let the incredible power do what it willed and hope it didn't kill him before it was done.
Overcome at last, the cherrywood staff crumbled into cinders and drops of melted copper. Gerald watched its charred remains fall piecemeal to the carpet, vaguely aware of sorrow, regret. The staff had been a present from his mother.
Its destruction didn't stop the power pouring from his body. On and on, lighting him up from the inside out like a firework. At last, though, it ran dry. As his knees buckled and his body swayed like a drunken sailor's, the air around the fat orange cat began to thicken like fog. Then it started to shimmer, suffusing with green and purple light. There came a sense of relentless pressure, as though an invisible fist was tightening itself around the room, squeezing, squeezing. Then the pressure released in a blinding flash and an eardrum-popping soundless explosion.
When the coloured fog cleared moments later, King Lional's fat orange cat was gone and in its place sat an enormous tawny lion wearing an expression of extreme apprehension.
'Saint Snodgrass preserve me,' said the princess, breaking the stunned silence. 'Professor Dunwoody, what have you done?'
'Kept my job,' he said, dazed. It worked, it worked, I can't believe it, it worked. 'I hope. Your Highness.'
With an hysterical flapping of wings Reg launched herself from the princess's shoulder to fly dizzy circles round his head. 'A lion? A lion? You're mad, sunshine! Stark staring crazy bonkers! Off your bloody trolley with bells on! That was a Level Twelve tmnstnogV
He snatched her out of the air and shoved her under his arm. 'Sorry, Your Majesty,' he said to the king.'Terrible vocabulary her previous owner taught her. I've done my best but I can't seem to fix her.'
King Lional ignored him. His gaze was trained on the lion, and in his eyes a bold bright burning. 'Tavistock?'
The lion mewled, hauled itself to its feet and butted its head against him.
With an effort, Gerald stood to attention. When he'd recovered from the shock he was going to do some serious celebrating. It wasn't a fluke, Stuttley's wasn't a fluke. I am a First Grader, no matter what my certificate says. How it was possible he didn't know, didn't care. It was a pettifogging detail, he'd worry about it later. There's a First Grade staff out there with my name on it! Pity it won't be a Stuttley's…
'Your cat is quite unharmed, Your Majesty. And he's still Tavistock on the inside. Of course I can reverse the transmogrification if you — '
King Lional lowered his sharply raised hand. Shifting his burning gaze he said, softly, 'Why a lion, Professor?'
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Frowned. 'Well… I suppose because Tavistock is a cat. And your name, well, it's very suggestive. And — if you'll forgive the familiarity — a lion is a far more regal creature, isn't it? Not that cats aren't perfectly pleasant,' he added hastily. 'But. Well. They're not lions, are they?'
'No,' the king said, his voice still soft. 'Cats aren't lions at all. Professor, I am impressed. Not one of your predecessors, experts all, exhibited such power. And you say you're a mere Third Grade practitioner?'
'Well, Your Majesty, it is possible that in the matter of my grading there was a slight… clerical error.'
King Lional threw back his head and laughed in abandoned delight. 'A clerical error? Oh, Professor. You are exceedingly droll.'
He bowed.'Thank you, Your Majesty. But if I may be so bold — am I also your next royal court wizard?'
Still chuckling, one hand now tangled in Tavistock's lavish mane, the king revealed all his teeth in a wide, wide smile. 'Actually, Gerald, you're better than that. You are, officially, my last royal court wizard.'
'So, Professor,' said Princess Melissande, considering Gerald sideways as they left the royal audience chamber in their wake. 'That was different. Quite the audition piece.'
Clutching his carpet-bag, he managed a tired shrug. 'I just wanted to make a good impression, Your Highness.'
She gave him another considering look. 'I think it's safe to say you succeeded.' With a glance at the black cat padding at her side she added, 'I hope you're not getting any ideas about Boris, now.' 'No! No, of course not. Not unless you — '
'Because I like Boris just the way he is.' The princess rubbed her nose. 'You know, Professor, I'm no expert but it seems to me that little stunt you just pulled was — how shall I put it — insanely dangerous?'
'You can say that again,' said Reg, rousing from her sulks. 'I'd rather not,' said the princess.
Gerald twitched his shoulder hard and hoped Reg would take the hint.'I admit,' he said carefully, 'transmogrification's one of the trickier feats in the wizarding lexicon.'
She snorted. 'That's quite a talent for understatement you've got there. Clearly, Professor, you're something out of the ordinary. Not at all like any other wizard the king has employed. Of course, whether or not that's a good thing remains to be seen.' She surged ahead down the dimly lit corridor, heels thumping the musty carpet, Boris leaping in her wake.
'Well done,' muttered Reg. 'Get the boss's sister offside. That's always a good plan. Almost as good as doing a Level Twelve transmogrification without so much as consulting me first! You idiotl You blockhead! Don't you know you could have been killed?' 'Yes, but I wasn't, so stop fussing.'
'Well excuse me for giving a tinker's cuss what happens to you!' Reg snapped. 'You just about scared the feathers off me, sunshine! I haven't felt that much power rolling off you since — since — Gerald, I've never felt that much power rolling off you! What's going on?'
With that first giddy flush of triumph well and truly faded he was starting to feel apprehensive. Unsettled. Ever so slightly spooked. A nasty headache was brewing behind his eyes. 'I don't know,' he muttered. 'And I don't want to talk about it now. I need some time to think, to — '
Reg chattered her beak. 'You need to get a move on, that's what you need. Madam's getting away from us, in case you haven't noticed.' She took a big breath. 'Oy, you! Princess Tearaway! What's the bleeding rush?'
The corridor was so dimly lit and the princess stopped so fast that Gerald ran straight up the back of her, skittling her like an indoor bowling champion. The princess cursed, inventively and at length, Boris yowled and Reg shrieked as she fell off Gerald's shoulder. He groaned, and sagged against the nearest wall.
With a couple of well-placed pokes of her beak Reg had Boris totally preoccupied with matters reproductive, so she relocated and turned her attention to the princess.
'Language, woman!' she snapped from her strategic position on top of Gerald's head. 'Pull yourself together. You're royalty, you've got no business rushing about like a lackey. Where's your pomp and circumstance, madam? Royalty doesn't bustle, it glides] Slowly, gracefully, as though it has got all the time in the world and more servants than a blind man can poke a stick at! Thirty hours, a staircase and a good thick book on your head, that's what you need, my girl.'
Still on the floor and rigid with offence, the princess opened her mouth to respond but Reg rolled on, regardless. 'And another thing. Why are all these corridors so damned dark? D'you want people flying into the walls and spraining their beaks?'
'I've got better things to spend my budget on than candles!' the princess retorted.
'You certainly have! Decent clothes, for a start, but you've been skimping there, too. It's a disgrace. Since when do royal highnesses tromp about in trousers, shirts and sensible shoes? Silk, satin, chiffon, floaty bits of gauze and the right amount of decolletage, that's the Princess Dress Code. Not to mention a nice set of diamond- studded high heels, peekaboo toe optional. And who, exactly, is the hairdresser responsible for that jackdaw nest I'm sure you're pleased to call a hair-do? I've met combine harvesters that could do a better job!'
Throughout this pithy homily on princessly personal grooming, Her Highness's expression faded from furious outrage to mild anger and came to rest at disbelief. Tearing her wide-eyed gaze away from Reg she turned to Gerald.
'I'm sorry.This is not a parrot. I'm not even sure it's a real bird. I don't suppose you'd care to explain, would you, Professor?' He winced. 'No. Not really'
'Do you mind?' Reg demanded, as the princess glared. 'I'd rather you didn't discuss me as though I wasn't here. Contrary to popular opinion having feathers doesn't mean I don't have feelings.'
'Maybe not,' said the princess, 'but I'm reasonably sure it does mean your conversations shouldn't be polysyllabic'
Hell. So much for keeping Reg under wraps. I should have known. 'I'm sorry, Your Highness. It's just that —
