The Chrestomanci Series: Entire Collection Books 1-7. Diana Wynne Jones
orange grease was certainly slowly clearing from the plates. Then the lengths of spaghetti stuck to the bottom of the largest saucepan started unwinding and wriggling like worms. Up over the edge of the saucepan they wriggled, and over the stone floor, to ooze themselves into the waste-cans. The orange grease and the salad oil travelled after them, in rivulets. And the singing faltered a little, as people broke off to laugh.
“Sing, sing!” shouted Lucia. So they sang.
Unfortunately for Lucia, the noise penetrated to the Scriptorium. The plates were still pale pink and rather greasy, and the last of the spaghetti was still wriggling across the floor, when Elizabeth and Aunt Maria burst into the kitchen.
“Lucia!” said Elizabeth.
“You irreligious brats!” said Aunt Maria.
“I don’t see what’s so wrong,” said Lucia.
“She doesn’t see – Elizabeth, words fail!” said Aunt Maria. “How can I have taught her so little and so badly? Lucia, a spell is not instead of a thing. It is only to help that thing. And on top of that, you go and use the Angel of Caprona, as if it was any old tune, and not the most powerful song in all Italy! I – I could box your ears, Lucia!”
“So could I,” said Elizabeth. “Don’t you understand we need all our virtue – the whole combined strength of the Casa Montana – to put into the war-charms? And here you go frittering it away in the kitchen!”
“Put those plates in the sink, Paolo,” ordered Aunt Maria. “Tonino, pick up those saucepans. The rest of you pick up the cutlery. And now you’ll wash them properly.”
Very chastened, everyone obeyed. Lucia was angry as well as chastened. When Lena whispered, “I told you so!” Lucia broke a plate and jumped on the pieces.
“Lucia!” snapped Aunt Maria, glaring at her. It was the first time any of the children had seen her look likely to slap someone.
“Well, how was I to know?” Lucia stormed. “Nobody ever explained – nobody told me spells were like that!”
“Yes, but you knew perfectly well you were doing something you shouldn’t,” Elizabeth told her, “even if you didn’t know why. The rest of you, stop sniggering. Lena, you can learn from this too.”
All through doing the washing-up properly – which took nearly an hour – Tonino was saying to himself, “And then I can read my book at last.”
When it was finally done, he sped out into the yard. And there was Old Niccolo hurrying down the steps to meet him in the dark.
“Tonino, may I have Benvenuto for a while, please?”
But Benvenuto was still not to be found. Tonino began to think he would die of book-frustration. All the children joined in hunting and calling, but there was still no Benvenuto. Soon, most of the grown-ups were looking for him too, and still Benvenuto did not appear. Antonio was so exasperated that he seized Tonino’s arm and shook him.
“It’s too bad, Tonino! You must have known we’d need Benvenuto. Why did you let him go?”
“I didn’t! You know what Benvenuto’s like!” Tonino protested, equally exasperated.
“Now, now, now,” said Old Niccolo, taking each of them by a shoulder. “It is quite plain by now that Benvenuto is on the other side of town, making vile noises on a roof somewhere. All we can do is hope someone empties a jug of water on him soon. It’s not Tonino’s fault, Antonio.”
Antonio let go Tonino’s arm and rubbed both hands on his face. He looked very tired. “I’m sorry, Tonino,” he said. “Forgive me. Let us know as soon as Benvenuto comes back, won’t you?”
He and Old Niccolo hurried back to the Scriptorium. As they passed under the light, their faces were stiff with worry. “I don’t think I like war, Tonino,” Paolo said. “Let’s go and play table-tennis in the dining room.”
“I’m going to read my book,” Tonino said firmly. He thought he would get like Aunt Gina if anything else happened to stop him.
Tonino read half the night. With all the grown-ups hard at work in the Scriptorium, there was no one to tell him to go to bed. Corinna tried, when she had finished her homework, but Tonino was too deep in the book even to hear her. And Corinna went respectfully away, thinking that, as the book had come from Uncle Umberto, it was probably very learned.
It was not in the least learned. It was the most gripping story Tonino had ever read. It started with the boy, Giorgio, going along a mysterious alleyway near the docks on his way home from school. There was a peeling blue house at the end of the alley and, just as Giorgio passed it, a scrap of paper fluttered from one of its windows. It contained a mysterious message, which led Giorgio at once into a set of adventures with the enemies of his country. Each one was more exciting than the last.
Well after midnight, when Giorgio was holding a pass single-handed against the enemy, Tonino happened to hear his father and mother coming to bed. He was forced to leave Giorgio lying wounded and dive into bed himself. All night he dreamt of notes fluttering from the windows of peeling blue houses, of Giorgio – who was sometimes Tonino himself and sometimes Paolo – and of villainous enemies – most of whom seemed to have red beards and black hair, like Guido Petrocchi – and, as the sun rose, he was too excited to stay asleep. He woke up and went on reading.
When the rest of the Casa Montana began to stir, Tonino had finished the book. Giorgio had saved his country. Tonino was quivering with excitement and exhaustion. He wished the book was twice as long. If it had not been time to get up, he would have gone straight back to the beginning and started reading the book again.
And the beauty of it, he thought, eating breakfast without noticing, was that Giorgio had saved his country, not only single-handed, but without a spell coming into it anywhere. If Tonino was going to save Caprona, that was the way he would like to do it.
Around Tonino, everyone else was complaining and Lucia was sulking. The washing-up spell was still about in the kitchen. Every cup and plate was covered with a thin layer of orange spaghetti grease, and the butter tasted of soap.
“What did she use, in Heaven’s name?” groaned Uncle Lorenzo. “This coffee tastes of tomato.”
“Her own words to the Angel of Caprona,” Aunt Maria said, and shuddered as she picked up her greasy cup.
“Lucia, you fool!” said Rinaldo. “That’s the strongest tune there is.”
“All right, all right. Stop going on at me. I’m sorry!” Lucia said angrily.
“So are the rest of us, unfortunately,” sighed Uncle Lorenzo.
If only I could be like Giorgio, Tonino thought, as he got up from the table. I suppose what I should have to do is to find the words to the Angel. He went to school without seeing anything on the way, wondering how he could manage to do that, when the rest of his family had failed. He was realistic enough to know that he was simply not good enough at spells to make up the words in the ordinary way. It made him sigh heavily.
“Cheer up,” said Paolo, as they went into school.
“I’m all right,” Tonino said. He was surprised Paolo should think he was miserable. He was not miserable at all. He was wrapped in delightful dreams. Maybe I can do it by accident, he thought.
He sat in class composing strings of gibberish to the tune of the Angel, in hopes that some of it might be right. But that did not seem satisfactory, somehow. Then, in a lesson that was probably History – for he did not hear a word of it – it struck him, like a blinding light, what he had to do. He had to find the words,