“Who are you?” she shouted through the door. “What do you want?”
“I need to come in!” the person outside shouted back. “It’s pouring with rain!”
Whoever it was sounded young, and the voice did not rasp like Rollo’s or buzz like the lubbock’s. And Charmain could hear the rain thrashing down, even through the hissing of steam and the continuous, gentle popping of the bubbles. But it could be a trick.
“Let me in!” the person outside screamed. “The wizard’s expecting me!”
“That’s not true!” Charmain shouted back.
“I wrote him a letter!” the person shouted. “My mother arranged for me to come. You’ve no right to keep me out!”
The latch on the door waggled. Before Charmain could do more than put both hands out to hold it shut, the door crashed open and a soaking wet boy surged inside. He was about as wet as a person could be. His hair, which was probably curly, hung round his young face in dripping brown spikes. His sensible-looking jacket and trousers were black and shiny with wet, and so was the big knapsack on his back. His boots squelched as he moved. He began to steam the moment he was indoors. He stood staring at the crowding, floating bubbles, at Waif yapping and yapping under the chair, at Charmain clutching her sweater and gazing at him between the red strands of her hair, at the stacks of dirty dishes, and at the table loaded with teapots. His eyes turned to the laundry bags, and these things were obviously all too much for him. His mouth came open and he just stood there, staring around at all these things all over again and steaming quietly.
After a moment, Charmain reached over and took hold of his chin, where a few harsh hairs grew, showing he was older than he looked. She pushed upward and his mouth shut with a clop. “Do you mind closing the door?” she said.
The boy looked behind him at the rain pelting into the kitchen. “Oh,” he said. “Yes.” He heaved at the door until it shut. “What’s going on?” he said. “Are you the wizard’s apprentice too?”
“No,” said Charmain. “I’m only looking after the house while the wizard’s not here. He was ill, you see, and the elves took him away to cure him.”
The boy looked very dismayed. “Didn’t he tell you I was coming?”
“He didn’t really have time to tell me anything,” Charmain said. Her mind went to the pile of letters under Das Zauberbuch. One of those hopeless requests for the wizard to teach people must have been from this boy, but Waif ’s yapping was making it difficult to think. “Do shut up, Waif. What’s your name, boy?”
“Peter Regis,” he said. “My mother’s the Witch of Montalbino. She’s a great friend of William Norland’s and she arranged with him for me to come here. Do be quiet, little dog. I’m meant to be here.” He heaved himself out of the wet knapsack and dumped it on the floor. Waif stopped barking in order to venture out from under the chair and sniff at the knapsack in case it might be dangerous. Peter took the chair and hung his wet jacket on it. His shirt underneath was almost as wet. “And who are you?” he asked, peering at Charmain among the bubbles.
“Charmain Baker,” she told him and explained, “We always call the wizard Great-Uncle William, but he’s Aunt Sempronia’s relation, really. I live in High Norland. Where have you come from? Why did you come to the back door?”
“I came down from Montalbino,” Peter said. “And I got lost, if you must know, trying to take the short cut from the pass. I did come here once before, when my mother was arranging for me to be Wizard Norland’s apprentice, but I don’t seem to have remembered the way properly. How long have you been here?”
“Only since this morning,” Charmain said, rather surprised to realize she had not been here a whole day yet. It had felt like weeks.
“Oh.” Peter looked at the teapots through the floating bubbles, as if he were calculating how many cups of tea Charmain had drunk. “It looks as if you’d been here for weeks.”
“It was like this when I came,” Charmain said coldly.
“What? Bubbles and all?” Peter said.
Charmain thought, I don’t think I like this boy. “No,” she said. “That was me. I forgot I’d thrown my soap into the grate.”
“Ah,” Peter said. “I thought it looked like a spell that’s gone wrong. That’s why I assumed you were an apprentice too. We’ll just have to wait for the soap to be used up, then. Have you any food? I’m starving.”
Charmain’s eyes went grudgingly to her bag on the table. She turned them away quickly. “No,” she said. “Not really.”
“What are you going to feed your dog on, then?” Peter said.
Charmain looked at Waif, who had gone under the chair again in order to bark at Peter’s knapsack. “Nothing. He’s just had half a pork pie,” she said. “And he’s not my dog. He’s a stray that Great-Uncle William took in. He’s called Waif.”
Waif was still yapping. Peter said, “Do be quiet, Waif,” and reached among the storming bubbles and past his wet jacket to where Waif crouched under the chair. Somehow he dragged Waif out and stood up with Waif upside down in his arms. Waif uttered a squeak of protest, waved all four paws, and curled his frayed tail up between his back legs. Peter uncurled the tail.
“You’ve damaged his dignity,” Charmain said. “Put him down
.”
“He isn’t a he,” Peter said. “He’s a she. And she hasn’t got any dignity, have you, Waif?”
Waif clearly disagreed, and managed to scramble out of Peter’s arms onto the table. Another teapot fell down, and Charmain’s bag tipped over. To Charmain’s great dismay, the pork pie and the apple tart rolled out of it.
“Oh, good!” said Peter, and snatched up the pork pie just before Waif got to it. “Is this all the food you’ve got?” he said, biting deeply into the pie.