“I think your notice is spelt wrong.”
Mr Baslam drooped his St Bernard eyes and made gestures that were meant to be joking. “I know. I know. But I don’t want to be taken serious, do I? Not on the very threshold, as it were. Now what was you wanting? Mr William Nostrum don’t tell me too much of his plans. I’m only a humble supplier.”
“I want some supplies, of course,” said Gwendolen.
Cat listened, rather bored, to Gwendolen bargaining for the materials of witchcraft. Mr Baslam fumbled in the backs of stuffed animal cases and fetched out newspaper screws of this and that – newts’ eyes, snakes’ tongues, cardamom, hellebore, mummy, nitre, seed of moly and various resins – which probably accounted for the unpleasant smell. He wanted more for them than Gwendolen would pay. She was determined to lay out her five shillings to the best possible advantage. Mr Baslam seemed to resent it. “Know your own mind, don’t you?” he said peevishly.
“I know how much things should cost,” said Gwendolen. She took her hat off, packed the little screws of newspaper carefully into its crown, and put it neatly back on her head again. “And last, I think I shall be wanting some dragon’s blood,” she said.
“Ooooh!” said Mr Baslam, dolefully shaking his head so that his hanging cheeks flapped. “Dragon’s blood is banned from use, young lady. You ought to know that. I don’t know as I can manage you any of that.”
“Mr Nostrum – both Mr Nostrums – told me you could get anything,” said Gwendolen. “They said you were the best agent they knew. And I’m not asking for dragon’s blood now. I’m ordering some.”
Mr Baslam looked gratified at being praised by the Nostrum brothers, but he was still dubious. “It’s a fearful strong charm needs dragon’s blood,” he said plaintively. “You won’t be doing anything that strong yourself, a young lady like you, now.”
“I don’t know yet,” said Gwendolen. “But I think I might. I’m on Advanced Magic, you know. And I want dragon’s blood in case I need it.”
“It’ll come dear,” Mr Baslam warned her. “It’s costly stuff. There’s the risk to pay for, you see. I don’t want the law on me.”
“I can pay,” said Gwendolen. “I’ll pay in instalments. You can take the rest of the five shillings on account.”
Mr Baslam was unable to resist this. The way he looked at the crown piece Gwendolen handed to him made Cat see vividly a long row of frothing pints of beer. “Done,” said Mr Baslam. Gwendolen smiled graciously and got up to go. Cat thankfully leapt up too. “What about you, young gentleman?” Mr Baslam asked wheedlingly. “Aren’t you going to try your hand at a bit of necromancy at all?”
“He’s just my brother,” said Gwendolen.
“Oh. Ah. Um. Yes,” said Mr Baslam. “He’s that one, of course. Well, good day to you both. Come again, any time.”
“When will you have the dragon’s blood?” Gwendolen asked him on the doorstep.
Mr Baslam thought. “Say a week?”
Gwendolen’s face glowed. “How quick! I knew you were a good agent. Where do you get it from so quickly?”
“Now that would be telling, wouldn’t it?” said Mr Baslam. “It has to come from another world, but which one is a trade secret, young lady.”
Gwendolen was jubilant as they went back along the alley. “A week!” she said. “That’s the quickest I’ve ever heard. It has to be smuggled in from this other world, you know. He must have awfully good connections there.”
“Or he’s got some already, inside a stuffed bird,” said Cat, who had not liked Mr Baslam at all. “Whatever do you want dragon’s blood for? Mrs Sharp says it costs fifty pounds an ounce.”
“Be quiet,” said Gwendolen. “Oh, quick! Hurry, Cat! Get into that sweet shop. She mustn’t know where I’ve been.”
Out on the village green, a lady carrying a parasol was talking to a clergyman. She was Chrestomanci’s wife. Cat and Gwendolen bundled themselves into the shop and hoped she had not seen them. There, Cat bought them a bag of toffee each. Millie was still there, so he bought some liquorice too. Millie was still talking to the clergyman even then, so he bought Gwendolen a pen-wiper and himself a postcard of the Castle. Millie was still there. But Cat could not think of anything else to buy, so they had to come out of the shop.
Millie beckoned to them as soon as they did. “Come and meet the dear vicar.”
The vicar, who was old, with a weak and wandering look, shakily shook hands with them and said he would see them on Sunday. Then he said he really must be going now.
“And so must we,” said Millie. “Come on, my dears. We’ll walk back to the Castle together.”
There was nothing to do but walk beside her under the shadow of her parasol, across the green and between the lodge gates. Cat was afraid she was going to ask them why they had been visiting Mr Baslam. Gwendolen was sure she was going to ask her about the moles in the lawn. But what Millie said was, “I’m glad of a chance to talk to you, my loves. I haven’t had a moment to see how you were getting on. Are you all right? Are you finding it very strange?”
“A – a little,” Cat admitted.
“The first few days are always the worst, anywhere,” said Millie. “I’m sure you’ll soon find your way round. And don’t hesitate to use the toys in the playroom if you want. They’re for everyone. Private toys are in one’s own room. How are you liking your rooms?”
Cat looked up at her in astonishment. She was talking as if moles and witchcraft had never existed. Despite her elegant ruched dress and her lacy parasol, she was a most ordinary, kind, good-natured lady. Cat liked her. He assured Millie that he liked his room, and his bathroom – particularly the shower – and explained that he had never had a bathroom to himself before.
“Oh, I’m glad. I did so hope you’d like it,” said Millie. “Miss Bessemer wanted to put you next to Roger, but I thought that room was so dull – and it doesn’t have a shower. Look at it some time and you’ll see what I mean.”
She walked on up the avenue, chattering away, and Cat found himself doing all the rest of the talking. As soon as it was clear that Millie was not going to mention either lawns or exotic supplies, Gwendolen began to despise her. She kept up a scornful silence, and left Cat to talk. After a while, Millie asked Cat what thing about the Castle he was finding strangest.
Cat answered shyly, but without hesitation. “The way everyone talks at supper.”
Millie let out such a yell of despair that Cat jumped and Gwendolen was more scornful than ever. “Oh dear! Poor Eric! I’ve seen you looking! Isn’t it awful? Michael gets these enthusiasms, and then he can talk of nothing else. It should be wearing off in a day or so, though, and then we can have reasonable talk again and make a few jokes. I like to laugh at dinner, don’t you? I’m afraid nothing will stop poor Bernard talking about stocks and shares, but you mustn’t take any notice of that. Nobody listens to Bernard. Do you like eclairs, by the way?”
“Yes,” said Cat.
“Oh good!” said Millie. “I’ve ordered tea for us on the lawn, since this is your first Wednesday and I didn’t want to waste this lovely weather. Isn’t it funny how September’s nearly always fine? If we slip through the trees here, we should be on the lawn as soon as tea is.”
Sure enough, they followed Millie out of the shrubbery to find a whole cluster of deckchairs round the one where Mr Saunders was, and footmen putting out tables and carrying trays. Most of the Family were gathering among the deckchairs. Gwendolen followed Millie and Cat over, looking nervous and defiant. She knew Chrestomanci was going to speak to her about