Witch's Business by Diana Wynne Jones Page B

matters to a witch.” Jess stopped smiling and put her hand on Frank’s arm. “These days,” said Mr. Adams, “there’s no one to arrange revenge. You ought to do a roaring trade. May I ask what made you so hard up? I seem to be the kind of person who repels money—it goes whatever I do. Are you the same?”
    â€œNot quite,” said Frank.
    â€œA chair broke, you see,” Jess explained, “and our pocket money was stopped.”
    â€œI see,” said Mr. Adams. They were nearly at the Mill House. As Mr. Adams spoke, they saw Martin and Vernon come round the side of the house and stand waiting for them by the door. “The other sitters?” Mr. Adams asked. Frank and Jess nodded. “It occurs to me,” said Mr. Adams, suddenly sounding a good deal less dreamy, “that by painting your portraits my sister is probably depriving you of a morning’s earning for Own Back Ltd.”
    â€œNot really,” said Jess, because she was not at all sure that this was true. For one thing, there were no earnings. For another, they were being painted directly on Own Back business.
    Mr. Adams obviously thought she was just being polite. “It seems rather hard luck,” he said. Maybe the milkman had made a fuss, Frank thought, the time the Aunt caught and painted him. At any rate, Mr. Adams went on, “I’ve rather a conscience about it. Did you know that professional models always charge a fee for being painted?”
    Frank said he had heard that they did, and watched hopefully, as Mr. Adams stood still and sorted vaguely in his pockets. Jess nudged Frank, and, when that did no good, trod on his toe, but Frank took no notice. It was worth it. Mr. Adams took his hand out of the fourth pocket he tried, holding a coin. It looked like five pence.
    â€œThis is all I can find,” he said. “Will this do for a fee?”
    Frank put out his hand to it. Jess jumped on his foot and said, “No! No, Frank. I mean, I don’t want to be rude, but aren’t you buying us off with this, Mr. Adams?”
    Mr. Adams looked utterly astonished. It was not pretend astonishment, which makes grown-ups say things like “My dear child!” but real, deep-down amazement. It was plain he just had no idea what Jess was talking of, and no idea what to answer. Frank seized the moment, while Mr. Adams and Jess stared at each other, to take the money from Mr. Adams and his foot from under Jess’s shoe.
    â€œDo shut up, Jess,” he said.
    â€œI really don’t understand,” said Mr. Adams.
    Jess would not let it rest. She pointed to Frank putting the five pence in his pocket. “Has he,” she asked, “just done a bad deed disguised as a good one?”
    â€œNot that I know of,” said Mr. Adams. “Where did you get that idea?”
    â€œA lady called Jessica,” said Jess. “She—”
    â€œOh, a quotation,” said Mr. Adams, laughing rather uncomfortably. “I think your friends are waiting. Where was this lady?”
    â€œThe big house on the London Road,” said Jess. “Frankie says it was yours.”
    â€œFrankie,” said Mr. Adams, “talks a great deal of nonsense. But we did live there once, for a while. That’s true.”
    Vernon and Martin were becoming impatient. Vernon called out, “Are you staying all day, or shall we knock now?”
    â€œKnock away,” Mr. Adams called back, and without saying anything more, he went wandering away toward the bushy garden of the cheese-colored house.
    Frank and Jess went to the door, while Vernon knocked. The Aunt, just as usual, arrived with a wagging cigarette and paint all over her.
    â€œOh,” she said. “You came. I never thought you would. No blood, though. Can’t you manage any today? Just a little?”
    Martin looked at Vernon. “I know just where to hit you,” he said. “I could make it bleed if you