the leaves. So that was no good. It was Julia and Roger’s private tree-house, and they were in it.
Cat wandered away again. He came to the lawn, and there was Gwendolen, crouching under one of the cedars, very busy digging a small hole.
“What are you doing?” said Cat.
“Go away,” said Gwendolen.
Cat went away. He was sure what Gwendolen was doing was witchcraft and had to do with teaching Chrestomanci a lesson, but it was no good asking Gwendolen when she was being this secretive. Cat had to wait. He waited through another terrifying dinner, and then through a long, long evening. Gwendolen locked herself in her room after dinner and told him to go away when he knocked.
Next morning, Cat woke up early and hurried to the nearest of his three windows. He saw at once what Gwendolen had been doing. The lawn was ruined. It was not a smooth stretch of green velvet any longer. It was a mass of molehills. As far as Cat could see in both directions, there were little green mounds, little heaps of raw earth, long lines of raw earth and long green furrows of raised grass. There must have been an army of moles at work on it all night. About a dozen gardeners were standing in a gloomy huddle, scratching their heads over it.
Cat threw on his clothes and dashed downstairs.
Gwendolen was leaning out of her window in her frilly cotton nightdress, glowing with pride. “Look at that!” she said to Cat. “Isn’t it marvellous! There’s acres of it, too. It took me hours yesterday evening to make sure it was all spoilt. That will make Chrestomanci think a bit!”
Cat was sure it would. He did not know how much a huge stretch of turf like that would cost to replace, but he suspected it was a great deal. He was afraid Gwendolen would be in really bad trouble.
But to his astonishment, nobody so much as mentioned the lawn. Euphemia came in a minute later, but all she said was, “You’ll both be late for your breakfast again.”
Roger and Julia said nothing at all. They silently accepted the marmalade and Cat’s knife when he passed them over, but the sole thing either of them said was when Julia dropped Cat’s knife and picked it up again all fluffy. She said, “Bother!” And when Mr Saunders called them through for lessons, the only things he talked about were what he was teaching them. Cat decided that nobody knew Gwendolen had caused the moles. They could have no idea what a strong witch she was.
There were no lessons after lunch that day. Mr Saunders explained that they always had Wednesday afternoons off. And at lunchtime, every molehill had gone. When they looked out of the playroom window, the lawn was like a sheet of velvet again.
“I don’t believe it!” Gwendolen whispered to Cat. “It must be an illusion. They’re trying to make me feel small.”
They went out and looked after lunch. They had to be fairly cautious about it, because Mr Saunders was taking his afternoon off in a deckchair under one of the cedars, reading a yellow paper-backed book which seemed to amuse him a great deal. Gwendolen sauntered out into the middle of the lawn and pretended to be admiring the Castle. She pretended to tie her bootlace and prodded the turf with her fingers.
“I don’t understand it!” she said. Being a witch, she knew the close, smooth turf was no illusion. “It really is all right! How was it done?”
“They must have carted in new turf while we were having lessons,” Cat suggested.
“Don’t be stupid!” said Gwendolen. “New turf would all be in squares still, and this isn’t.”
Mr Saunders called to them.
Gwendolen looked, for a second, more apprehensive than Cat had ever seen her. But she hid it fairly well and led the way casually over to the deckchair. Cat saw that the yellow book was in French. Fancy being able to laugh at something in French! Mr Saunders must be a learned magician as well as a strong one.
Mr Saunders laid the book face down on the once-more-beautiful grass and smiled up at them. “You two went away so quickly that you never gave me time to dish you out your pocket money. Here you are.” He handed them each a large silver coin. Cat stared at his. It was a crown piece – five whole shillings. He had never had so much money to spend in his life. Mr Saunders added to his amazement by saying, “You’ll get that every Wednesday. I don’t know whether you’re savers or spenders. What Julia and Roger usually do is to go down to the village and blue it all on sweets.”
“Thank you,” said Cat, “very much. Shall we go down to the village, Gwendolen?”
“We may as well,” Gwendolen agreed. She was divided between a defiant desire to stay at the Castle and face whatever trouble was coming over the moles, and relief at an excuse to get away. “I expect Chrestomanci will send for me as soon as he realises it was me,” she said as they walked down the avenue of trees.
“Do you think it was Mr Saunders who put the lawn right?” Cat asked.
Gwendolen frowned. “He couldn’t have. He was teaching us.”
“Those gardeners,” suggested Cat. “Some of them could be warlocks. They did turn up awfully quickly to forbid us things.”
Gwendolen laughed scornfully. “Think of the Willing Warlock.”
Cat did, a little dubiously. The Willing Warlock was not much more gifted than Mrs Sharp. He was usually hired for heavy carrying jobs, or to make the wrong horse win at the races. “All the same,” he argued, “they could be specialists – garden warlocks.”
Gwendolen only laughed again.
The village was just beyond the Castle gates, at the foot of the hill where the Castle stood. It was a pretty place, round a big green. Across the green, there were shops: a beautiful bow-fronted baker’s and an equally beautiful sweet shop and Post Office. Cat wanted to visit both, but Gwendolen stopped at a third shop, which was a junk shop. Cat did not mind going into that, either. It looked interesting. But Gwendolen shook her head irritably and stopped a village boy who was loitering near it.
“I was told a Mr Baslam lives in this village. Can you tell me where he lives?”
The boy made a face. “Him? He’s no good. Down there, at the end of that alley, if you really want to know.” And he stood looking at them, with the air of someone who has earned sixpence for his pains.
Neither Cat nor Gwendolen had any money beside their crown pieces. They had to go away without giving him anything. The boy shouted after them.
“Stuck up little witch! Mingy little warlock!”
Gwendolen did not mind this in the least, but Cat was so ashamed that he wanted to go back and explain.
Mr Baslam lived in a shabby cottage with an ill-written notice propped in one window: Eggsotick Serplys. Gwendolen looked at it rather pityingly as she hammered on the door with the dingy knocker. When Mr Baslam opened his door, he proved to be a fat person in old trousers which sagged to make room for his fatness, and with red drooping eyes like a St Bernard’s. He started to shut the door again as soon as he saw them.
“Not today, thank you,” he said, and a strong smell of beer came out with the words.
“Mr Nostrum sent me,” said Gwendolen. “Mr William Nostrum.”
The
