Free The Red Judge by Pauline Fisk

out what else he’d done with her, he started on his next trick.
    It was even better than the last. Dr Katterfelto ran his hand down the cat and its body started slowlyvanishing. It happened right before my eyes – no cloak to hide behind this time, no mirrors, tricks or sleight-of-hand that I could see. Finally everything vanished, except for the cat’s tail that hung, disembodied, in the air. Then Dr Katterfelto ran a single, white-gloved finger down the tail and – with a little fizz of blue light – that vanished too!
    I stared in unbelief, too astonished even to clap. But Dr Katterfelto hadn’t finished with me yet. From his pocket he produced a small biscuit wrapped in tissue paper. He unwrapped the biscuit, which he gave to me, but retained its paper, which he lit with a match and then let go. It rose to the top of the conservatory, burning all the way like a bright star, then slowly fell back down again until Dr Katterfelto caught it in his cupped hands.
    By this time, it was nothing but a skeletal piece of grey ash. Dr Katterfelto held it up for me to see, and there in his palm – I swear this, honestly – was a miniature Gilda! A tiny model of her, perfect in every detail, except that it was made of ash. And then the doctor clapped his hands and the ash turned into a poof of smoke –
and Gilda was back!
    For a moment she stood against her father, her cheek pressed against his chest. Then she burst out laughing, and I found myself laughing too, and clapping as if I’d never stop. Dr Katterfelto bowed, and Gilda bowed as well, turning to her father as if he was the undisputed master.
    Then Dr Katterfelto said, ‘That’s enough for one day. I think it’s time to take you home.’
    I didn’t want to go home, but didn’t have much choice. Dr Katterfelto brought his tour bus round tothe front of the house and we climbed in. I imagined flying down the valley fuelled by nothing more than hocus pocus, but by now Dr Katterfelto had removed his conjuror’s costume and got back into his holey old sweater. He had returned to ordinary life, and so had I.
    Gilda tied the bus door shut with a piece of string, and I sat on the front seat next to her, staring out of the window. The house fell away from us with a final glimpse of the conservatory. Then it was gone and we were hurtling down the mountain, cutting through banks of snow and careering over ice.
    Dr Katterfelto was a real devil of a driver. Every time we took a bank or bend too fast, he cursed in an accent that was far from Prussian. Several times I had to grab the seat, and hold on tight to stop myself from being thrown about. But he called out that I mustn’t worry – he’d done more journeys in this broken-down old bus than I’d eaten hot dinners, and he knew what he was doing.
    This was hardly reassuring, given the speed at which we were travelling and the condition of the bus. But finally the village came into view – the village and my old life again, waiting for me like an answerphone full of nasty messages. The closer it got, the more my heart sank. For a few strange, happy hours, I had forgotten who I was, and why I’d run away, and what I’d done to Cary. But now I remembered everything.
    All too soon, we pulled up outside Prospect House. I wished I could turn back the clock and find myself in the conservatory again, clapping wildly. ‘Thanks for everything,’ I said, climbing down from the bus and standing shivering on the lane. ‘I really mean it. Thetea, and the lift, and the show especially.’
    â€˜Get yourself inside,’ said Dr Katterfelto. ‘Make yourself a hot drink. Get an early night, and make sure you put an extra blanket on your bed – it’s going to get even colder tonight.’
    He smiled, and so did Gilda. I stood and watched as the bus turned round in the road. Then they were gone, disappearing into the darkness like a