The Chrestomanci series: 3 Book Collection. Diana Wynne Jones

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      Cat watched his moment and, when Mr Saunders called them to lessons, he caught Roger’s arm and whispered, “Look, Gwendolen’s turned Euphemia into a frog and—”

      Roger gave a great snore of laughter. Cat had to wait for him to stop.

      “And she won’t turn her back. Can you?”

      Roger tried to look serious, but laughter kept breaking through. “I don’t know. Probably not, unless she’ll tell you what spell she used. Finding out which spell without knowing is Advanced Magic, and I’m not on that yet. Oh how funny!” He bent over the table and yelled with laughter.

      Naturally, Mr Saunders appeared at the door, remarking that the time for telling jokes was after lessons. They had to go through to the schoolroom. Naturally, Cat found Janet had sat in his desk by mistake. He got her out as quietly as he could and sat in it himself, distractedly wondering how he could find out which spell Gwendolen had used.

      It was the most uncomfortable morning Cat had ever known. He had forgotten to tell Janet that the only thing Gwendolen knew about was witchcraft. Janet, as he rather suspected, knew a lot, about a lot of things. But it all applied to her own world. About the only subject she would have been safe in was simple arithmetic. And Mr Saunders chose that morning to give her a History test. Cat, as he scratched away left-handed at an English essay, could see the panic growing on Janet’s face.

      “What do you mean, Henry V?” barked Mr Saunders. “Richard II was on the throne until long after Agincourt. What was his greatest magical achievement?”

      “Defeating the French,” Janet guessed. Mr Saunders looked so exasperated that she babbled, “Well, I think it was. He hampered the French with iron underwear, and the English wore wool, so they didn’t stick in the mud, and probably their longbows were enchanted too. That would account for them not missing.”

      “Who,” said Mr Saunders, “do you imagine won the battle of Agincourt?”

      “The English,” said Janet. This of course was true for her world, but the panic-stricken look on her face as she said it suggested that she suspected the opposite was true in this world. Which of course it was.

      Mr Saunders put his hands to his head. “No, no, no! The French! Don’t you know anything, girl?”

      Janet looked to be near tears. Cat was terrified. She was going to break down any second and tell Mr Saunders she was not Gwendolen. She did not have Cat’s reasons for keeping quiet. “Gwendolen never knows anything,” he remarked loudly, hoping Janet would take the hint. She did. She sighed with relief and relaxed.

      “I’m aware of that,” said Mr Saunders. “But somewhere, somewhere inside that marble head there must be a little cell of grey matter. So I keep looking.”

      Unfortunately Janet, in her relief, became almost jolly. “Would you like to take my head apart and look?” she asked.

      “Don’t tempt me!” cried Mr Saunders. He hid his eyes with one knobby hand and fended at Janet with the other. He looked so funny that Janet laughed. This was so unlike Gwendolen that Mr Saunders lowered his hand across his nose and stared at her suspiciously over it. “What have you been up to now?”

      “Nothing,” Janet said guiltily.

      “Hm,” said Mr Saunders, in a way which made both Cat and Janet very uncomfortable.

      At last – very long last – it was time for Mary to bring the milk and biscuits, which she did, with a very portentous look. Crouched on the tray beside Mr Saunders’s cup of coffee was a large wet-looking brown thing. Cat’s stomach seemed to leave him and take a plunge into the Castle cellars. From the look of Janet, hers was doing the same.

      “What have you got there?” said Mr Saunders.

      “Gwendolen’s good deed for today,” Mary said grimly. “It’s Euphemia. Look at its face.”

      Mr Saunders bent and looked. Then he whirled round on Janet so fiercely that Janet half got out of her seat. “So that’s what you were laughing about!”

      “I didn’t do it!” said Janet.

      “Euphemia was in Gwendolen’s room, shut in the wardrobe, croaking her poor head off,” said Mary.

      “I think this calls for Chrestomanci,” Mr Saunders said. He strode towards the door.

      The door opened before he got there and Chrestomanci himself came in, cheerful and busy, with some papers in one hand. “Michael,” he said, “have I caught you at the right—?” He stopped when he saw Mr Saunders’s face. “Is something wrong?”

      “Will you please to look at this frog, sir,” said Mary. “It was in Gwendolen’s wardrobe.”

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