They were very faint. It wasn’t that they were on the verge of hearing, because they were the kind of voices that ordinary ears can’t hear. They were inside her head.
…watch what you’re doing…where am I…quit shoving, there…
And then they faded again.
They were replaced by a squeaking noise from the next room. She pushed aside her boiled egg and waddled through the bead curtain.
The sound was coming from under the severe, no-nonsense hessian cover of her crystal ball.
Evadne went back into the kitchen and selected a heavy frying pan. She waved it through the air once or twice, getting the heft of it, and then crept toward the crystal under its hood.
Raising the pan ready to swat anything unpleasant, she twitched aside the cover.
The ball was turning slowly around and around on its stand.
Evadne watched it for a while. Then she drew the curtains, eased her weight down on the chair, took a deep breath and said, “Is there anybody there?”
Most of the ceiling fell in.
After several minutes and a certain amount of struggle Mrs. Cake managed to get her head free.
“Ludmilla!”
There were soft footsteps in the passageway and then something came in from the backyard. It was clearly, even attractively female, in general shape, and wore a perfectly ordinary dress. It was also apparently suffering from a case of superfluous hair that not all the delicate pink razors in the world could erase. Also, teeth and fingernails were being worn long this season. You expected the whole thing to growl, but it spoke in a pleasant and definitely human voice.
“Mother?”
“Oi’m under ’ere.”
The fearsome Ludmilla lifted up a huge joist and tossed it lightly aside. “What happened? Didn’t you have your premonition switched on?”
“Oi turned it off to speak to the baker. Cor, that gave me a turn.”
“I’ll make you a cup of tea, shall I?”
“Now then, you know you always crushes teacups when it’s your Time.”
“I’m getting better at it,” said Ludmilla.
“There’s a good girl, but I’ll do it myself, thanks all the same.”
Mrs. Cake stood up, brushed the plaster dust off her apron, and said: “They shouted! They shouted! All at once!”
Modo the University gardener was weeding a rose bed when the ancient, velvet lawn beside him heaved and sprouted a hardy perennial Windle Poons, who blinked in the light.
“Is that you, Modo?”
“That’s right, Mr. Poons,” said the dwarf. “Shall I give you a hand up?”
“I think I can manage, thank you.”
“I’ve got a shovel in the shed, if you like.”
“No, it’s perfectly all right.” Windle pulled himself out of the grass and brushed the soil off the remains of his robe. “Sorry about your lawn,” he added, looking down at the hole.
“Don’t mention it, Mr. Poons.”
“Did it take long to get it looking like that?”