and Marco were getting up to put the young ones to bed, when there was a sudden great clanging, outside in the night.
“Good Heavens!” said Rosa, and opened the yard door.
The noise flooded in, an uneven metal sound, hasty and huge. The nearest – clang-clang-clang – was so near that it could only be the bell of Sant’ Angelo’s. Behind it, the bell of the Cathedral tolled. And beyond that, now near, now faint and tinny, every bell in every church in Caprona beat and boomed and clashed and chimed. Corinna and Lucia came racing in, their faces bright with cold excitement.
“We’re at war! The Duke’s declared war!”
Marco said he thought he had better go. “Oh no, don’t!” Rosa cried out. “Not yet. By the way, Lucia—”
Lucia took a quick look at the cooking in the hearth. “I’ll go and take Aunt Gina the prescription,” she said, and prudently ran away.
Marco and Rosa looked at one another. “Three States against us and no spells to fight with,” said Marco. “We’re not likely to have a long and happy marriage, are we?”
“Mr Notti says the Final Reserve is being called up tomorrow,” Corinna said encouragingly. She caught Rosa’s eye. “Come on, you kids,” she said to four cousins at random. “Bedtime.”
While the young ones were being put to bed, Paolo sat nursing Benvenuto, feeling more dismal than ever. He wondered if there would be soldiers from Florence and Pisa and Siena in Caprona by tomorrow. Would guns fire in the streets? He thought of big marble chips shot off the Cathedral, the New Bridge broken, despite all the spells in it, and swarthy enemy soldiers dragging Rosa off screaming. And he saw that all this could really have happened by the end of the week.
Here, he became quite certain that Benvenuto was trying to tell him something. He could tell from the accusing stare of Benvenuto’s yellow eyes. But he simply could not understand.
“I’ll try,” he said to Benvenuto. “I really will try.”
He had, fleetingly, the feeling that Benvenuto was glad. Encouraged by this, Paolo bent his head and stared at Benvenuto’s urgent face. But it did no good. All that Paolo could get out of it was a picture in his mind – a picture of somewhere with a coloured marble front, very large and beautiful.
“The Church of Sant’ Angelo?” he said doubtfully.
While Benvenuto’s tail was still lashing with annoyance, Rosa and Marco came back. “Oh dear!” Rosa said to Marco. “There’s Paolo taking all the troubles of the Casa on his shoulders again!”
Paolo looked up in surprise.
Marco said, “You look just like Antonio sometimes.”
“I can’t understand Benvenuto,” Paolo said despairingly.
Marco sat on the table beside him. “Then he’ll have to find some other way of telling us what he wants,” he said. “He’s a clever cat – the cleverest I’ve ever known. He’ll do it.”
He put out a hand and Benvenuto let him stroke his head. “Your ears,” said Marco, “Sir Cat, are like sea-holly without the prickles.”
Rosa perched on the table too, on the other side of Paolo. “What is it, Paolo? Tonino?”
Paolo nodded. “Nobody will believe me that the enemy enchanter’s got him.”
“We do,” said Marco.
Rosa said, “Paolo, it’s just as well he’s got Tonino and not you. Tonino’ll take it much more calmly.”
Paolo was a little bewildered. “Why do you two believe in the enchanter and no one else does?”
“What makes you think he exists?” Marco countered.
Even to Rosa and Marco, Paolo could not bring himself to tell of his embarrassing encounter with a Petrocchi. “There was a horrible fog at the end of the fight,” he said.
Rosa and Marco jumped round delightedly. Their hands met with a smack over Paolo’s head. “It worked! It worked!” And Marco added, “We were hoping someone would mention a certain fog! Did there seem to have been a large-scale cancel-spell with it, by any chance?”
“Yes,” said Paolo.
“We made that fog,” Rosa said. “Marco and me. We were hoping to stop the fighting, but it took us ages to make it, because all the magic in Caprona was going into the fight.”
Paolo digested this. That took care of the one piece of proof that did not depend on the word of a Petrocchi. Perhaps the enchanter did not exist after all. Perhaps Tonino really was at the Casa Petrocchi. He remembered that Renata had not said Angelica was missing until the fog cleared and she knew who he was. “Look,” he said. “Will you two come to the Casa Petrocchi with me and see if Tonino’s there?”
He was aware that Rosa and Marco were exchanging some kind of look above his head.
“Why?” said Rosa.
“Because,” said Paolo. “Because.” The need to persuade them cleared his wits at last. “Because Guido Petrocchi said Angelica Petrocchi was missing too.”
“I’m afraid we can’t,” Marco said, with what sounded like real regret. “You’d understand, if you knew how pressing our reasons are, believe me!”
Paolo did not understand. He knew that, with these two, it was not cowardice, or pride, or anything like that. That only made it more maddening. “Oh, nobody will help!” he cried out.
Rosa put her arm around him. “Paolo! You’re just like Father. You think you have to do everything yourself. There is one thing we can do.”
“Call Chrestomanci?” said Marco.
Paolo felt Rosa nod. “But he’s in Rome,” he objected.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Marco. “He’s that kind of enchanter. If he’s near enough and you need him enough, he comes when you call.”
“I must cook!” said Rosa, jumping off the table.
Just before the second supper was ready, Rinaldo came back, in great good spirits. Uncle Umberto and old Luigi Petrocchi had had another fight, in the dining-hall of the University. That was why Uncle Umberto had not turned up to see how Old Niccolo was. He and Luigi were both in bed, prostrated with exhaustion. Rinaldo had been drinking wine with some students who told him all about the fight. The students’ supper had been ruined. Cutlets and pasta had flown about, followed by chairs, tables and benches. Umberto had tried to drown Luigi in a soup tureen, and Luigi had replied by hurling the whole of the Doctors’ supper at Umberto. The students were going on strike. They did not mind the fight, but Luigi had shown them that the Doctors’ food was better than theirs.
Paolo listened without truly attending. He was thinking about Tonino and wondering if he dared depend on the word of a Petrocchi.
After a while, someone came and picked Tonino up. That was unpleasant. His legs and arms dragged and dangled in all directions, and he could not do anything about it. He was plunged somewhere much darker. Then he was left to lie amid a great deal of bumping and scraping, as if he were in a box which was being pushed across a floor. When it stopped, he found he could move. He sat up, trembling all over.
He was in the same room as before, but it seemed to be much smaller. He could tell that, if he stood up, his head would brush the little lighted chandelier in the ceiling. So he was larger now; where he had been three inches tall before, he must now be more like nine. The puppets must be too big for their scenery, and the false villa meant to look as if it was some distance away. And,