Charmed Life - Diana Wynne Jones [22]
“I think your notice is spelled wrong.”
Mr. Baslam drooped his St. Bernard eyes and made gestures that were meant to be joking. “I know. I know. But I don’t want to be taken serious, do I? Not on the very threshold, as it were. Now what was you wanting? Mr. William Nostrum don’t tell me too much of his plans. I’m only a humble supplier.”
“I want some supplies, of course,” said Gwendolen.
Cat listened, rather bored, to Gwendolen bargaining for the materials of witchcraft. Mr. Baslam fumbled in the backs of stuffed animal cases and fetched out newspaper screws of this and that—newts’ eyes, snakes’ tongues, cardamom, hellebore, mummy, niter, seed of moly, and various resins—which probably accounted for the unpleasant smell. He wanted more for them than Gwendolen would pay. She was determined to lay out her five shillings to the best possible advantage. Mr. Baslam seemed to resent it. “Know your own mind, don’t you?” he said peevishly.
“I know how much things should cost,” said Gwendolen. She took her hat off, packed the little screws of newspaper carefully into its crown, and put it neatly back on her head again. “And last, I think I shall be wanting some dragons’ blood,” she said.
“Ooooh!” said Mr. Baslam, dolefully shaking his head so that his hanging cheeks flapped. “Dragons’ blood is banned from use, young lady. You ought to know that. I don’t know as I can manage you any of that.”
“Mr. Nostrum—both Mr. Nostrums—told me you could get anything,” said Gwendolen. “They said you were the best agent they knew. And I’m not asking for dragons’ blood now. I’m ordering some.”
Mr. Baslam looked gratified at being praised by the Nostrum brothers, but he was still dubious. “It’s a fearful strong charm needs dragons’ blood,” he said plaintively. “You won’t be doing anything that strong yourself, a young lady like you, now.”
“I don’t know yet,” said Gwendolen. “But I think I might. I’m on Advanced Magic, you know. And I want dragons’ blood in case I need it.”
“It’ll come dear,” Mr. Baslam warned her. “It’s costly stuff. There’s the risk to pay for, you see. I don’t want the law on me.”
“I can pay,” said Gwendolen. “I’ll pay in installments. You can take the rest of the five shillings on account.”
Mr. Baslam was unable to resist this. The way he looked at the crown piece Gwendolen handed to him made Cat see vividly a long row of frothing pints of beer. “Done,” said Mr. Baslam. Gwendolen smiled graciously and got up to go. Cat thankfully leaped up too. “What about you, young gentleman?” Mr. Baslam asked wheedlingly. “Aren’t you going to try your hand at a bit of necromancy at all?”
“He’s just my brother,” said Gwendolen.
“Oh. Ah. Um. Yes,” said Mr. Baslam. “He’s that one, of course. Well, good day to you both. Come again, any time.”
“When will you have the dragons’ blood?” Gwendolen asked him on the doorstep.
Mr. Baslam thought. “Say a week?”
Gwendolen’s face glowed. “How quick! I knew you were a good agent. Where do you get it from so quickly?”
“Now that would be telling, wouldn’t it?” said Mr. Baslam. “It has to come from another world, but which one is a trade secret, young lady.”
Gwendolen was jubilant as they went back along the alley. “A week!” she said. “That’s the quickest I’ve ever heard. It has to be smuggled in from this other world, you know. He must have awfully good connections there.”
“Or he’s got some already, inside a stuffed bird,” said Cat, who had not liked Mr. Baslam at all. “Whatever do you want dragons’ blood for? Mrs. Sharp says it costs fifty pounds an ounce.”
“Be quiet,” said Gwendolen. “Oh, quick! Hurry, Cat! Get into that sweet shop. She mustn’t know where I’ve been.”
Out on the village green, a lady carrying