Witch Week by Diana Wynne Jones

buried under a monstrous mountain of shoes.
    Amid the general marveling, Theresa’s voice was heard. “If this is someone’s idea of a joke, I don’t think it’s funny. My bedsocks are all muddy!” She was wearing blue fluffy bedsocks over her school socks.
    After this, there was something of a free-for-all. People scrambled in through doors and windows and slithered on the pile of shoes, digging for shoes they thought were theirs—or, failing that, simply a pair that would fit.
    Until a voice began bellowing, “OUT! GET OUT ALL OF YOU! LEAVE ALL THE SHOES THERE!”
    Charles was pushed backwards by the rather slower rush to leave the hall, and had to crane to see who was shouting. It was Mr. Wentworth. Charles was so amazed that he stopped moving and was left by a sort of eddy inside the hall, just by the door. From there, he could clearly see Mr. Wentworth walking down the edge of the pile of shoes. He was wearing his usual shabby suit, but his feet were completely bare. Otherwise there was nothing wrong with him at all. After him came Mr. Crossley in bright yellow socks and Mr. Brubeck with a large hole in the heel of his left sock. After them came the caretaker. After him of course trundled the caretaker’s dog, which was manifestly wishing to raise a leg against the pile of shoes.
    “I don’t know who done it!” the caretaker was protesting. “But I know there was people sneaking around my building half the night. The dog nearly caught one, right in this very hall.”
    “Did you come in here and investigate?” Mr. Wentworth said.
    “Door was shut,” said the caretaker. “Thought it was locked.”
    Mr. Wentworth turned from him in disgust. “Someone was pretty busy in here all last night,” he said to Mr. Crossley, “and he didn’t even look!”
    “Thought it was locked,” repeated the caretaker.
    “Oh shut up!” snapped Mr. Wentworth. “And stop your dog peeing on that shoe. It’s Miss Cadwallader’s.”
    Charles slipped out into the corridor, trying to keep the grin on his face down to decent proportions. Mr. Wentworth was all right. He must have slipped off to bed after all last night, while Miss Hodge was asking Charles the way. And, better still, everyone thought the shoes had arrived in the hall quite naturally. Charles could have danced and sung.
    But here was Dan Smith beside him. That sobered Charles somewhat. “Hey,” said Dan. “Did those seniors catch you last night?”
    “No, I ran away,” Charles replied airily.
    “You must have run pretty fast!” said Dan. It was grudging, but it was praise, coming from Dan. “Know anything about who did these shoes?” Dan asked, jerking his head toward the hall.
    Charles would dearly have loved to say it was him and watch the respect grow on Dan’s face. But he was not that much of a fool. “No,” he said.
    “I do,” said Dan. “It was the witch in our class, I bet.”
    Mr. Wentworth appeared in the doorway of the hall. There were loud shushings up and down the packed corridor. “Breakfast is going to be late,” Mr. Wentworth shouted. He looked very harrowed. “You can’t expect the kitchen staff to work without shoes. You are all to go to your classrooms and wait there. Meanwhile, teachers and sixth graders are going to be working hard laying all the shoes out in the main quadrangle. When you are called— when you are called, understand?—you are to come by classes and pick out the shoes which are yours. Off you all go. Sixth grade stay behind.”
    Everyone milled off in a reluctant crowd. Charles was so pleased with himself that he risked grinning at Brian. But Brian was staring dreamily at the wall and did not notice. He did not move or even yell when Simon slapped him absentmindedly around the head. “Where’s Nan Pilgrim?” Simon asked, laughing. “Turned herself invisible?”
    Nan was keeping out of the way, lurking in the top corridor by the girls’ bathrooms. From there, she had an excellent view of the