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7. Consequences can be unpleasant


"I say. What was it that representative at the Asian divination conference told you last winter? That he'd read an unusual karmic concatenation in your future?" Michael asked. He examined a scone, and brushed off a few chips of plaster.

"So he did," Chrestomanci said, fixing his assistant with an unusual, direct glare. "I'd forgotten."

Michael simply threw back his head and gave a bark of laughter.

Returning to contemplation of his tea, Chrestomanci said, "And thus I speak from experience when I say that Eric and Tonino will find the next month or so an educational experience. Reassembling and repairing the kitchen crockery alone should provide them with, I'd estimate, four days' worth of amusement."

"Longer," Miss Bessemer said, "if we include the windows and porcelain in other rooms."

Cat and Tonino shrank. They'd been attempting, with no success, to blend into the large chairs where they'd been dropped across the table from the assemblage.

"The structural damages need to be attended to first," Bernard insisted.

"The drains should be first," the old lady in mittens snapped.

"Er, quite," Chrestomanci said, looking bemused.

"I'm surprised that telephone in the hall hasn't begun ringing off the hook by now," Millie sighed, polishing the cracks from another teacup.

"It can't," Miss Bessemer told her, "the line was snapped in two out on the lane."

"Oh dear," Millie said, pleased. "I'm sorry to hear it."

"Not that it will help," Chrestomanci said, in his mildest tone. "Fleet Street has had a dull summer. They are always appreciative of Cat's efforts on their behalf."

"Growing accustomed to adverse publicity," Michael said, dribbling crumbs. "Have a notion it will be a characteristic of Cat's career."

"We shall have to apply to Parliament for an increased budget for the quarter," Bernard was muttering to himself. "I've made a few preliminary notes about the surveyor's fees and structural integrity inspections. The hedging and fencing demands have already begun to come in from the local farms. . ."

For, that afternoon, the land for a radius of approximately a mile around the garden had, unaccountably, rotated exactly one inch widdershins. And, of course, Chrestomanci Castle and the estate upon which it stood had shifted along with it. A mere inch made a vast difference in many, many things, Cat was learning.

"I don't suppose," Michael said, "there's any hope of nudging this pile back into true?"

"No, there doesn't seem to be," Chestomanci said cooly. With that, he began to absently study the air about a foot over Cat and Tonino's heads, as both boys cringed in terror. "Which brings us to back to the question," he said distantly, "of what, exactly, were they doing in the garden?"

Cat swallowed, and glanced at Tonino, who was rubbing several scratches on his hand with a stricken expression. Not that Tonino had anything to feel guilty about; Cat knew that somehow, as usual, he'd been to blame. No one else had had any doubts in that regard either: Michael had plucked him bodily from the snowbank to subject him to a bellowing lecture and a good shaking, just before Chrestomanci had arrived dragging a dazed-looking Tonino by the collar.

Cat stretched the numb fingers on his left hand nervously, they'd still been tightly buried a frozen ball of snow when Michael had dropped him into this chair.

But in all honesty Cat had no idea what had happened. One moment he'd been neatly stacking his ammunition, the next he'd felt that peculiar, if nice, sensation along his back. He coloured again, recalling it. He'd been too caught up in enjoying it to question why it might be occurring.

But then, it had gradually changed, as though the hands were gripping and stroking, like a deft sort of massage. He shivered; really, he hadn't found that entirely unpleasant either. In fact, it'd felt rather swimmy and blissful.

Until it the sensation had abruptly moved forward. That had been a great deal less relaxing, yet somehow far more exciting. Cat grew warm again at the memory. He'd felt almost as though he might go up like a torch, as he'd done once before. Only it hadn't been as agonising as he recalled immolation could be.

Or rather, not as agonising in quite the same way.

In the interests of avoiding a second round of combustion and thus preserving his pocket money for the next month, he'd cast himself into the nearest snowbank. Oddly, it hadn't helped a great deal in the end, yet at least it had given him an excuse for looking flushed, damp, and crumpled which he might not have had otherwise.

Somehow he had missed the earth-moving part, although the evidence was all around him in tilted portraits, cracked plaster, and chipped china.

Cat wondered if perhaps he'd been hit by a bolt of lightning this time, but he decided against suggesting it. For although he did recall an instant of feeling utterly stunned and even a trifle deaf, he did seem suspiciously uncharred. And if he'd lost a life, surely someone might have mentioned it by now.

"Well, Cat?" Chrestomanci's tone was dry as the dust in Master Spiderman's basement.

Cat choked. And trembled. And opted for the safest explanation.

"Demon possession," he said.

Michael spat out his tea.