stopped. By this time, Cat was so frightened that he dared not move. He could only wait until Miss Larkins came to herself, yawned, and let go of him in order to cover her mouth elegantly with one hand.
“There,” she said in her usual voice. “That was it. What did I say?”
Finding Miss Larkins had no idea what she had said brought Cat out in goose pimples. All he wanted to do was to run away. He dashed for the door.
Miss Larkins pursued him, seized his arms again and shook him. “Tell me! Tell me! What did I say?” With the violence of her shaking, her red hair came down in sheets. Her corsets sounded like bending planks. She was terrifying. “What voice did I use?” she demanded.
“A – a man’s voice,” Cat faltered. “Sort of nice, and no nonsense about it.”
Miss Larkins seemed dumbfounded. “A man? Not Bobby or Doddo – not a child’s voice, I mean?”
“No,” said Cat.
“How peculiar!” said Miss Larkins. “I never use a man. What did he say?”
Cat repeated what the voice had said. He thought he would never forget it if he lived to ninety.
It was some consolation to find that Miss Larkins was quite as puzzled by it as he was. “Well, I suppose it was a warning,” she said dubiously. She also seemed disappointed. “And nothing else? Nothing about your sister?”
“No, nothing,” said Cat.
“Oh well, can’t be helped,” Miss Larkins said discontentedly, and she let go of Cat in order to put her hair up again.
As soon as both her hands were safely occupied in pinning her bun, Cat ran. He shot out into the street, feeling very shaken.
And he was caught by two more people almost at once.
“Ah. Here is young Eric Chant now,” said Mr Nostrum, advancing down the pavement. “You are acquainted with my brother William, are you, young Cat?”
Cat was once more caught by an arm. He tried to smile. It was not that he disliked Mr Nostrum. It was just that Mr Nostrum always talked in this jocular way and called him “Young Chant” every few words, which made it very difficult to talk to Mr Nostrum in return. Mr Nostrum was small and plumpish, with two wings of grizzled hair. He had a cast in his left eye, too, which always stared out sideways. Cat found that added to the difficulty of talking to Mr Nostrum. Was he looking and listening? Or was his mind elsewhere with that wandering eye?
“Yes – yes, I’ve met your brother,” Cat reminded Mr Nostrum. Mr William Nostrum came to visit his brother regularly. Cat saw him almost once a month. He was quite a well-to-do wizard, with a practice in Eastbourne. Mrs Sharp claimed that Mr Henry Nostrum sponged on his wealthier brother, both for money and for spells that worked.
Whatever the truth of that, Cat found Mr William Nostrum even harder to talk to than his brother. He was half as large again as Mr Henry and always wore morning dress with a huge silver watch-chain across his tubby waistcoat. Otherwise, he was the image of Mr Henry Nostrum, except that both his eyes were out of true. Cat always wondered how Mr William saw anything. “How do you do, sir,” he said to him politely.
“Very well,” said Mr William in a deep gloomy voice, as if the opposite was true.
Mr Henry Nostrum glanced up at him apologetically. “The fact is, young Chant,” he explained, “we have met with a little setback. My brother is upset.” He lowered his voice, and his wandering eye wandered all round Cat’s right side. “It’s about those letters from – You Know Who. We can find out nothing. It seems Gwendolen knows nothing. Do you, young Chant, perchance know why your esteemed and lamented father should be acquainted with – with, let us call him, the August Personage who signed them?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea, I’m afraid,” said Cat.
“Could he have been some relation?” suggested Mr Henry Nostrum. “Chant is a Good Name.”
“I think it must be a bad name, too,” Cat answered. “We haven’t any relations.”
“But what of your dear mother?” persisted Mr Nostrum, his odd eye travelling away, while his brother managed to stare gloomily at the pavement and the rooftops at once.
“You can see the poor boy knows nothing, Henry,” Mr William said. “I doubt if he would be able to tell us his dear mother’s maiden name.”
“Oh, I do know that,” said Cat. “It’s on their marriage lines. She was called Chant too.”
“Odd,” said Mr Nostrum, swirling an eye at his brother.
“Odd, and peculiarly unhelpful,” Mr William agreed.
Cat wanted to get away. He felt he had taken enough strange questions to last till Christmas. “Well, if you want to know that badly,” he said, “why don’t you write and ask Mr – er – Mr Chres—”
“Hush!” said Mr Henry Nostrum violently.
“Hum!” said his brother, almost equally violently.
“August Personage, I mean,” Cat said, looking at Mr William in alarm. Mr William’s eyes had gone right to the sides of his face. Cat was afraid he might be going off into a trance, like Miss Larkins.
“It will serve, Henry, it will serve!” Mr William cried out. And, with great triumph, he lifted the silver watch-chain off his middle and shook it. “Then for silver!” he cried.
“I’m so glad,” Cat said politely. “I have to be going now.” He ran off down the street as fast as he could. When he went out that afternoon, he took care to turn right and go out of Coven Street past the Willing Warlock’s house. It was rather a nuisance, since that was the long way round to where most of his friends lived, but anything was better than meeting Miss Larkins or the Nostrums again. It was almost enough to make Cat wish that school had started.
When Cat came home that evening, Gwendolen was just back from her lesson with Mr Nostrum. She had her usual glowing, exulting look, but she was looking secretive and important too.
“That was a good idea of yours of writing to Chrestomanci,” she said to Cat. “I can’t think why I didn’t think of it. Anyway, I just have.”
“Why did you do it? Couldn’t Mr Nostrum?” Cat said.
“It came more naturally from me,” said Gwendolen. “And I suppose it doesn’t matter if he gets my signature. Mr Nostrum told me what to write.”
“Why does he want to know anyway?” Cat asked.
“Wouldn’t you like to know!” Gwendolen said exultingly.
“No,” said Cat. “I wouldn’t.” Since this had brought what happened that morning into his mind, which still made him almost wish the Autumn term had started, he said, “I wish the conkers were ripe.”
“Conkers!” Gwendolen said, in the greatest disgust. “What a low mind you have! They won’t be ready for a good six weeks.”
“I know,” said
