Aunt Maria by Diana Wynne Jones

that story, so that I could write notes and corrections on the empty page. It was a new, experimental method of writing that didn’t seem to suit my genius. I got stuck in that story worse than I’ve ever been before. But it had left a lot of places where Dad could have written something if he’d wanted. And he hadn’t. I even held each page up at eye level and looked across it, in case there were dents, like in detective stories, where something had been written in invisible ink. The trouble is, I had made dents writing deeply, thoughtfully, and stuckly, but I quite honestly can’t find any dents that aren’t obviously mine. So I am as puzzled as ever. I am hiding the book to show Chris.
    I did show Chris but not till the middle of the night. Elaine was here all evening, with Larry Mr. Elaine. Larry actually spoke once or twice. He handed Aunt Maria official-looking letters and said, “This is from the tax office. This is from the broker,” in a low, respectful voice. I think he is a lawyer. Elaine took her black coat off and hung it on a chair, but it didn’t make much difference. She had a black dress underneath. She talked to Chris mostly, in a loud jolly voice, saying things like, “And what were you up to all day, my lad? I had news of you up on the Head and then over by the orphanage and off in Loup Woods, until I thought you must be in several places at once!”
    This made Chris wriggle, rather, and grin, but he didn’t seem annoyed. Mum started another sweater sleeve. I think she is knitting clothes for an octopus. I tried to draw a picture of Aunt Maria, but I couldn’t show anyone because it went wrong and made her look like an insect. Mum saw it when we were getting ready for bed and Lavinia was sitting purring on my pillow again. We must get some flea powder.
    â€œOh, Mig !” Mum said reproachfully, holding my drawing under the candlelight. I felt bad. Aunt Maria had been like a teddy bear again when we put her to bed. “I know what you mean, though,” Mum said. She smiled her bright and indulging smile. “She’s a large, golden, furry insect. A queen bee. That’s how all the Mrs. Urs think of her, I’m sure. It amuses me the way they all run around her and make sure she’s happy, just as if they were workers and she were their queen. It’s funny.”
    â€œIf it makes you laugh,” I said, and I pushed Lavinia out of the way and pretended to go to sleep. I waited until Aunt Maria was snoring and Mum was almost snoring. Then I got up in the dark. I heard Lavinia thump down off the bed and come after me, but that didn’t help. I was terrified. My hands were curled up and cold, but wet on the palms, and my heart was banging in my throat till it ached. Suppose I meet the ghost! I kept thinking. It was worse on the landing, where there was Aunt Maria’s night-light shining round her bedroom door. There was just enough light to show me how pitch-dark it was. I nearly ran away from the big clock where I’d hidden the book. It looked like a person. Clunk! it went as I took the book out from behind it. I was so scared, I dived for the stairs.
    â€œIs that you, Naomi?” called Aunt Maria. “What are you doing, dear?”
    As I was halfway downstairs, I couldn’t say I was going to the john. I said, “I’m hungry, Auntie. I’m going to look for a cookie.”
    â€œBe careful you don’t fall, dear,” called Aunt Maria.
    I stood on the stairs waiting for her to start snoring again for about a year. Only Lavinia fluffily rubbing round my legs kept me sane—and even so I kept thinking, What if a light comes on and I find she’s only a bundle of bones and cobwebs! But six months after I thought that, there came the well-known rasping snore from Aunt Maria. Zzz zzz , the queen bee buzzing, I thought, as I fled downstairs.
    Chris’s door was half open. There was a scrape and a