Read Online Unexpected Magic by Diana Wynne Jones - Free Book Online

you,” I said as firmly and calmly as I could manage.
    Eggs turned and came floundering toward me, grinning eagerly. To my relief, the sound from the glass modulated to a new kind of humming. But my relief vanished when Eggs said, “Petra knew all, before Annie tore her throat out. Do you know as much as Petra? You are clever, Lady, as well as beautiful.” His eyes slid across me, respectfully. Then he turned and hung, lurching, over the cauldron with the gauzy violet light. “Petra took pretty dresses from here,” he said. “Would you like for me to get you a pretty dress?”
    â€œNot at the moment, thank you,” I said, trying to sound kind. As I said, Eggs was not necessarily harmless. “Show me the rest of the house,” I said, to distract him.
    He fell over his feet to oblige. “Come. See here.” He led me to the side of the devices, where there was a clear passage and some doors. At the back of the room was another door, which slid open by itself as we came near. Eggs giggled proudly at that, as if it were his doing. Beyond was evidently a living room. The floor here was soft, carpetlike, and blue. Darker blue blocks hung about, mysteriously half a meter or so in the air. Four of them were a meter or so square. The fifth was two meters each way. They had the look of a suite of chairs and a sofa to me. A squiggly mural thing occupied one wall, and the entire end wall was window, which seemed to lead to another veranda, beyond which I could see a garden of some kind. “The room is pretty, isn’t it?” Eggs asked anxiously. “I like the room.”
    I assured him I liked the room. This relieved him. He stumbled around a floating blue block, which was barely disturbed by his falling against it, and pressed a plate in the wall beyond. The long glass of the window slid back, leaving the room open to the veranda. He turned to me, beaming.
    â€œClever,” I said, and made another cautious attempt to find out more. “Did Petra show you how to open that, or was it the Master?”
    He was puzzled again. “I don’t not know,” he said, worried about it.
    I gave up and suggested we go into the garden. He was pleased. We went over the veranda and down steps into a rose garden. It was an oblong shape, carved out from among the fir trees, about fifteen meters from the house to the bushy hedge at the far end. And it was as strange as everything else. The square of sky overhead was subtly the wrong color, as if you were seeing it through sunglasses. It made the color of the roses rich and too dark. I walked through with a certainty that it was being maintained—or created—by one of the devices in that windowless room.
    The roses were all standards, each planted in a little circular bed. The head of each was about level with my head. No petals fell on the gravel-seeming paths. I kept exclaiming, because these were the most perfect roses I ever saw, whether full bloom, bud, or overblown. When I saw an orange rose—the color I love most—I put my hand up cautiously to make sure that it was real. It was. While my fingers lingered on it, I happened to glance at Eggs, towering over me. It was just a flick of the eyes, which I don’t think he saw. He was standing there, smiling as always, staring at me intently. There was, I swear, another shape to his face, and it was not the shape of an idiot. But it was not the shape of a normal man either. It was an intent, hunting face.
    Next moment he was surging inanely forward. “I will pick you a rose, Lady.” He reached out and stumbled as he reached. His hand caught a thorn in a tumble of petals. He snatched it back with a yelp. “Oh!” he said. “It hurts!” He lifted his hand and stared at it. Blood was running down the length of his little finger.
    â€œSuck it,” I said. “Is the thorn still in it?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Eggs said helplessly.