The Chrestomanci Series: Entire Collection Books 1-7. Diana Wynne Jones
the question,” said William Nostrum, very much relieved, “is simply how many lives he has left. How many have you, boy?” The knife pointed at Cat again.
Again Cat was not saying.
“He doesn’t know,” Gwendolen said impatiently. “I had to use quite a few. He lost one being born and another being drowned. And I used one to put him in the book of matches. It gave him cramps, for some reason. Then that toad tied up in silver there wouldn’t give me magic lessons and took my witchcraft away, so I had to fetch another of Cat’s lives in the night and make it send me to my nice new world. He was awfully disobliging about it, but he did it. And that was the end of that life. Oh, I nearly forgot! I put his fourth life into that violin he kept playing, to turn it into a cat – Fiddle – remember, Mr Nostrum?”
Henry Nostrum clutched his two wings of hair. Consternation broke out round the meadow again. “You are a foolish girl! Someone took that cat away. We can’t kill him at all!”
For a moment, Gwendolen looked very dashed. Then an idea struck her. “If I go away again, you can use my replacem—”
The watch-chains round Chrestomanci chinked. “Nostrum, you’re upsetting yourself needlessly. It was I who had the cat-violin removed. The creature’s around in the garden somewhere.”
Henry Nostrum swung round to look at Chrestomanci suspiciously, still hanging on to his two wings of hair as if that kept his mind in place. “I doubt you, sir, very seriously. You are known to be a very wily person.”
“You flatter me,” said Chrestomanci. “Unfortunately I can’t speak anything but the truth tied up in silver like this.”
Henry Nostrum looked at his brother. “That is correct,” William said, dubiously. “Silver constrains him to utter facts. Then I suppose the boy’s missing life must be here somewhere.”
This was enough for Gwendolen, the Willing Warlock and for most of the witches and necromancers. Gwendolen said, “I’ll go and find it then,” and minced up the meadow towards the trees as fast as she could in her pointed shoes, with the Willing Warlock bouncing ahead. As they pushed past a witch in a high green hat, the witch said, “That’s right, dear. We must all hunt for the pussy.” She turned to the crowd with a witch’s piercing scream. “Hunt for pussy, everyone!”
And everyone raced off to do it, picking up skirts and holding on Sunday hats. The meadow emptied. The trees round it shook and waved and crashed. But the garden would not let anyone get very far. Brightly coloured witches, cloaked wizards and dark warlocks kept being spilt out of the trees into the meadow again. Cat heard Chrestomanci say, “Your friends seem very ignorant, Nostrum. The way out is widdershins. Perhaps you should tell them so. The cat will certainly be in summer or spring.”
William Nostrum gave him a swirling glare and hurried off shouting, “Widdershins, brothers and sisters! Widdershins!”
“Let me tell you, sir,” Henry Nostrum said to Chrestomanci, “you are beginning to annoy me considerably.” He hovered for a second, but, as quite a crowd of people, with Gwendolen and the Willing Warlock among them, were whirled out of the trees into the meadow again, and seemed very indignant about it, Henry Nostrum set off trotting towards them, calling, “No, my dear friends! My dear pupil! Widdershins. You have to go widdershins.”
Cat and Chrestomanci were left alone for the time being by the broken arch and the apple tree.
“Cat,” said Chrestomanci, from almost behind Cat’s head. “Cat!”
Cat did not want to talk. He was lying looking up at the blue sky through the leaves of the apple tree. Every so often it went blurred. Then Cat shut his eyes and tears ran out across both his ears. Now he knew how little Gwendolen cared about him, he was not sure he wanted any lives at all. He listened to the shouting and crashing among the trees and almost wished Fiddle would be caught soon. From time to time, he had an odd feeling that he was Fiddle himself – Fiddle furious and frightened, lashing out and scratching a huge fat witch in a flower hat.
“Cat,” said Chrestomanci. He sounded almost as desperate as Fiddle. “Cat, I know how you’re feeling. We hoped you wouldn’t find out about Gwendolen for years yet. But you are an enchanter. I suspect that you’re a stronger enchanter than I am when you set your mind to it. Could you use some of your magic now, before someone catches poor Fiddle? Please. As a great favour. Just to help me get out of this wretched silver, so that I can summon the rest of my power.”
Cat was being Fiddle again while Chrestomanci talked. He climbed a tree, but the Willing Warlock and the Accredited Witch shook him out of it. He ran and he ran, and then jumped from between the Willing Warlock’s grabbing hands, a huge jump, from somewhere immensely high. It was such a sickening jump that Cat opened his eyes. The apple leaves fluttered against the sky. The apple he could see was nearly ripe.
“What do you want me to do?” he said. “I don’t know how to do anything.”
“I know,” said Chrestomanci. “I felt the same when they told me. Can you move your left hand at all?”
“Backwards and forwards,” Cat said, trying. “I can’t get it out of the rope though.”
“No need,” said Chrestomanci. “You’ve more ability in the little finger of that hand than most people – including Gwendolen – have in their entire lives. And the magic of the garden should help you. Just saw at the rope with your left hand and presume that the rope is made of silver.”
Cat tipped his head back and looked at Chrestomanci unbelievingly. Chrestomanci was untidy and pale and very much in earnest. He must be telling the truth. Cat moved his left hand against the rope. It felt rough and ropish. He told himself it was not rough rope, it was silver. And the rope felt smooth. But sawing was rather a strain. Cat lifted his hand as far as he could get it and brought the edge of it down on the silver rope.
Clink. Jingle. The rope parted.
“Thank you,” said Chrestomanci. “There go two watch-chains. But there seems to be a very firm spell on these handcuffs. Can you try again?”
The rope was a great deal looser. Cat fought his way out of it with a series of clatters and thumps – he was not sure quite what he had turned it into – and knelt up on the stone. Chrestomanci walked weakly towards him, with his hands still hanging limply in the handcuffs. At the same time, the Willing Warlock spilt out of the trees, arguing with the witch in the flower hat.
“I tell you the cat’s dead. It fell a good fifty feet.”
“But I tell you they always fall on their feet.”
“Then why didn’t it get up then?”
Cat realised there was no time to waste trying to imagine things. He put both hands to the handcuffs and wrenched.
“Ow!” said Chrestomanci.
But the handcuffs were off. Cat was suddenly very pleased with his new-found talent. He took the handcuffs in two and told them to be ferocious eagles. “Get after the Nostrums,” he said. The left handcuff took off savagely as ordered, but the right half was still a silver handcuff and it fell on the grass. Cat had to pick it up in his left hand before it would do as it was told.
Cat looked round then to see what Chrestomanci was doing. He was standing under the apple tree, and the talkative little man called Bernard was stumbling down the hillside towards him. Bernard’s Sunday cravat was comfortably undone. He was carrying a pencil and a newspaper folded open at the crossword. “Enchantment, five letters, ending in C,” he was murmuring, before he looked up and saw Chrestomanci green with tree-mould. He stared at the two watch-chains, Cat, the rope, and the numbers of people who were hurrying among the trees round