down into the bath.
“That’s better,” Charmain said, and turned round to look at Waif. Waif looked sadly back. She was as big as ever. “Waif,” Charmain said, “go small. Now. I order you.”
Waif sadly wagged the tip of her monstrous tail and stayed the same size.
“If she’s magic,” Peter said, “she can probably turn herself back if she wants to.”
“Oh, shut up!” Charmain snapped at him. “What did you think you were trying to do anyway? No one can drink scalding water.”
Peter glowered at her from under the twisted, dripping ends of his hair. “I wanted a cup of tea,” he said. “You make tea with boiling water.”
Charmain had never made tea in her life. She shrugged. “Do you really?” She raised her face to the ceiling. “Great-Uncle William,” she said, “how do we get a hot drink in this place?”
The kindly voice spoke again. “In the kitchen, you tap the table and say ‘Tea,’ my dear. In the living room, tap the trolley in the corner and say ‘Afternoon Tea.’ In your bedroom—”
Neither Peter nor Charmain waited to hear about the bedroom. They dived forward and slammed the bathroom door, opened it again—Charmain giving Peter a stern push to the left—and jammed themselves through it into the kitchen, turned round, shut the door, opened it again, and finally arrived in the living room, where they looked eagerly around for the trolley. Peter spotted it over in the corner and reached it ahead of Charmain. “Afternoon Tea!” he shouted, hammering mightily upon its empty, glass-covered surface. “Afternoon Tea! Afternoon Tea! Aftern—”
By the time Charmain got to him and seized his flailing arm, the trolley was crowded with pots of tea, milk jugs, sugar bowls, cups, scones, dishes of cream, dishes of jam, plates of hot buttered toast, piles of muffins, and a chocolate cake. A drawer slid out of the end of it, full of knives, spoons, and forks. Charmain and Peter, with one accord, dragged the trolley over to the musty sofa and settled down to eat and drink. After a minute, Waif put her huge head round the door, sniffing. Seeing the trolley, she shoved a bit and arrived in the living room too, where she crawled wistfully and mountainously over to the sofa and put her enormous hairy chin on the back of it behind Charmain. Peter gave her a distracted lookand passed her several muffins, which she ate in one mouthful, with huge politeness.
A good half hour later, Peter lay back and stretched. “That was great,” he said. “At least we won’t starve. Wizard Norland,” he added experimentally, “how do we get lunch in this house?”
There was no reply.
“He only answers me,” Charmain said, a trifle smugly. “And I’m not going to ask now. I had to deal with a lubbock before you came and I’m exhausted. I’m going to bed.”
“What are lubbocks?” Peter asked. “I think one killed my father.”
Charmain did not feel up to answering him. She got up and went to the door.
“Wait,” Peter said. “How do we get rid of the stuff on this trolley?”
“No idea,” said Charmain. She opened the door.
“Wait, wait, wait!” Peter said, hurrying after her. “Show me my bedroom first.”
I suppose I’ll have to, Charmain thought. He can’t tell left from right. She sighed. Unwillingly,she shoved Peter in among the bubbles that were still storming into the kitchen, thicker than ever, so that he could collect his knapsack, and then steered him left, back through the door to where the bedrooms were. “Take the third one along,” she said. “That one’s mine and the first one’s Great-Uncle William’s. But there’s miles of them, if you want a different one. Good night,” she added, and went into the bathroom.
Everything in there was frozen.
“Oh, well,” Charmain said.
By the time she got to her bedroom and into her somewhat tea-stained nightdress, Peter was out in the corridor, shouting, “Hey! This toilet’s frozen over!” Bad luck!
“That’s better,” Charmain said, and turned round to look at Waif. Waif looked sadly back. She was as big as ever. “Waif,” Charmain said, “go small. Now. I order you.”
Waif sadly wagged the tip of her monstrous tail and stayed the same size.
“If she’s magic,” Peter said, “she can probably turn herself back if she wants to.”
“Oh, shut up!” Charmain snapped at him. “What did you think you were trying to do anyway? No one can drink scalding water.”
Peter glowered at her from under the twisted, dripping ends of his hair. “I wanted a cup of tea,” he said. “You make tea with boiling water.”
Charmain had never made tea in her life. She shrugged. “Do you really?” She raised her face to the ceiling. “Great-Uncle William,” she said, “how do we get a hot drink in this place?”
The kindly voice spoke again. “In the kitchen, you tap the table and say ‘Tea,’ my dear. In the living room, tap the trolley in the corner and say ‘Afternoon Tea.’ In your bedroom—”
Neither Peter nor Charmain waited to hear about the bedroom. They dived forward and slammed the bathroom door, opened it again—Charmain giving Peter a stern push to the left—and jammed themselves through it into the kitchen, turned round, shut the door, opened it again, and finally arrived in the living room, where they looked eagerly around for the trolley. Peter spotted it over in the corner and reached it ahead of Charmain. “Afternoon Tea!” he shouted, hammering mightily upon its empty, glass-covered surface. “Afternoon Tea! Afternoon Tea! Aftern—”
By the time Charmain got to him and seized his flailing arm, the trolley was crowded with pots of tea, milk jugs, sugar bowls, cups, scones, dishes of cream, dishes of jam, plates of hot buttered toast, piles of muffins, and a chocolate cake. A drawer slid out of the end of it, full of knives, spoons, and forks. Charmain and Peter, with one accord, dragged the trolley over to the musty sofa and settled down to eat and drink. After a minute, Waif put her huge head round the door, sniffing. Seeing the trolley, she shoved a bit and arrived in the living room too, where she crawled wistfully and mountainously over to the sofa and put her enormous hairy chin on the back of it behind Charmain. Peter gave her a distracted lookand passed her several muffins, which she ate in one mouthful, with huge politeness.
A good half hour later, Peter lay back and stretched. “That was great,” he said. “At least we won’t starve. Wizard Norland,” he added experimentally, “how do we get lunch in this house?”
There was no reply.
“He only answers me,” Charmain said, a trifle smugly. “And I’m not going to ask now. I had to deal with a lubbock before you came and I’m exhausted. I’m going to bed.”
“What are lubbocks?” Peter asked. “I think one killed my father.”
Charmain did not feel up to answering him. She got up and went to the door.
“Wait,” Peter said. “How do we get rid of the stuff on this trolley?”
“No idea,” said Charmain. She opened the door.
“Wait, wait, wait!” Peter said, hurrying after her. “Show me my bedroom first.”
I suppose I’ll have to, Charmain thought. He can’t tell left from right. She sighed. Unwillingly,she shoved Peter in among the bubbles that were still storming into the kitchen, thicker than ever, so that he could collect his knapsack, and then steered him left, back through the door to where the bedrooms were. “Take the third one along,” she said. “That one’s mine and the first one’s Great-Uncle William’s. But there’s miles of them, if you want a different one. Good night,” she added, and went into the bathroom.
Everything in there was frozen.
“Oh, well,” Charmain said.
By the time she got to her bedroom and into her somewhat tea-stained nightdress, Peter was out in the corridor, shouting, “Hey! This toilet’s frozen over!” Bad luck!
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