Magicians of Caprona - Diana Wynne Jones [81]
“What? Me too?” said Angelica.
“Yes, all of you,” said Chrestomanci.
They gathered, the six of them, against the marble parapet, facing the golden scroll, with the New Bridge behind them, and began, somewhat uncertainly, to fit those words to the tune of the Angel of Caprona. They matched like a glove. As soon as they realized this, everyone sang lustily. Angelica and Renata stopped shivering. Tonino let go of Rosa’s hand, and Rosa put her arm over his shoulders instead. And they sang as if they had always known those words. It was only a version of the usual words in Latin, but it was what the tune had always asked for.
“Carmen pacis saeculare
Venit Angelus cantare,
Et deorsum pacem dare
Capronensi populo.
“Dabit pacem eternalem,
Sine morbo immortalem,
Sine pugna triumphalem,
Capronensi populo.
“En diabola albata
De Caprona expulsata,
Missa pax et virtus data
Capronensi populo.”
When they had finished, there was silence. There was not a sound from the hills, or the New Bridge, or the streets below. Every noise had stopped. So they were all the more startled at the tinny slithering with which the Angel slowly rolled up the scroll. The shining outstretched wings bent and settled against the Angel’s golden shoulders, where the Angel gave them a shake to order the feathers. And that noise was not the sound of metal, but the softer rattling of real pinions. It brought with it a scent of such sweetness that there was a moment when they were not aware of anything else.
In that moment, the Angel was in flight. As the huge golden wings passed over them, the scent came again and, with it, the sound of singing. It seemed like hundreds of voices, singing tune, harmony and descant to the Angel of Caprona. They had no idea if it was the Angel alone, or something else. They looked up and watched the golden figure wheel and soar and wheel, until it was only a golden glint in the sky. And there was still utter silence, except for the singing.
Rosa sighed. “I suppose we’d better climb down.” Renata began to shiver again at the thought.
Chrestomanci sighed too. “Don’t worry about that.”
They were suddenly down again, on solid cobbles, in the Cathedral forecourt. The Cathedral was once more a great white building, the houses were high, the hills were away beyond, and the people surrounding them were anything but quiet. Every one was running to where they could see the Angel, flashing in the sun as he soared. The Archbishop was in tears, and so was the Duke. They were wringing one another’s hands beside the Duke’s coach.
And Chrestomanci had brought them to earth in time to see another miracle. The coach began to work and bounce on its springs. Both doors burst open. Aunt Francesca squeezed out of one, and Guido Petrocchi fell out after her. From the other door tumbled Rinaldo and the red-haired Petrocchi aunt. After them came mingled Montanas and Petrocchis, more and more and more, until anyone could see that the coach could not possibly have held that number. People stopped crowding to see the Angel and crowded to look at the Duke’s coach instead.
Rosa and Marco looked at one another and began to back away among the spectators. But Chrestomanci took them each by a shoulder. “It’ll be all right,” he said. “And if it isn’t, I’ll set you up in a spell-house in Venice.”
Antonio disentangled himself from a Petrocchi uncle and hurried with Guido towards Tonino and Angelica. “Are you all right?” both of them said. “Was it you who fetched the griffins—?” They broke off to stare coldly at one another.
“Yes,” said Tonino. “I’m sorry you were turned into puppets.”
“She was too clever for us,” said Angelica. “But be thankful you got your proper clothes back afterwards. Look at us. We—”
They were pulled apart then by aunts and cousins, fearing they were contaminating one another, and hurriedly given coats and sweaters by uncles. Paolo was swept away from Renata too, by Aunt Maria. “Don’t go near her, my love!”
“Oh well,” said Renata, as she was pulled away too. “Thanks for