wearing off in a day or so, though, and then we can have reasonable talk again and make a few jokes. I like to laugh at dinner, don’t you? I’m afraid nothing will stop poor Bernard talking about stocks and shares, but you mustn’t take any notice of that. Nobody listens to Bernard. Do you like eclairs, by the way?”
“Yes,” said Cat.
“Oh good!” said Millie. “I’ve ordered tea for us on the lawn, since this is your first Wednesday and I didn’t want to waste this lovely weather. Isn’t it funny how September’s nearly always fine? If we slip through the trees here, we should be on the lawn as soon as tea is.”
Sure enough, they followed Millie out of the shrubbery to find a whole cluster of deckchairs round the one where Mr Saunders was, and footmen putting out tables and carrying trays. Most of the Family were gathering among the deckchairs. Gwendolen followed Millie and Cat over, looking nervous and defiant. She knew Chrestomanci was going to speak to her about the lawn now, and, to make matters worse, she was not going to have a chance to take the exotic supplies out of her hat before he did.
But Chrestomanci was not there, though everyone else was. Millie pushed between stocks-and-shares Bernard and Julia, and past the old lady with mittens, to point her parasol sternly at Mr Saunders. “Michael, you are absolutely forbidden to talk about Art during tea,” she said, and spoilt the sternness rather by laughing.
The Family evidently felt much the same as Cat. Several of them said “Hear, hear!” and Roger said, “Can we start, Mummy?”
Cat enjoyed the tea. It was the first time he had enjoyed anything since he came to the Castle. There were paper-thin cucumber sandwiches and big squashy eclairs. Cat ate even more than Roger did. He was surrounded by cheerful, ordinary chat from the Family, with a hum of stocks and shares in the background, and the sun lay warm and peaceful on the green stretches of the lawn. Cat was glad someone had somehow restored it. He liked it better smooth. He began to think he could almost be happy at the Castle, with a little practice.
Gwendolen was nothing like so happy. The newspaper packets weighed on her head. Their smell spoilt the taste of the eclairs. And she knew she would have to wait until dinner before Chrestomanci spoke to her about the lawn.
Dinner was later that night, because of the tea. Dusk was falling when they filed into the dining room. There were lighted candles all down the polished table. Cat could see them, and the rest of the room, reflected in the row of long windows facing him. It was a pleasing sight, and a useful one. Cat could see the footman coming. For once he was not taken by surprise when the man thrust a tray of little fish and pickled cabbage over his shoulder. And, as he was now forbidden to use his right hand, Cat felt quite justified in changing the serving things over. He began to feel he was settling in.
Because he had not been allowed to talk about Art at tea, Mr Saunders was more than usually eloquent at dinner. He talked and he talked. He took Chrestomanci’s attention to himself, and he talked at him. Chrestomanci seemed dreamy and good-humoured. He listened and nodded. And Gwendolen grew crosser every minute. Chrestomanci said not a word about lawns, neither here nor in the drawing room beforehand. It became clearer and clearer that no one was going to mention the matter at all.
Gwendolen was furious. She wanted her powers recognised. She wanted to show Chrestomanci she was a witch to be reckoned with. So there was nothing for it but to begin on another spell. She was a little hampered by not having any ingredients to hand, but there was one thing she could do quite easily.
The dinner went on. Mr Saunders talked on. Footmen came round with the next course. Cat looked over at the windows to see when the silver plate would come to him. And he nearly screamed.
There was a skinny white creature there. It was pressed against the dark outside of the glass, mouthing and waving. It looked like the lost ghost of a lunatic. It was weak and white and loathsome. It was draggled and slimy. Even though Cat realised almost at once that it was Gwendolen’s doing, he still stared at it in horror.
Millie saw him staring. She looked herself, shuddered, and tapped Chrestomanci gently on the back of the hand with her spoon. Chrestomanci came out of his gentle dream and glanced at the window too. He gave the piteous creature a bored look, and sighed.
“And so I still think Florence is the finest of all the Italian States,” said Mr Saunders.
“People usually put in a word for Venice,” said Chrestomanci. “Frazier, would you draw the curtains, please? Thank you.”
“No, no. In my opinion, Venice is overrated,” Mr Saunders asserted, and he went on to explain why, while the butler drew the long orange curtains and shut the creature out of sight.
“Yes, maybe you’re right. Florence has more to offer,” Chrestomanci agreed. “By the way, Gwendolen, when I said the Castle, I meant of course the Castle grounds as well as indoors. Now, do carry on, Michael. Venice.”
Everyone carried on, except Cat. He could imagine the creature still mouthing and fumbling at the glass behind the orange curtains. He could not eat for thinking of it.
“It’s all right, stupid! I’ve sent it away,” said Gwendolen. Her voice was sticky with rage.
Gwendolen gave vent to her fury in her room after dinner. She jumped on her bed and threw cushions about, screaming. Cat stood prudently back against the wall waiting for her to finish. But Gwendolen did not finish until she had pledged herself to a campaign against Chrestomanci.
“I hate this place!” she bawled. “They try to cover everything up in soft sweet niceness. I hate it, I hate it!” Her voice was muffled among the velvets of her room and swallowed up in the prevailing softness of the Castle. “Do you hear it?” Gwendolen screamed. “It’s an eiderdown of hideous niceness! I wreck their lawn, so they give me tea. I conjure up a lovely apparition, and they have the curtains drawn. Frazier, would you draw the curtains, please! Ugh! Chrestomanci makes me sick!”
“I didn’t think it was a lovely apparition,” Cat said, shivering.
“Ha, ha! You didn’t know I could do that, did you?” said Gwendolen. “It wasn’t to frighten you, you idiot. It was to give Chrestomanci a shock. I hate him! He wasn’t even interested.”
“What did he have us to live here for, if he isn’t interested in you either?” Cat wondered.
Gwendolen was rather struck by this. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she said. “It may be serious. Go away. I want to think about it. Anyway,” she shouted, as Cat was going to the door, “he’s going to be interested, if it’s the last thing I do! I’m going to do something every day until he notices!”
Once again, Cat was mournfully on his own. Remembering what Millie had said, he went along to the playroom. But Roger and Julia were there, playing with soldiers on the stained carpet. The little tin grenadiers were marching about. Some were wheeling up cannon. Others were lying behind cushions, firing their rifles with little pinpricks of bangs. Roger and Julia turned round guiltily.
“You won’t mention this, will you?” said Julia.
“Would you like to come and play too?” Roger asked politely.
“Oh,
