“Spells don’t work like that,” Peter said. “Where did you find it, really?”
“In there. I told you,” Charmain said. “And if you can’t believe a word I say, why do you keep asking me?” She dropped her glasses off her nose, snapped the book shut, and carried a whole pile of likely volumes out into the corridor, where she slammed the study door on Peter and marched off backward and forward through the bathroom door until she reached the living room. There, in spite of the mustiness, she decided to stay. After that entry in Res Magica, outside in the sun did not seem safe anymore. She thought of the lubbock looming above the hydrangeas and sat herself firmly down on the sofa instead.
She was deep in The Twelve-Branched Wand, and even beginning to understand what it was about, when there was a sharp rapping at the front door. Charmain thought, just as she usually did, Someone else can answer that, and read on.
The door opened with an impatient rattle. Aunt Sempronia’s voice said, “Of course she’s all right, Berenice. She just has her nose in a book, as usual.”
Charmain tore herself out of the book and snatched off her glasses in time to see her mother following Aunt Sempronia into the house. Aunt Sempronia, as usual, was most impressively clothed in stiff silk. Mrs. Baker was at her most respectable in gray, with shining white collar and cuffs, and wore her most respectable gray hat.
How lucky I put on clean clothes this—, Charmain was beginning to think, when it dawned on her that the rest of the house was simply not fit for either of these two ladies to see. Not only was the kitchen full of dirty human dishes and dirty dog dishes, bubbles, laundry, and a vast white dog, but Peter was sitting in the study. Mother would probably only find the kitchen, and that was bad enough. But Aunt Sempronia was (pretty certainly) a witch, and she would find the study and come across Peter. Then Mother would want to know what an unknown boy was doing here. And when Peter was explained, Mother would say that in that case Peter could look after Great-Uncle William’s house for him, and Charmain must do the respectable thing and come home at once. Aunt Sempronia would agree, and off home Charmain would be forced to go. And there would be an end to peace and freedom.
Charmain jumped to her feet and smiled terrifically, so broadly and welcomingly that she thought she might have sprained her face. “Oh, hallo!” she said. “I didn’t hear the door.”
“You never do,” said Aunt Sempronia.
Mrs. Baker peered at Charmain, full of anxiety. “Are you all right, my love? Quite all right? Why haven’t you put your hair up properly?”
“I like it like this,” Charmain said, shuffling across so that she was between the two ladies and the kitchen door. “Don’t you think it suits me, Aunt Sempronia?”
Aunt Sempronia leaned on her parasol and looked at her judiciously. “Yes,” she said. “It does. It makes you look younger and plumper. Is that how you want to look?”
“Yes, it is,” Charmain said defiantly.
Mrs. Baker sighed. “Darling, I wish you wouldn’t talk in that bold way. People don’t like it, you know. But I’m very glad to see you looking so well. I lay awake half the night listening to the rain and hoping that the roof on this house didn’t leak.”
“It doesn’t leak,” Charmain said.
“Or fearing that you might have left a window open,” added her mother.
Charmain shuddered. “No, I shut the window,” she said, and immediately felt sure that Peter was at that moment opening the window onto the lubbock’s meadow. “You really have nothing to worry about, Mother,” she lied.
“Well, to tell the truth, I was a little worried,” Mrs. Baker said. “Your first time away from the nest, you know. I spoke to your father about it. He said you might not be managing to feed yourself properly.” She held up the bulging embroidered bag she was carrying. “He packed you some more food in this. I’ll just go and put it in the kitchen for you, shall I?” she asked, and pushed past Charmain toward the inner door.
No! Help! Charmain thought. She took hold of the embroidered bag in what she hoped was a most gentle, civilized way, rather than the grab for it that she would have liked to make, and said, “You needn’t bother, Mother. I’ll take it in a moment and fetch the other one for you—”
“Oh why? It’s no trouble, my love,” her mother protested, hanging on to the bag.
“—because I’ve got a surprise for you first,” Charmain said hurriedly. “You go and sit down. That sofa’s very comfortable, Mother.” And it has its back to this door. “Do take a seat, Aunt Sempronia—”
“But it won’t take me a moment,” Mrs. Baker said. “If I leave it on the kitchen table where you can find it—”
Charmain waved her free hand. Her other hand was hanging on to the bag for dear life. “Great-Uncle William!” she cried out. “Morning coffee! Please!”
To her enormous relief, Great-Uncle William’s kind voice replied, “Tap the trolley in the corner, my dear, and say ‘Morning Coffee.’”
Mrs. Baker gasped with amazement and looked round to see where the voice was coming from. Aunt Sempronia looked interested, looked quizzical, and went over to give the trolley a smart rap with her parasol. “Morning Coffee?” she said.
Instantly the room filled with a warm smell of coffee. A tall silver coffee pot stood on the trolley, steaming, together with tiny gilded cups, a gilded cream jug, a silver sugar boat, and a plate of little sugary cakes. Mrs. Baker was so astonished that she let go of the embroidered bag. Charmain put it quickly behind the nearest armchair.
“Very elegant magic,” Aunt Sempronia said. “Berenice, come and sit down here and let Charmain wheel the trolley over beside this sofa.”
Mrs. Baker obeyed, looking dazed, and to Charmain’s acute relief, the visit started to turn into an elegant, respectable coffee morning. Aunt Sempronia poured coffee, while Charmain handed round the sugary cakes. Charmain was standing facing the kitchen door, holding the plate out to Aunt Sempronia, when the door swung open and Waif ’s huge face appeared round the edge of it, obviously fetched by the smell of little sugary cakes.
“Go away, Waif!” Charmain said. “Shoo! I mean it! You can’t come in here unless you’re…you’re…you’re respectable. Go!”
Waif stared wistfully, sighed hugely, and backed away. By the time Mrs. Baker and Aunt Sempronia, each carefully holding a brimming little coffee cup, had managed to turn round to see who Charmain was talking to, Waif was gone and the door was shut again.
“What was that?” Mrs. Baker asked.