got up, jauntily and defiantly, found the big flask and funnel, and started to fill her inkwell. Ten minutes later, she was still pouring away. Her face was puzzled at first, then red, then white with fury again. She tried to put the flask down, and found she could not. She tried whispering a spell.
Mr Saunders turned and looked at her.
“You’re being perfectly horrible!” said Gwendolen. “Besides, I’m allowed to do witchcraft when you’re here.”
“No one is allowed to pour ink over their tutor,” Mr Saunders said cheerfully. “And I’d already told you that you’ve given up witchcraft for the time being. Keep on pouring till I tell you to stop.”
Gwendolen poured ink for the next half hour, and got angrier every minute of it.
Cat was impressed. He suspected that Mr Saunders was rather a powerful magician. Certainly, when he next looked at Mr Saunders, there was no sign of any ink on his back. Cat looked at Mr Saunders fairly often, to see whether it was safe to change his pen from his right to his left hand. He had been punished so often for writing left-handed that he was good at keeping an eye on his teachers. When Mr Saunders turned his way, Cat used his right hand. It was slow and reluctant. But as soon as Mr Saunders turned away again, Cat changed his pen over and got on like a house on fire. The main trouble was that, in order not to smudge the ink with his left hand, he had to hold the paper sideways. But he was pretty deft at flicking his book straight again whenever Mr Saunders seemed likely to look at him.
When the half hour was over, Mr Saunders, without turning round, told Gwendolen to stop pouring ink and do sums. Then, still without turning round, he said to Cat, “Eric, what are you doing?”
“An essay on King Canute,” Cat said innocently.
Then Mr Saunders did turn round, but, by that time, the paper was straight and the pen in Cat’s right hand. “Which hand were you writing with?” he said. Cat was used to this. He held up his right hand with the pen in it. “It looked like both hands to me,” Mr Saunders said, and he came over and looked at the page Cat had written. “It was both.”
“It doesn’t show,” Cat said miserably.
“Not much,” Mr Saunders agreed. “Does it amuse you to write with alternate hands, or something?”
“No,” Cat confessed. “But I’m left-handed.”
Then, as Cat had feared, Mr Saunders flew into a towering rage. His face went red. He slammed his big knobby hand down on Cat’s desk, so that Cat jumped and the inkwell jumped too, sending ink splashing over Mr Saunders’s great hand and over Cat’s essay. “Left-handed!” he roared. “Then why the Black Gentleman don’t you write with your left hand, boy?”
“They – they punish me if I do,” Cat faltered, very shaken, and very perplexed to find Mr Saunders was angry for such a peculiar reason.
“Then they deserve to be tied up in knots and roasted!” roared Mr Saunders, “whoever they are! You’re doing yourself untold harm by obeying them, boy! If I catch you writing with your right hand again, you’ll be in really serious trouble!”
“Yes,” Cat said, relieved but still very shaken. He looked mournfully at his ink-splashed essay and hoped Mr Saunders might use a little witchcraft on that too. But Mr Saunders took the book and tore the page right out.
“Now do it again properly!” he said, slapping the book back in front of Cat.
Cat was still writing all over again about Canute when Mary came in with a tray of milk and biscuits and a cup of coffee for Mr Saunders. And after the milk and biscuits, Mr Saunders told Cat and Gwendolen they were free till lunch. “Though not because of a good morning’s work,” he said. “Go out and get some fresh air.” As they went out of the schoolroom, he turned to Roger and Julia. “Now we’ll have a little witchcraft,” he said. “And let’s hope you haven’t forgotten all that, too.”
Gwendolen stopped in the doorway and looked at him.
“No. Not you,” Mr Saunders said to her. “I told you.”
Gwendolen whirled round and ran away, through the shabby playroom and down the corridor beyond. Cat ran after her as hard as he could, but he did not catch her up until they came to a much grander part of the Castle, where a big marble staircase curled away downwards and the light came from an elegant dome in the roof.
“This isn’t the right way,” Cat panted.
“Yes it is,” Gwendolen said fiercely. “I’m going to find Chrestomanci. Why should those two fat little fools learn witchcraft and not me? I’ve got twice their gifts. It took two of them just to levitate a jug of cocoa! So I want Chrestomanci.”
By a stroke of good fortune, Chrestomanci was coming along the gallery on the other side of the staircase, behind a curly marble balustrade. He was wearing a fawn-coloured suit now, instead of the imperial dressing-gown, but he looked, if possible, even more elegant. By the look on his face, his thoughts were miles away. Gwendolen ran round the head of the marble staircase and stood herself in front of him. Chrestomanci blinked, and looked vaguely from her to Cat. “Was one of you wanting me?”
“Yes. Me,” said Gwendolen. “Mr Saunders won’t give me witchcraft lessons, and I want you to tell him he must.”
“Oh, but I can’t do that,” Chrestomanci said absentmindedly. “Sorry and so on.”
Gwendolen stamped her foot. It made no noise to speak of, even there on the marble floor, and there was no echo. Gwendolen was forced to shout instead. “Why not? You must, you must, you must!”
Chrestomanci looked down at her, in a peering, surprised way, as if he had only just seen her. “You seem to be annoyed,” he said. “But I’m afraid it’s unavoidable. I told Michael Saunders that he was on no account to teach either of you witchcraft.”
“You did! Why not?” Gwendolen shouted.
“Because you were bound to misuse it, of course,” said Chrestomanci, as if it were quite obvious. “But I’ll reconsider in a year or so, if you still want to learn.” Then he smiled kindly at Gwendolen, obviously expecting her to be pleased, and drifted dreamily away down the marble stairs.
Gwendolen kicked the marble balustrade and hurt her foot. That sent her into a rage as strong as Mr Saunders’. She danced and jumped and shrieked at the head of the stairs, until Cat was quite frightened of her. She shook her fist after Chrestomanci. “I’ll show you! You wait!” she screamed. But Chrestomanci had gone out of sight round the bend in the staircase and perhaps he could not hear. Even Gwendolen’s loudest scream sounded thin and small.
Cat was puzzled. What was it about this Castle? He looked up at the dome where the light came in and thought that Gwendolen’s screaming ought to have echoed round it like the dickens. Instead, it made a small, high squawking. While he waited for her to get her temper back, Cat experimentally put his fingers to his mouth and whistled as hard as he could. It made a queer blunt noise, like a squeaky boot. It also brought the old lady with the mittens out of a door in the gallery.
“You noisy little children!” she said. “If you want to scream and whistle, you must go out in the grounds and do it there.”
“Oh,
