The Witch stopped here, as if she could not bear to go on. Everyone waited respectfully while she swallowed and dabbed at her eyes with a multicolored handkerchief. Then she shook her shoulders efficiently and said, “I put protections round Peter at once, of course, the strongest possible. They’ve never once been off him. I let him grow up as secretly as possible and I didn’t mind at all when Ludovic began telling people that I was a mad prisoner in Castel Joie. That meant no one knew about Peter, you see. And the day after the avalanche, I left Peter with a neighbor and went to High Norland. You probably remember me coming, don’t you?” she asked the King.
“Yes, I do,” said the King. “But you said nothing about Peter, or Hans, and I had no idea it was all so sad and urgent. And of course I hadn’t got the Elfgift. I didn’t even know what it looked like. All you did was to start me off, together with my good friend Wizard Norland here, looking for the Elfgift. We’ve been hunting for it for thirteen years now. And we haven’t got very far, have we, William?”
“We’ve got nowhere at all,” Great-Uncle William agreed from the sled chair. He chuckled. “But people will keep thinking that I’m the expert on the Elfgift. Some folks even say that I’m the Elfgift and I guard the King. I do try to guard him, of course, but not like an Elfgift would.”
“That’s one of the reasons I sent Peter to you,” said the Witch. “It was always possible that the rumors were true. And I knew you could keep Peter safe anyway. I’ve been looking for that Elfgift myself for years, because I thought it could probably get rid of Ludovic. Beatrice of Strangia told me that Wizard Howl of Ingary was better at divination than any wizard in the world, so I went to Ingary to ask him to find it for me.”
Wizard Howl threw his flaxen head back and began to laugh. “And you have to admit that I did find it!” he said. “Most unexpectedly. There it sits, on Miss Charming’s lap!”
“What—Waif?” said Charmain. Waif wagged her tail and looked demure.
Howl nodded. “That’s right. Your little enchanting dog.” He turned to the King. “Don’t those records of yours talk about a dog anywhere?”
“Frequently,” said the King. “But I had no idea—My great-grandfather held a State Funeral for his dog when it died, and I simply wondered what all the fuss was about!”
Princess Hilda coughed gently. “Of course, most of our oil paintings have been sold now,” she said, “but I do remember that a lot of our earlier kings were painted with a dog at their sides. They were generally a little…er…nobler looking than Waif, however.”
“I imagine they come all sizes and shapes,” Great-Uncle William put in. “It looks to me as if the Elfgift is something certain dogs inherit, and the later kings forgot to breed them properly. Now, for instance, when Waif has her puppies a bit later this year—”
“What?” said Charmain. “Puppies!” Waif wagged her tail again and looked even more demure. Charmain pushed Waif’s chin up and stared accusingly into her eyes. “The cook’s dog?” she asked. Waif blinked bashfully. “Oh, Waif!” Charmain wailed. “Goodness knows what they’ll look like!”
“We must wait and hope,” said Great-Uncle William. “One of those pups will have inherited the Elfgift. But there is one other important aspect to this, my dear. Waif has adopted you, and this makes you High Norland’s Elfgift Guardian. Also, since the Witch of Montalbino here tells me that The Boke of Palimpsest has adopted you too—It has, hasn’t it?”
“I…er…um. It did make me do spells out of it,” Charmain admitted.
“Then that settles it,” Great-Uncle William said, nestling contentedly back on his cushions. “You come and live with me as my apprentice from now on. You need to learn how to help Waif protect the country properly.”
“Yes…oh…but…,” Charmain babbled, “Mother won’t allow me…. She says magic’s not respectable. My dad won’t mind, probably,” she added. “But my mother—”
“I’ll fix her,” said Great-Uncle William. “If necessary, I’ll set your Aunt Sempronia on her.”
“Better still,” said the King, “I’ll make it a Royal Decree. Your mother will be impressed by that. You see, we need you, my dear.”
“Yes, but I want to help you with the books!” Charmain cried out.
Princess Hilda gave another of her gentle coughs. “I shall be rather busy,” she said, “redecorating and renovating this Mansion.” The gold ingot was lying on the carpet by her feet. She gave it a tender prod with one sensible shoe. “Now we are solvent again,” she said happily. “I suggest that you stand in for me in the library with my father twice a week, if Wizard Norland will spare you.”
“Oh, thank you!” Charmain said.
“And,” added the Princess, “as for Peter—”
“There’s no need to concern yourself with Peter,” the Witch interrupted. “I shall be staying with Peter and Charmain to look after the house at least until Wizard Norland is back on his feet. Maybe I shall live there permanently.”
Charmain, Peter, and Great-Uncle William exchanged looks of horror. I see why she got to be so efficient, being left all alone with Peter to protect, Charmain thought. But if she stays in that house, I’ll go back to live with Mother!
“Nonsense, Matilda,” said Princess Hilda. “Peter is very much our concern, now that it is clear that he is our Crown Prince. Peter will live here and commute to Wizard Norland for lessons in magic. You must go back to Montalbino, Matilda. They need you there.”
“And us kobolds will look after the house, the way we always used to,” Timminz piped.
Oh, good, Charmain thought. I don’t think I’m really house trained yet—and Peter certainly isn’t!
“Bless you, Timminz. Bless you, Hilda,” Great-Uncle William murmured. “The thought of all that efficiency in my house—”
“I shall be fine, Mum,” Peter said. “You don’t have to protect me anymore.”
“If you’re sure,” the Witch said. “It seems to me—”
“Now,” said Princess Hilda, at least as efficiently as the Witch, “it only remains for us to say goodbye to our kind, helpful, if somewhat eccentric guests, and wave them off in their castle. Come along, all of you.”
“Woops!” said Calcifer and shot away up the chimney.
Sophie stood up, dislodging Morgan’s thumb from his mouth. Morgan woke, looked round, saw that his father was there, and looked round some more. His face crumpled up. “Dinkle,” he said. “Where Dinkle?” He started to cry.
“Now look what you’ve started!” Sophie said to Howl.
“I can always turn into Twinkle again,” Howl suggested.
“Don’t you dare!” Sophie said, and marched away into the damp hallway after Sim.
Five minutes later, they were all gathered on the front steps of the Mansion to watch Sophie and Howl hauling the struggling, crying Morgan through the door of the castle. As the door shut on Morgan’s yells of “Dinkle, Dinkle, Dinkle!” Charmain bent and murmured to Waif in her arms, “You did protect the country, didn’t you? And I never even noticed!”
By this time, half the people in High Norland were gathered in Royal Square to stare at the castle. They all watched with disbelief as the castle rose slightly into the air and glided toward the road that led southward. It was hardly more than an alley, really. “It’ll never fit!” people said. But the castle somehow squeezed itself narrow enough to drift away along it and out of sight.
The citizens of High Norland gave it a cheer as it went.
About the Author
Diana Wynne Jones has been writing outstanding fantasy novels for more than thirty years and is one of the most distinguished writers in this field. With unlimited imagination, she combines dazzling plots, an effervescent sense of humor, and emotional truths in stories that delight readers of all ages. Her books, published to international acclaim, have earned a wide array of honors, including two Boston Globe-Horn Book Award Honors and the British Fantasy Society’s Karl Edward Wagner Award for having made a significant impa
ct on fantasy. Acclaimed director and animator Hayao Miyazaki adapted Howl’s Moving Castle into a major motion picture, which was nominated for an Academy Award.
Diana Wynne Jones lives in Bristol, England, with her husband, a professor emeritus of English literature at Bristol University. They have three sons.
www.dianawynnejones.com
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Credits
Jacket art © 2008 by John Rocco
Jacket design by Paul Zakris
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
HOUSE OF MANY WAYS. Copyright © 2008 by Diana Wynne Jones. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Adobe Digital Edition May 2009 ISBN 978-0-06-186133-8
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