He turned to Granny, who was fishing around in the water.
“I’ve lost my hat,” she said.
Cutangle sighed. “Does that really matter at a time like this?”
“A witch has got to have a hat, otherwise who’s to know?” said Granny. She made a grab as something dark and sodden drifted by, cackled triumphantly, tipped out the water and rammed the hat on her head. It had lost its stiffening and flopped rather rakishly over one eye.
“Right,” she said, in a tone of voice that suggested the whole universe had just better watch out.
There was another brilliant flash of lightning, which shows that even the weather gods have a well-developed sense of theater.
“It rather suits you,” said Cutangle.
“Excuse me,” said Treatle, “but isn’t she the w—”
“Never mind that,” said Cutangle, taking Granny’s hand and helping her up the steps. He flourished the staff.
“But it’s against the lore to allow w—”
He stopped and stared as Granny reached out and touched the damp wall by the door. Cutangle tapped him on the chest.
“Show me where it’s written down,” said Cutangle.
“They’re in the library,” Granny interrupted.
“It was the only dry place,” said Treatle, “but—”
“This building is frightened of thunderstorms,” said Granny. “It could do with comforting.”
“But the lore—” repeated Treatle desperately.
Granny was already striding down the passage, with Cutangle hopping along behind. He turned.
“You heard the lady,” he said.
Treatle watched them go, with his mouth hanging open. When their footsteps had died away in the distance he stood silently for a moment, thinking about life and where his could have gone wrong.
However, he wasn’t going to be accused of disobedience.
Very carefully, without knowing exactly why, he reached out and gave the wall a friendly pat.
“There, there,” he said.
Strangely enough, he felt a lot better.
It occurred to Cutangle that he ought to lead the way in his own premises, but Granny in a hurry was no match for a near-terminal nicotine addict and he kept up only by a sort of crabwise leaping.
“It’s this way,” he said, splashing through the puddles.
“I know. The building told me.”
“Yes, I was meaning to ask about that,” said Cutangle, “because you see it’s never said anything to me and I’ve lived here for years.”
“Have you ever listened to it?”
“Not exactly listened, no,” Cutangle conceded. “Not as such.”
“Well then,” said Granny, edging past a waterfall where the kitchen steps used to be (Mrs Whitlow’s washing would never be the same again). “I think it’s up here and along the passage, isn’t it?”
She swept past a trio of astonished wizards, who were surprised by her and completely startled by her hat.
Cutangle panted after her and caught her arm at the doors to the library.
“Look,” he said desperately, “No offense, Miss—um, Mistress—”
“I think Esmerelda will suffice now. What with us having shared a broomstick and everything.”
“Can I go in front? It
Granny turned around, her face a mask of surprise. Then she smiled.
“Of course. I’m so sorry.”
“For the look of the thing, you see,” said Cutangle apologetically. He pushed the door open.
The library was full of wizards, who care about their books in the same way that ants care about their eggs and in time of difficulty carry them around in much the same way. The water was getting in even here, and turning up in rather odd places because of the library’s strange gravitational effects. All the lower shelves had been cleared and relays of wizards and students were pilling the volumes on every available table and dry shelf. The air was full of the sound of angry rustling pages, which almost drowned out the distant fury of the storm.
This was obviously upsetting the librarian, who was scurrying from wizard to wizard, tugging ineffectually at their robes and shouting “ook.”
He spotted Cutangle and knuckled rapidly towards him. Granny had never seen an orangutan before, but wasn’t about to admit it, and remained quite calm in the face of a small pot-bellied man with extremely long arms and a size 12 skin on a size 8 body.
“Ook,” it explained,
“I expect so,” said Cutangle shortly, and grabbed the nearest wizard, who was tottering under the weight of a dozen grimoires. The man stared at him as if he were a ghost, looked sideways at Granny, and dropped the books on the floor. The librarian winced.
“Archchancellor?” gasped the wizard, “you’re alive? I mean—we heard you’d been spirited away by—” he looked at Granny again, “—I mean, we thought—Treatle told us—”
“
“Where are young Simon and the girl? What have you done with them?” Granny demanded.
“They—we put them over here,” said the wizard, backing away. “Um—”
“Show us,” said Cutangle. “And stop stuttering, man, you think you’d never seen a woman before.”
The wizard swallowed hard and nodded vigorously.
“Certainly. And—I mean—please follow me—um—”
“You weren’t going to say anything about the lore, were you?” asked Cutangle.
“Um—no, Archchancellor.”
“Good.”
They followed hard on his trodden-down heels as he scurried between the toiling wizards, most of whom stopped working to stare as Granny strode past.
“This is getting embarrassing,” said Cutangle, out of the corner of his mouth. “I shall have to declare you an honorary wizard.”
Granny stared straight ahead and her lips hardly moved.
“You do,” she hissed, “and I will declare you an honorary witch.”
Cutangle’s mouth snapped shut.
Esk and Simon were lying on a table in one of the side reading-rooms, with half a dozen wizards watching over them. They drew back nervously as the trio approached, with the librarian swinging along behind.
“I’ve been thinking,” said Cutangle. “Surely it would be better to give the staff to Simon? He
“Over my dead body,” said Granny. “Yours, too. They’re getting their power through him, do you want to give them more?”
Cutangle sighed. He had been admiring the staff, it was one of the best he had seen.
“Very well. You’re right, of course.”
He leaned down and laid the staff on Esk’s sleeping form, and then stood back dramatically.
Nothing happened.
One of the wizards coughed nervously.
Nothing continued to happen.
The carvings on the staff appeared to be grinning.
“It’s not working,” said Cutangle, “is it?”
“Ook.”
“Give it time,” said Granny.
They gave it time. Outside the storm strode around the sky, trying to lift the lids off houses.
Granny sat down on a pile of books and rubbed her eyes. Cutangle’s hands strayed towards his tobacco
