tomorrow, so he can’t make me do it then.
All at once she was hideously nervous. She was going to see the King. She had been crazy to write to him, quite mad, and now she was going to have to go and see him. Her appetite went away. She looked up from her last creamy scone and found it was now dark outside. The magical lighting had come on indoors, filling the room with what seemed like golden sunshine, but the windows were black.
“I’m going to bed,” she said. “I’ve got a long day tomorrow.”
“If that King of yours has any sense,” Peter said, “he’ll kick you straight out as soon as he sees you. Then you can come back here and do the laundry.”
Since both these things were exactly what Charmain was afraid of, she did not answer. She simply picked up Memoirs of an Exorcist for some light reading, marched to the door with it, and turned left to where the bedrooms were.
Chapter Seven
I N WHICH A NUMBER OF PEOPLE ARRIVE AT THE R OYAL M ANSION
Charmain had rather a disturbed night. Some of this was certainly due to Memoirs of an Exorcist, whose author had clearly been very busy among a lot of haunts and weirdities, all of which he described in a matter-of-fact way that left Charmain in no doubt that ghosts were entirely real and mostly very unpleasant. She spent a lot of the night shivering and wishing she knew how to turn on the light.
Some of the disturbance was due to Waif, who was determined she had a right to sleep on Charmain’s pillow.
But most of the disturbance was nerves, pure and simple, and the fact that Charmain had no way of telling what the time was. She kept waking up, thinking, Suppose I oversleep! She woke in gray dawn, hearing birds twittering somewhere, and almost decided to get up then. But somehow she fell asleep again, and when she woke next it was in broad daylight.
“Help!” she cried out and flung back the covers, accidentally flinging Waif onto the floor too, and stumbled across the room to find the good clothes she had put out specially. As she dragged on her best green skirt, the sensible thing to do came to her at last. “Great-Uncle William,” she called out, “how do I tell what time it is?”
“Merely tap your left wrist,” the kindly voice replied, “and say ‘Time,’ my dear.” It struck Charmain that the voice was fainter and weaker than it had been. She hoped it was simply that the spell was wearing off, and not that Great-Uncle William was getting weaker himself, wherever he was.
“Time?” she said, tapping.
She expected a voice, or more probably a clock to appear. People in High Norland were great on clocks. Her own house had seventeen, including one in the bathroom. She had been vaguely surprised that Great-Uncle William did not seem to have even one cuckoo clock somewhere, but she realized the reason for this when what happened was that she simply knew the time. It was eight o’clock. “And it’ll take me at least an hour to walk there!” she gasped, ramming her arms into her best silk blouse as she ran for the bathroom.
She was more nervous than ever as she did her hair in there. Her reflection—with water trickling across it for some reason—looked terribly young with its hair in one rusty pigtail over its shoulder. He’ll know I’m only a schoolgirl, she thought. But there was no time to dwell on it. Charmain rushed out of the bathroom and back through the same door leftward and charged into the warm, tidy kitchen.
There were now five laundry bags leaning beside the sink, but Charmain had no time to bother aboutthat. Waif scuttled toward her, whining piteously, and scuttled back to the fireplace, where the fire was still cheerfully burning. Charmain was just about to tap the mantelpiece and ask for breakfast, when she saw Waif ’s problem. Waif was now too small to get her tail anywhere near the fireplace. So Charmain tapped and said, “Dog food, please,” before asking for breakfast for herself.
As she sat at the cleared table
All at once she was hideously nervous. She was going to see the King. She had been crazy to write to him, quite mad, and now she was going to have to go and see him. Her appetite went away. She looked up from her last creamy scone and found it was now dark outside. The magical lighting had come on indoors, filling the room with what seemed like golden sunshine, but the windows were black.
“I’m going to bed,” she said. “I’ve got a long day tomorrow.”
“If that King of yours has any sense,” Peter said, “he’ll kick you straight out as soon as he sees you. Then you can come back here and do the laundry.”
Since both these things were exactly what Charmain was afraid of, she did not answer. She simply picked up Memoirs of an Exorcist for some light reading, marched to the door with it, and turned left to where the bedrooms were.
Chapter Seven
I N WHICH A NUMBER OF PEOPLE ARRIVE AT THE R OYAL M ANSION
Charmain had rather a disturbed night. Some of this was certainly due to Memoirs of an Exorcist, whose author had clearly been very busy among a lot of haunts and weirdities, all of which he described in a matter-of-fact way that left Charmain in no doubt that ghosts were entirely real and mostly very unpleasant. She spent a lot of the night shivering and wishing she knew how to turn on the light.
Some of the disturbance was due to Waif, who was determined she had a right to sleep on Charmain’s pillow.
But most of the disturbance was nerves, pure and simple, and the fact that Charmain had no way of telling what the time was. She kept waking up, thinking, Suppose I oversleep! She woke in gray dawn, hearing birds twittering somewhere, and almost decided to get up then. But somehow she fell asleep again, and when she woke next it was in broad daylight.
“Help!” she cried out and flung back the covers, accidentally flinging Waif onto the floor too, and stumbled across the room to find the good clothes she had put out specially. As she dragged on her best green skirt, the sensible thing to do came to her at last. “Great-Uncle William,” she called out, “how do I tell what time it is?”
“Merely tap your left wrist,” the kindly voice replied, “and say ‘Time,’ my dear.” It struck Charmain that the voice was fainter and weaker than it had been. She hoped it was simply that the spell was wearing off, and not that Great-Uncle William was getting weaker himself, wherever he was.
“Time?” she said, tapping.
She expected a voice, or more probably a clock to appear. People in High Norland were great on clocks. Her own house had seventeen, including one in the bathroom. She had been vaguely surprised that Great-Uncle William did not seem to have even one cuckoo clock somewhere, but she realized the reason for this when what happened was that she simply knew the time. It was eight o’clock. “And it’ll take me at least an hour to walk there!” she gasped, ramming her arms into her best silk blouse as she ran for the bathroom.
She was more nervous than ever as she did her hair in there. Her reflection—with water trickling across it for some reason—looked terribly young with its hair in one rusty pigtail over its shoulder. He’ll know I’m only a schoolgirl, she thought. But there was no time to dwell on it. Charmain rushed out of the bathroom and back through the same door leftward and charged into the warm, tidy kitchen.
There were now five laundry bags leaning beside the sink, but Charmain had no time to bother aboutthat. Waif scuttled toward her, whining piteously, and scuttled back to the fireplace, where the fire was still cheerfully burning. Charmain was just about to tap the mantelpiece and ask for breakfast, when she saw Waif ’s problem. Waif was now too small to get her tail anywhere near the fireplace. So Charmain tapped and said, “Dog food, please,” before asking for breakfast for herself.
As she sat at the cleared table
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