Charmed Life - Diana Wynne Jones [36]
“Oh don’t!” he said. The three other somethings flopped onto the carpet too, and he saw they were the apparition at the window and three others like it. The first was like a baby that was too small to walk—except that it was walking, with its big head wobbling. The next was a cripple, so twisted and cramped upon itself that it could barely hobble. The third was the apparition at the window—pitiful, wrinkled, and draggled. The last had its white skin barred with blue stripes. All were weak and white and horrible. Cat shuddered all over.
“Please send them away!” he said.
Gwendolen only laughed again and waved the four apparitions towards the door.
They set off, toiling weakly. But they were only halfway there when Chrestomanci came through the door and Mr. Saunders came after him. In front of them came a shower of bones and small dead creatures, pattering onto the carpet and getting squashed under Chrestomanci’s long, shiny shoes. The apparitions hesitated, gibbering. Then they fled back to the flaming bowl and vanished. The flames vanished at the same time, into thick, black, smelly smoke.
Gwendolen stared at Chrestomanci and Mr. Saunders through the smoke. Chrestomanci was magnificent in dark blue velvet, with lace ruffles at his wrists and on the front of his shirt. Mr. Saunders seemed to have made an effort to find a suit that reached to the ends of his legs and arms, but had not quite succeeded. One of his big, black patent-leather boots was unlaced, and there was a lot of shirt and wrist showing as he slowly coiled an invisible skein of something around his bony right hand. Both he and Chrestomanci looked back at Gwendolen most unpleasantly.
“You were warned, you know,” Chrestomanci said. “Carry on, Michael.”
Mr. Saunders put the invisible skein in his pocket. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ve been itching to for a week now.” He strode down on Gwendolen in a billow of black coat, yanked her to her feet, hauled her to a chair, and put her facedown over his knee. There he dragged off his unlaced, big black boot and commenced spanking her with it hard and often.
While Mr. Saunders labored away, and Gwendolen screamed and squirmed and kicked, Chrestomanci marched up to Cat and boxed Cat’s ears, twice on each side. Cat was so surprised that he would have fallen over, had not Chrestomanci hit the other side of his head each time and brought him upright again.
“What did you do that for?” Cat said indignantly, clutching both sides of his ringing face. “I didn’t do anything.”
“That’s why I hit you,” said Chrestomanci. “You didn’t try to stop her, did you?” While Cat was gasping at the unfairness of this, he turned to the laboring Mr. Saunders. “I think that’ll do now, Michael.”
Mr. Saunders ceased swatting, rather regretfully. Gwendolen slid to her knees on the floor, sobbing with pain, and making screams in between her sobs at being treated like this.
Chrestomanci went over and poked at her with his shiny foot. “Stop it. Get up and behave yourself.” And, when Gwendolen rose to her knees, staring piteously and looking utterly wronged, he said, “You thoroughly deserved that spanking. And, as you probably realize, Michael has taken away your witchcraft too. You’re not a witch any longer. In future, you are not going to work one spell, unless you can prove to both of us that you are not going to do mischief with it. Is that clear? Now go to bed, and for goodness sake try and think about what you’ve been doing.”
He nodded to Mr. Saunders, and they both went out, Mr. Saunders hopping because he was still putting his boot back on, and squashing the rest of the dead creatures as he hopped.
Gwendolen flopped forward on her face and drummed her toes on the carpet. “The beast! The beasts! How dare they treat me like this! I shall do a worse