? He’s my age, and I am.”

“I imagine,” the Witch said dryly, “that your magic works rather better than Peter’s.” She finished her pancakes and went on to toast. “If Peter can possibly bungle a spell, he will,” she asserted, buttering the toast. “Don’t tell me,” she said, taking a large, crunchy bite, “because I won’t believe you, that your magic doesn’t do exactly what you mean it to, however you do it.”

Charmain thought of the flying spell and the plumbing spell and then of Rollo in the bag and said, “Yes,” through a mouthful of pancake. “I suppose—”