Diana Wynne Jones by Wild Robert

Author:Wild Robert [Robert, Wild]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2012-06-05T13:14:44+00:00

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five

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he edge of the ordinary world tipped past Heather’s eyes, and strangeness took over. All down the Feud Room the glass of pictures swung open like windows. The first person to lean out of his frame was a man in a judge’s wig.

“Damn my eyes!” he said, with disgust all over his long, cruel face. “This place is full of stinking Franceys!”

The large fat duchess in the portrait opposite was furious. She shook a pink fist with diamond rings embedded in it. “And you took bribes, George Toller!” she screamed. “No judge was ever greedier than you, or hanged more poor souls who could not pay!”

At this, the people in the other portraits joined in by leaning out of their frames and yelling insults. “Drunk before breakfast!” somebody beside Heather screamed, and the person beside Robert howled, “And you are mutton dressed as lamb, madam!” Robert listened with his head on one side, trying to discover what made them hate one another so, but there was far too much noise.

Meanwhile the fat duchess was so angry that she hoisted one bulging leg over the edge of her frame, ready to climb down and go for Judge George Toller. As she did so, Mum came in at the other end of the Feud Room, leading a crowd of tourists.

“Here is what is called the Feud Room.”

Mum began. She stopped, gaping, as the duchess hoisted her other leg across the frame and dropped to the floor with a wallop that rattled every piece of glass in the room.

“Now, eat your words, George Toller!” the duchess screamed.

Behind Mum, everyone in the guided tour crowded through and stared at the duchess. They seemed to think this was meant to be happening.

At this, Robert got the giggles. “What are they?” he asked. “How they gape! They are nothing but sheep!” He spread his hand out, laughing so much he had to hold his wrist with his other hand to keep it steady.

“No, don’t!” Heather said, too late again.

The Feud Room was suddenly full of sheep. It was also suddenly full of Franceys and Tollers from past times, all jumping down from their frames to go on with their feud. The sheep ran and bleated and got in the way of people in red robes and black coats and blue brocade and embroidered waistcoats and huge rustling skirts with corsets that creaked. Each of these people had snatched up things from their portraits to use as weapons. Some were lucky enough to have been painted with sticks, or whips and parasols, and one man even had a sword, but that was knocked out of his hand by a small, thin man who was belaboring everyone in sight with a huge book. The rest of them hit one another with fans and embroidery frames and rolls of parchment and silken purses. Hats flew off, and wigs were knocked sideways.

In the midst of it all, Mum was standing holding a shepherd’s crook,

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