Free House of Many Ways by Diana Wynne Jones Page B

face appeared round the edge of it, obviously fetched by the smell of little sugary cakes.
    “Go away , Waif!” Charmain said. “Shoo! I mean it! You can’t come in here unless you’re…you’re…you’re respectable. Go!”
    Waif stared wistfully, sighed hugely, and backed away. By the time Mrs. Baker and Aunt Sempronia, each carefully holding a brimming little coffee cup, had managed to turn round to see who Charmain was talking to, Waif was gone and the door was shut again.
    “What was that?” Mrs. Baker asked.
    “Nothing,” Charmain said soothingly. “Only Great-Uncle William’s guard dog, you know. She’s terribly greedy—”
    “You have a dog here!” Mrs. Baker interrupted, in the greatest alarm. “I’m not sure I like that, Charmain. Dogs are so dirty. And you could get bitten ! I hope you keep it chained up.”
    “No, no, no, she’s terribly clean. And obedient,” Charmain said, wondering if this was true. “It’s just—it’s just that she overeats. Great-UncleWilliam tries to keep her on a diet, so of course she was after one of these cakes—”
    The kitchen door opened again. This time it was Peter’s face that came round the edge of it, with a look on it that suggested that Peter had something urgent to say. The look turned to horror as he took in Aunt Sempronia’s finery and Mrs. Baker’s respectability.
    “Here she is again,” Charmain said, rather desperately. “Waif, go away!”
    Peter took the hint and vanished, just before Aunt Sempronia could turn round again and see him. Mrs. Baker looked more alarmed than ever.
    “You worry too much, Berenice,” Aunt Sempronia said. “I admit that dogs are smelly and dirty and noisy, but there’s nothing to beat a good guard dog for keeping a house safe. You should be glad that Charmain has one.”
    “I suppose so,” Mrs. Baker agreed, sounding wholly unconvinced. “But—but didn’t you tell me this house is protected by—your great-uncle’s…er…wizardly arts?”
    “Yes, yes, it is !” Charmain said eagerly. “The place is doubly safe!”
    “Of course it is,” said Aunt Sempronia. “I believe that nothing can get in here that hasn’t been invited over the threshold.”
    As if to prove Aunt Sempronia completely wrong there, a kobold suddenly appeared on the floor beside the trolley. “Now, look here!” he said, small and blue and aggressive.
    Mrs. Baker gave a shriek and clutched her coffee cup to her bosom. Aunt Sempronia drew her skirts back from him in a stately way. The kobold stared at them, clearly puzzled, and then looked at Charmain. He was not the garden kobold. His nose was bigger, his blue clothing was of finer cloth, and he looked as if he was used to giving orders.
    “Are you an important kobold?” Charmain asked him.
    “Well,” the kobold said, rather taken aback, “you could say that. I’m chieftain in these parts, name of Timminz. I’m leading this deputation, and we’re all pretty annoyed. And now we’re told thatthe wizard isn’t here, or won’t see us, or—”
    Charmain could see he was working himself into a rage. She said quickly, “That’s true. He’s not here. He’s ill. The elves have taken him away to cure him, and I’m looking after his house while he’s away.”
    The kobold hunched his eyes over his great blue nose and glowered at her. “Are you telling the truth?”
    I seem to have spent all day being told I’m lying! Charmain thought angrily.
    “It is the exact truth,” Aunt Sempronia said. “William Norland is not here at present. So will you be so kind as to take yourself off, my good kobold. You are frightening poor Mrs. Baker.”
    The kobold glowered at her and then at Mrs. Baker. “Then,” he said to Charmain, “I don’t see any chance of this dispute being settled, ever !” And he was gone as suddenly as he had come.
    “Oh, my goodness!” Mrs. Baker gasped, holding her chest. “So little! So blue! How did it get in ? Don’t let it run up your skirt,