Disclaimer: Everything and anything Chrestomanci-related belongs entirely to Diana Wynne Jones. Actually, how about this: everything GOOD and EXCELLENT in children's fantasy is the product of DWJ's amazing brain. You can infer whatever you want from that statement.

Author's Note: Thank you to Blue Yeti, passivor, Poisenivy, ShNLo, and you-know-who for reviewing! (I love reviews. Who doesn't?) To everyone who hasread the story: thank you also. I'm going to try and update this at least once a week, if not more frequently.

Enjoy!

The Word

- 2 -

I am currently sitting on a park bench in the middle of nowhere. It's not even in a park. For whatever reason, the city's engineers decided that a cement island in the middle of a traffic circle with no obviously viable means of access would be the perfect spot to set a park bench. So here I am.

It's a lovely place to think, or to study, if you want to be alone; during peak hours the traffic is so bad that no one can get across to the island from the other side of the road, let alone get back to the other side of the road from the island. I got here early this morning, when it was still dark. It is a Tuesday, and I am skipping school.

I simply cannot concentrate any more. This word issue is weighing much too heavily on my mind. I am so sick of thinking about "Chestomancy." It's like staring at a picture of an object you don't recognize for days on end. Constantly. Pervading every nook and cranny in my brain.

I never skip class. I have my textbooks in a bag beside me, but I haven't opened the bag yet, and I've been here five hours. I haven't even eaten.

I haven't tried saying the word yet, either.

The time just doesn't seem right. Something needs to happen first, before I can say it.

In fact, the word doesn't sound right. I suppose the slip of paper turned up in a book about chess because the first phoneme sounds like the word "chess." But something just sounds wrong. In fact, when I'm saying the word, I give myself the impression that not only am I pronouncing it wrong, but I haven't even got the right word for the thing I want to pronounce.

Perhaps whoever scrawled it down on that piece of paper spelled it wrong?

But the writing is so deliberate…I can't imagine anyone making a spelling mistake with such forceful handwriting. Unless it's some kind of half-remembered word, a spelling that the – presumably – child didn't quite recall, but wanted to write down anyway.

None of this is making much sense. I've obviously lost several IQ points in the course of this morning, trying to puzzle this thing out. One would think that my IQ would jump in the other direction, but I am a contradiction to many known facts and assumptions. When I get frustrated, I tend to dig myself into even deeper holes. Remarkably, I also tend to climb back out at the very last minute. (I'm speaking in riddles about exams. I haven't crammed for an exam in ages – regular study habits, check – but when I did cram for exams, I would do absolutely nothing for weeks in advance of the exam, spend the entire night before the exam reading my notes and textbooks, and then ace the exam the next day. Don't ask me how I did it. I don't even know.)

"Chestomancy" is not an exam. If there is one thing I know that it is not, then that is it. I'm thinking about taking the problem to my Aunt Dulcie – she can solve puzzles without even thinking about them. Okay, perhaps not without thinking about them, but she's certainly very good at things that boggle everyone else's minds. She's not really my aunt, per say, but my mother's aunt. I believe that makes her my Great Aunt. But Great Aunt Dulcie is quite a large mouthful, and besides, she doesn't seem very old. The only time she ages herself – purposely – is when she's in a reminiscing mood, and then she sits and describes "the old days" for hours on end. Listening to her, you would think that everyone still travelled around on broomsticks when she was in school.

The more that I think about, the more it seems like going to Aunt Dulcie is the right thing to do. After all, I'm obviously stumped. I wouldn't still be here on this muddling park bench if I weren't.

Now I just have to figure out how to get off this cement island in the middle of nowhere. Judging by the traffic, it may take me several hours.