‘If people thought I believed in magic they wouldn’t read my books,’ said Uncle Charles. ‘They’d think I was mad, you know.’
‘But why?’ Charlotte asked. ‘We aren’t mad, and we believe in it. Do you know any spells, uncle? We want awfully to try a spell. It’s the dream of our life. It is, really.’
The ghost of a smile moved the oyster-shell-coloured face of Uncle Charles.
‘So you take an interest in magic?’ he said. ‘We shall have at least that in common.’
‘Of course we do. Every one does, only they’re afraid to say so. Even servants do. They tell fortunes and dreams. Did you ever read about the Amulet, or the Phœnix, or the Words of Power? Bread and butter, please,’ said Charles.
‘You have evidently got up the subject,’ said Uncle Charles. ‘Who told you about Words of Power?’
‘It’s in The Amulet,’ said Charlotte. ‘I say, uncle, do tell us some spells.’
‘Ah!’ Uncle Charles sighed. ‘I am afraid the day of spells has gone by—except, perhaps, for people of your age. She could have told you spells enough—if all the stories of her are true.’
He pointed to a picture over the mantelpiece—a fair-haired, dark-eyed lady in a ruff.