Author's Note: I think the next few chapters may detail what happens over this particular weekend.

Reviews rock!

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Chapter Five

Which Concerns Broken Glasses and Illegible Letters

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Wizard Norland, like most wizards, had rather messy writing. Although he could make it a lot neater when writing slowly, when in a hurry it was almost illegible. On a very early Friday morning in late September, he received a letter from the far reaches of High Norland, where there had been an epidemic of magical origin. He was the only wizard, the townspeople reasoned, who was strong enough to banish this illness.

Unfortunately, the message had only arrived almost a week after it was sent. By the time he received it, the plague had already begun to spread into the surrounding towns and villages. As such, he had to leave in a terrible rush, with only enough time to write a short note. Charmain and Peter had not yet awoken, and Wizard Norland didn't have time to wake them up and explain.

Even more unfortunately, Charmain had broken her glasses, and Peter did not have much practice at reading Wizard Norland's handwriting.

Charmain held it at full arms' length in front of her, squinting.

"Dean – no, dear – Charmaln and Peler. What? Oh, Charmain and Peter, of course."

Peter snatched it from her. "I… om... somg… ta… tall… yan…" He handed it back. "It's like reading a different language!"

"It says, 'I am sorry to tell you.' Oh, you're useless!" said Charmain crossly. "And I can't even read a book at the moment!" She ruefully fished out her smashed glasses from where she had tucked them into her sash. In a moment of absent-mindedness, she had forgotten the chain they usually hung on. They had slipped from the end of her nose, and fallen to shatter on a hard wooden chair in the kitchen, where – to add insult to injury – Charmain had sat on them. There was only the frame (bent and twisted beyond repair) and some glass shards left of what had previously been a pair of serviceable glasses.

Peter grabbed the letter back. "I am not useless, thank you! And at least I haven't ever sat on my own spectacles, Miss Too-Busy-Reading-to-Look-Where-She's-Going."

Charmain snatched it. "You would sit on them if you even owned glasses, you clumsy, stupid idiot, which, seeing as you can't read this perfectly simple missive, you might well need to!"

"Me, need glasses?!" shouted Peter, gripping one half of the letter. "Well, evidently you do, as you can't see that this letter is utterly unreadable!" He tugged at the paper. "Hand it over and I'll see if I can decipher it."

"You?" Charmain snorted. "You couldn't even read one page of Harry and Rosie Go to the Beach, not if you tried for a million years!" She tugged at her half of the letter.

"Better Harry and Rosie than the drivel you read when you think I'm not looking!" He imitated a simpering face. "'Oh Charles!' 'Oh Margaret!'" He let go of the letter to clasp his hands in front of his chest sarcastically. "Complete and utter slop!"

"I have read three romance novels in my life. Three. That's not even a hundredth of the amount you've flipped through, I'd bet."

"Three? Hah! That number, I suppose, isn't including The Princess Lilac Mysteries? Oh, what were they – Stolen in Strangia, Murdered in Montalbino, Attacked in Alberia, Robbed in Rashpuht, Poisoned in Peichstan, Tortured in Thayack and Interred in Ingary. I admit that I is a difficult letter to associate with crimes, but surely they could have done better than interred?" He chuckled. "But what I'm saying is, in case you hadn't noticed, Princess Lilac (and what a silly name that is!) is always kissing someone, often multiple times, in every single one of those books. And of course he always conveniently turns out to be the murderer or the Duke of Such-and-such who has had an arranged marriage planned from birth or he mysteriously and handily dies by the end of the story."

Charmain was a furious pink. "Those books aren't mine! I told you, I bought them for my mother's birthday." She paused. "And you know about those books how?" She tossed the letter on the table. "Have you been sneaking around my room again?"

"No!" Peter protested. "In case you didn't recall, that day your mother visited, you'd put them behind the sofa and forgot to give them to her. I happened to read one, that's all. Or maybe two."

"How can you happen to read a book? You either read it on purpose or you don't read it at all."

"Well, I happened to be tryingto clean that corner where the kobolds can't ever reach, andI happened to find the books there, and I happened to decide that they should be somewhere else so I could reach the dratted corner, so I picked one up, and one happened to fall open, and I happened to read a few lines. Quite simple."

"And the book just happened to keep flipping to the next page?" She chortled. "That I don't believe." She picked up the letter. "We have to try and read this, or we'll be all day." She held it out again and squinted. "And I'm going to read it."

"No, I am!" said Peter. "I can read it perfectly well!" He snatched the letter, but Charmain was too quick – she tugged it back.

The paper ripped right down the middle.

"Oh, now look what you've done!" Charmain was hopelessly trying to get the pieces of paper to stay together.

"Me?" Peter looked incredulous. "Oh, that's a laugh. If you hadn't tried to read it when you can't see any words further than a foot away –"

"If you hadn't tried to read it when you can't read handwriting –"

"I can so see further than a foot! It's close-up things I have trouble with, you dimwit –"

"I can read handwriting, just not his!"

"Oh, and that's my fault now?"

"No, but if you hadn't sat on your stupid glasses –"

"You think I'm happy about that? I can't read, I can barely write, I can't do anything unless it's big enough to see from a yard away –"

"Oh, and that's my fault then? You should be blaming your parents for giving you that dumb characteristic."

"You should be blaming your parents for not teaching you how to read properly!"

"MY DAD IS DEAD!" roared Peter, completely drowning out Charmain. "And my mum is far too busy to teach me stupid things like that!"

"Reading's stupid, then?"

"Being able to read handwriting like that is! It looks like a spider fell in a pot of ink and took a little stroll!"

Charmain looked at the paper.

"It does, actually. But what on earth are we going to do? And, for that matter, where is Great Uncle William?"

Peter frowned, starting to cool off. "I haven't seen him all day. You don't suppose there's a problem somewhere and he's been called away, do you?"

"A problem like what?"

Peter pointed at a single word on the paper. "'Disease.' It looks like it says 'bleeaese' but I think it's 'disease'."

"Oh, hell," said Charmain. "And it says here – what does it say, Peter?"

"'Do… rot… axquct… me…' – other side – 'something-ack… nutil… Nlanbag.' D'you think it's a spell?"

"No, you idiot! Let me see."

She squinted.

"'Do not expect me back until Monday.' That's what it says, I think."

"Monday?" Peter looked aghast. "That's ages away! Three days!"

"And I haven't any spectacles!"

"Oh, bother your stupid spectacles! For once, think about someone besides yourself, Charmain! What about Waif? She's only a week away from giving birth!" He paused. "Where is Waif?"

Charmain was peering at the page again. "I think it says something about her here." She pointed to a word that had torn through the middle.

Peter looked over her shoulder. "It looks like 'Malt', but I suppose it could well be 'Waif'. I don't see why he'd be telling us about malt." He bent closer. "'Do… nat… momy… aolaut Waif. I…ulink… she… mill… oheer… up… loatients… so… arn… toking… hen… mith… me… to… Applebridge.' That last word's clear enough. Applebridge. That sounds like a nice place." He looked at the two sentences again. "Oh, not 'aolaut', it's 'about'. And 'patients, not 'loatients'. I think it says, 'Do not worry about Waif. I think she will cheer up patients so am taking her with me to Applebridge.'"

"That seems clear enough," said Charmain. "You're improving at that whole reading-his-handwriting lark, aren't you?" she added approvingly.

"Well, you know…" Peter shrugged. A thought came to him. "If the Wizard and Waif are away, and your mum won't let you go into town without her, and my mum says I'll get lost if I go by myself – which is perfectly true – and you can't read, and I've read all the interesting-looking books already… what are we going to do until Monday?"

Charmain looked worried, and then ran left through the doorway. Peter followed.

"I know Mum must've packed them!" Charmain was rummaging through her bureau and throwing various items of clothing onto the floor. "She knows I can't go five minutes without reading, and she knows I always lose things! Where are they?"

"Where are what?" asked Peter, coming into her room to help her search.

"My spare glasses," she said. "I know they're here somewhere…"

"You have spare glasses? Why didn't you get them before?"

"I didn't know where they were! I still don't."

"Have you checked your bag?" Peter held up a plain brown leather handbag, with an obvious glasses-case sticking out.

"Peter! Thank you!" Charmain whirled around and hugged him tightly. "Thank you thank you thank you!"

"Any time," said Peter, feeling very uncomfortable.

Charmain let him go to settle her spectacles on her nose. They did not look as good as her old ones, but the sigh of relief she gave as she looked through them made him smile.

"They're all right, then?"

"Yes, they're fine!" Charmain was already walking to the study. She stopped and turned around. "But what are we going to do? I've read everything interesting here as well."

"Well," said Peter with a look that was half grin, half grimace, "we'll just have to think of some things to do."