Free House of Many Ways by Diana Wynne Jones

here,” Charmain said. “And when I fell, I started to float and came down quite safely in the garden path. There’s no need to look so disbelieving. There was a kobold called Rollo in the garden when I came down. Ask him, if you don’t believe me.”
    “I will,” Peter said. “What was this book? Show me.”
    Charmain tossed her plait haughtily across her shoulder and went over to the desk. The Boke of Palimpsest seemed to be trying to hide. It was certainly not where she had left it. Perhaps Peter had moved it. She found it in the end, squeezed in among the row of Res Magica, pretending to be another volume of the encyclopedia. “There,” shesaid, banging it down on top of Hex, “and how dare you doubt my word! Now I’m going to find a book to read.”
    She marched to one of the bookshelves and began picking out likely titles. None of the books seemed to have stories in them, which Charmain would have preferred, but some of the titles were quite interesting. What about The Thaumaturge as Artist, for instance, or Memoirs of an Exorcist ? On the other hand, The Theory and Practice of Choral Invocation looked decidedly dry, but Charmain rather fancied the one next to it, called The Twelve-Branched Wand.
    Peter meanwhile sat himself down at the desk and leafed eagerly through The Boke of Palimpsest. Charmain was just discovering that The Thaumaturge as Artist was full of off-putting sayings like “thus our happy little magician can bring a sweet, fairylike music to our ears,” when Peter said irritably, “There’s no spell for flying in here. I’ve looked right through.”
    “Perhaps I used it up,” Charmain suggestedvaguely. She took a look inside The Twelve-Branched Wand and found it a very promising read.
    “Spells don’t work like that,” Peter said. “Where did you find it, really?”
    “In there. I told you,” Charmain said. “And if you can’t believe a word I say, why do you keep asking me?” She dropped her glasses off her nose, snapped the book shut, and carried a whole pile of likely volumes out into the corridor, where she slammed the study door on Peter and marched off backward and forward through the bathroom door until she reached the living room. There, in spite of the mustiness, she decided to stay. After that entry in Res Magica, outside in the sun did not seem safe anymore. She thought of the lubbock looming above the hydrangeas and sat herself firmly down on the sofa instead.
    She was deep in The Twelve-Branched Wand , and even beginning to understand what it was about, when there was a sharp rapping at the front door. Charmain thought, just as she usually did, Someone else can answer that, and read on.
    The door opened with an impatient rattle. AuntSempronia’s voice said, “Of course she’s all right, Berenice. She just has her nose in a book, as usual.”
    Charmain tore herself out of the book and snatched off her glasses in time to see her mother following Aunt Sempronia into the house. Aunt Sempronia, as usual, was most impressively clothed in stiff silk. Mrs. Baker was at her most respectable in gray, with shining white collar and cuffs, and wore her most respectable gray hat.
    How lucky I put on clean clothes this—, Charmain was beginning to think, when it dawned on her that the rest of the house was simply not fit for either of these two ladies to see. Not only was the kitchen full of dirty human dishes and dirty dog dishes, bubbles, laundry, and a vast white dog, but Peter was sitting in the study. Mother would probably only find the kitchen, and that was bad enough. But Aunt Sempronia was (pretty certainly) a witch, and she would find the study and come across Peter. Then Mother would want to know what an unknown boy was doing here. And when Peter was explained, Mother would say that in that case Peter could lookafter Great-Uncle William’s house for him, and Charmain must do the respectable thing and come home at once. Aunt Sempronia would agree, and off home