The Chrestomanci Series: Entire Collection Books 1-7. Diana Wynne Jones

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      Domenico, who had been rendered surprisingly bold by something, said, “Uncle, I could see the Petrocchis were no more traitors than we are!”

      Both old men turned to look at him. He crumpled.

      “The fact is,” Old Niccolo continued, “Caprona is not the great State she once was. There are many reasons, no doubt. But we know, and the Duke knows – even Domenico knows – that each year we set the usual charms for the defence of Caprona, and each year we set them stronger, and each year they have less effect. Something – or someone – is definitely sapping our strength. So the Duke asks what else we can do. And—”

      Domenico interrupted with a squawk of laughter. “And we said we’d find the words to the Angel of Caprona!”

      Paolo and Tonino expected Domenico to be crushed again, but the two old men simply looked gloomy. Their heads nodded mournfully. “But I don’t understand,” said Tonino. “The Angel of Caprona’s got words. We sing them at school.”

      “Hasn’t your mother taught you—?” Old Niccolo began angrily. “Ah, no. I forgot. Your mother is English.”

      “One more reason for careful marriages,” Uncle Umberto said dismally.

      By this time, what with the rain ceaselessly pattering down as well, both boys were thoroughly depressed and alarmed. Domenico seemed to find them funny. He gave another squawk of laughter.

      “Be quiet,” said Old Niccolo. “This is the last time I take you where brandy is served. No, boys, the Angel has not got the right words. The words you sing are a makeshift. Some people say that the glorious Angel took the words back to Heaven after the White Devil was vanquished, leaving only the tune. Or the words have been lost since. But everyone knows that Caprona cannot be truly great until the words are found.”

      “In other words,” Uncle Umberto said irritably, “the Angel of Caprona is a spell like any other spell. And without the proper words, any spell is only at half force, even if it is of divine origin.” He gathered up his gown as the coach jerked to a stop outside the University. “And we – like idiots – have pledged ourselves to complete what God left unfinished,” he said. “The presumption of man!” He climbed out of the coach, calling to Old Niccolo, “I’ll look in every manuscript I can think of. There must be a clue somewhere. Oh this confounded rain!”

      The door slammed and the coach jerked on again.

      Paolo asked, “Have the Petrocchis said they’ll find the words too?”

      Old Niccolo’s mouth bunched angrily. “They have. And I should die of shame if they did it before we did. I—” He stopped as the coach lurched round the corner into the Corso. It lurched again, and jerked. Sprays of water flew past the windows.

      Domenico leaned forward. “Not driving so well, is he?”

      “Quiet!” said Old Niccolo, and Paolo bit his tongue in a whole succession of jerks. Something was wrong. The coach was not making the right noise.

      “I can’t hear the horses’ hooves,” Tonino said, puzzled.

      “I thought that was it!” Old Niccolo snapped. “It’s the rain.” He let down the window with a bang, bringing in a gust of watery wind, and, regardless of faces staring up at him from under wet umbrellas, he leaned out and bellowed the words of a spell. “And drive quickly, coachman! There,” he said, as he pulled the window up again, “that should get us home before the horses turn to pulp. What a blessing this didn’t happen before Umberto got out!”

      The noise of the horses’ hooves sounded again, clopping over the cobbles of the Corso. It seemed that the new spell was working. But, as they turned into the Via Cardinale, the noise changed to a spongy thump-thump, and when they came to the Via Magica the hooves made hardly a sound. And the lurching and jerking began again, worse than ever. As they turned to enter the gate of the Casa Montana, there came the most brutal jerk of all. The coach tipped forward, and there was a crash as the pole hit the cobbles. Paolo got his window open in time to see the limp paper figure of the coachman flop off the box into a puddle. Beyond him, two wet cardboard horses were draped over their traces.

      “That spell,” said Old Niccolo, “lasted for days in my grandfather’s time.”

      “Do you mean it’s that enchanter?” Paolo asked. “Is he spoiling all our spells?”

      Old Niccolo stared at him, full-eyed, like a baby about to burst into tears. “No, lad. I fancy not. The truth is, the Casa Montana is in as bad a way as Caprona. The old virtue is fading. It has faded generation by generation, and now it is almost gone. I am ashamed that you should learn it like this. Let’s get out, boys, and start dragging.”

      It was a wretched humiliation. Since the rest of the family were all either asleep or at work on the Old Bridge, there was no one to help them pull the coach through the gate. And Domenico was no use. He confessed afterwards that he could not remember getting home. They left him asleep in the coach and dragged it in, just the three of them. Even Benvenuto dashing through the rain did not cheer Tonino much.

      “One consolation,” panted their grandfather. “The rain. There is no one about to see Old Niccolo dragging his own coach.”

      Paolo and Tonino did not find much consolation in that. Now they understood the growing unease in the Casa, and it was not pleasant. They understood why everyone was so anxious about the Old Bridge, and so delighted when, just before Christmas, it was mended at last. They understood, too, the worry about a husband for Rosa. As soon as the bridge was repaired, everyone went back to discussing that. And Paolo and Tonino knew why everyone agreed that the young man Rosa must choose, must have, if he had nothing else, a strong talent for spells.

      “To improve the breed, you mean?” said Rosa. She was very sarcastic and independent about it. “Very well, dear Uncle Lorenzo, I shall only fall in love with men who can make paper horses waterproof.”

      Uncle Lorenzo blushed angrily. The whole family felt humiliated by those horses. But Elizabeth was trying not to laugh. Elizabeth certainly encouraged Rosa in her independent attitude. Benvenuto informed Tonino it was the English way. Cats liked English people, he added.

      “Have we really lost our virtue?” Tonino asked Benvenuto anxiously. He thought it was probably the explanation for his slowness.

      Benvenuto said that he did not know what it was like in the old days, but he knew there was enough magic about now to make his coat spark. It seemed like a lot. But he sometimes wondered if it was being applied properly.

      Around this time, twice as many newspapers found their way into the Casa. There were journals from Rome and magazines from Genoa and Milan, as well as the usual Caprona papers. Everyone read them eagerly and talked in mutters about the attitude of Florence, movements in Pisa and opinion hardening in Siena. Out of the worried murmurs, the word War began to sound, more and more frequently. And, instead of the usual Christmas songs, the only tune heard in the Casa Montana, night and day, was the Angel of Caprona.

      The tune was sung in bass, tenor and soprano. It was played slowly on flutes, picked out on guitars and lilted on violins. Every one of the Montanas lived in hope that he or she would be the person to find the true words. Rinaldo had a new idea. He procured a drum and sat on the edge of his bed beating out the rhythm, until Aunt Francesca implored him to stop. And even that did not help. Not one of the Montanas could begin to set СКАЧАТЬ