Charmed Life - Diana Wynne Jones [8]
“Oh, how do you do, sir. Will you come this way, sir?” he gasped.
The Dark Stranger gave him a wondering look. And well he might, Cat thought, looking around distractedly. The kitchen was in its usual mess. The range was all ash. On the table, Cat saw, to his further dismay, Mrs. Sharp had been making gingerbread men. The ingredients for the spell lay on one end of the table—all grubby newspaper packets and seedy little jars—and the gingerbread itself was strewn over the middle of the table. At the far end, the flies were gathering around the meat for lunch, which looked nearly as messy as the spell.
“Who are you?” said the Dark Stranger. “I have a feeling I should know you. What have you got in your hat?”
Cat was too busy staring around to attend properly, but he caught the last question. His pleasure returned. “Apples,” he said, showing the Stranger. “Lovely sweet ones. I’ve been scrumping.”
The Stranger looked grave. “Scrumping,” he said, “is a form of stealing.”
Cat knew that as well as he did. He thought it was very joyless, even for a Town Councillor, to point it out. “I know. But I bet you did it when you were my age.”
The Stranger coughed slightly and changed the subject. “You haven’t said yet who you are.”
“Sorry. Didn’t I?” said Cat. “I’m Eric Chant—only they always call me Cat.”
“Then is Gwendolen Chant your sister?” the Stranger asked. He was looking more and more austere and pitying. Cat suspected that he thought Mrs. Sharp’s kitchen was a den of vice.
“That’s right. Won’t you come this way?” Cat said, hoping to get the Stranger out of it. “It’s neater through here.”
“I had a letter from your sister,” the Stranger said, standing where he was. “She gave me the impression you had drowned with your parents.”
“You must have made a mistake,” Cat said distractedly. “I didn’t drown because I was holding on to Gwendolen, and she’s a witch. It’s cleaner through here.”
“I see,” said the Stranger. “I’m called Chrestomanci, by the way.”
“Oh!” said Cat. This was a real crisis. He put his hat of apples down in the middle of the spell, which he very much hoped would ruin it. “Then you’ve got to come in the parlor at once.”
“Why?” said Chrestomanci, sounding rather bewildered.
“Because,” said Cat, thoroughly exasperated, “you’re far too important to stay here.”
“What makes you think I’m important?” Chrestomanci asked, still bewildered.
Cat was beginning to want to shake him. “You must be. You’re wearing important clothes. And Mrs. Sharp said you were. She said Mr. Nostrum would give his eyes just for your three letters.”
“Has Mr. Nostrum given his eyes for my letters?” asked Chrestomanci. “It hardly seems worth it.”
“No. He just gave Gwendolen lessons for them,” said Cat.
“What? For his eyes? How uncomfortable!” said Chrestomanci.
Fortunately, there were thumping footsteps just then, and Gwendolen burst in through the kitchen door, panting, golden and jubilant. “Mr. Chrestomanci?”
“Just Chrestomanci,” said the Stranger. “Yes. Would you be Gwendolen?”
“Yes. Mr. Nostrum told me there was a cab here,” gasped Gwendolen.
She was followed by Mrs. Sharp, nearly as breathless. The two of them took over the conversation, and Cat was thankful for it. Chrestomanci at last consented to be taken to the parlor, where Mrs. Sharp deferentially offered him a cup of tea and a plate of her weakly waving gingerbread men. Chrestomanci, Cat was interested to see, did not seem to have the heart to eat them either. He drank a cup of tea—austerely, without milk or sugar—and asked questions about how Gwendolen and Cat came to be living with Mrs. Sharp. Mrs. Sharp tried to give the impression that she looked after them for nothing, out of the goodness of her heart. She hoped Chrestomanci might be induced to pay her for their keep, as well as the Town Council.
But Gwendolen