Magicians of Caprona - Diana Wynne Jones [69]
“Oh poor Mrs. Grimaldi!” said Mrs. Petrocchi. “But, Renata, I don’t think—”
“Doesn’t Mrs. Grimaldi realize there’s a war on?” Marco said. “Did Paolo tell you she was ill?”
“Yes,” Paolo said glibly. “My mother’s great friends with Mrs. Grimaldi. She’s sorry for her because she’s so ugly.”
“And of course she knows about the war,” Renata said. “I kept telling you, Marco, how she dives under her desk if she hears a bang. She’s scared stiff of guns.”
“And it’s all been too much for her, Mother says,” Paolo added artistically.
Marco tried another tack. “But why does Mrs. Grimaldi want you, Renata? Since when have you been teacher’s pet?”
Renata, who was obviously as quick as Paolo, said, “Oh, I’m not. She just wants me to amuse her with some spells—”
At this, Mrs. Petrocchi and Marco both said, “You’re not to use spells! Angelica—”
“—but of course I won’t,” Renata continued smoothly. “I’ll just sing songs. She likes me to sing. And Paolo’s going to read to her out of the Bible. Do say we can go, Mother. She’s lying in bed all on her own.”
“Well—” said Mrs. Petrocchi.
“The streets aren’t safe,” said Marco.
“There was no one about at all,” Paolo said, giving Marco a look to make him watch it. Two could play at that.
“Mother,” said Renata, “you are going to mend Marco’s uniform, aren’t you?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Mrs. Petrocchi.
Renata at once took this as permission to go with Paolo. “Come on, Paolo,” she said, and raced under Marco’s nose to what was obviously the coach house. Paolo whizzed after her.
Marco, however, was not defeated. Before Renata’s hand was on the latch of the big door, an obvious uncle was leaning over the gallery. “Renata! Be a good girl and find me my tobacco.” An obvious aunt shot out of the kitchen. She looked like Aunt Gina with red hair, and she hooted in the same way. “Renata! Have you taken my good knife?” Two young cousins shot out of another door. “Renata, you said you’d play dressing up!” and Mrs. Petrocchi, looking anxious and undecided, was holding the baby boy out, saying, “Renata, you’ll have to mind Roberto while I’m sewing.”
“I can’t stop now!” Renata shouted back. “Poor Mrs. Grimaldi!” She wrenched open the big door and pushed Paolo inside. “What’s going on?” she whispered.
It was obvious to Paolo what was going on. It was so like the Casa Montana. Marco had broadcast—not an alarm, because he dared not—a sort of general uneasiness about Renata. “Marco’s trying to stop us,” he said.
“I know that,” Renata said, hurrying him past the sleek Petrocchi coach and—to Paolo’s interest—past four black cardboard horses as crumpled and muddy as the Casa Montana ones. “Why is he? How does he know?”
Behind them was a perfect clamor of Petrocchi voices, all wanting Renata. “He just does,” Paolo said. “Be quick!”
The small door to the street had a big stiff key. Renata took it in both hands and struggled to turn it. “Does he know you?” she said sharply.
Like an answer, Marco’s voice sounded from behind the coach. “Renata!” Then, much more softly, “Paolo—Paolo Montana, come here!”
The door came open. “Run, if you’re coming!” Paolo said. They shot out into the street, both running hard. Marco came to the door and shouted something, but he did not seem to be following. Nevertheless, Paolo kept on running, which forced Renata to run too. He did not want to talk. He wanted to absorb the shock of Marco. Marco Andretti was really Marco Petrocchi—he must be Guido’s eldest son! Rosa Montana and Marco Petrocchi. How did they do it? How ever did they manage it? he kept wondering. And also—more soberly—How ever will they get away with it?
“All right. That will do,” Renata panted. By this time they had crossed the Corso and were down beside the river, trotting along empty quaysides towards the New Bridge. Renata slowed down, and Paolo did too, quite breathless. “Now,” she said, “tell me how Marco knew you,