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Archimedes, I want you to meet a friend of mine called Wart.’
    Here he held out his hand to the owl, who came waddling like a goose along the corkindrill’s back – he waddled with this rolling gait so as to keep his tail from being damaged – and hopped down to Merlyn’s finger with every sign of reluctance.
    ‘Hold out your finger and put it behind his legs. No, lift it up under his train.’
    When the Wart had done this, Merlyn moved the owl gently backwards, so that the boy’s finger pressed against its legs from behind, and it either had to step back on the finger or get pushed off its balance altogether. It stepped back. The Wart stood there delighted, while the furry feet held tight on his finger and the sharp claws prickled his skin.
    ‘Say how d’you do properly,’ said Merlyn.
    ‘I will not,’ said Archimedes, looking the other way, and holding tight.
    ‘Oh, he is lovely,’ said the Wart again. ‘Have you had him long?’
    ‘Archimedes has stayed with me since he was small, indeed since he had a tiny head like a chicken’s.’
    ‘I wish he would talk to me.’
    ‘Perhaps if you were to give him this mouse here, politely, he might learn to know you better.’
    Merlyn took a dead mouse out of his skull—cap—’ I always keep them there, and worms too, for fishing. I find it most convenient’ – and handed it to the Wart, who held it out rather gingerly toward Archimedes. The nutty curved break looked as if it were capable of doing damage, but Archimedes looked closely at the mouse, blinked at the Wart, moved nearer on the finger, closed his eyes and leaned forward. He stood there with closed eyes and an expression of rapture on his face, as if he were saying Grace, and then, with the absurdest sideways nibble, took the morsel so gently that he would not have broken a soap bubble. He remained leaning forward with closed eyes,with the mouse suspended from his beak, as if he were not sure what to do with it. Then he lifted his right foot – he was right—handed, though people say only men are – and took hold of the mouse. He held it up like a boy holding a stick of rock or a constable with his truncheon, looked at it, nibbled its tail. He turned it round so that it was head first, for the Wart had offered it the wrong way round, and gave one gulp. He looked round at the company with the tail hanging out of the corner of his mouth – as much as to say, ‘I wish you would not all stare at me so’ – turned his head away, politely swallowed the tail, scratched his sailor’s beard with his left toe, and began to ruffle out his feathers.
    ‘Let him alone,’ said Merlyn. ‘Perhaps he does not want to be friends with you until he knows what you are like. With owls, it is never easy—come—and—easy—go.’
    ‘Perhaps he will sit on my shoulders,’ said the Wart, and with that he instinctively lowered his hand, so that the owl, who liked to be as high as possible, ran up the slope and stood shyly beside his ear.
    ‘Now breakfast,’ said Merlyn.
    The Wart saw that the most perfect breakfast was laid out neatly for two, on a table before the window. There were peaches. There were also melons, strawberries and cream, rusks, brown trout piping hot, grilled perch which were much nicer, chicken devilled enough to burn one’s mouth out, kidneys and mushrooms on toast, fricassee, curry, and a choice of boiling coffee or best chocolate made with cream in large cups.
    ‘Have some mustard,’ said the magician, when they had got to the kidneys.
    The mustard—pot got up and walked over to his plate on thin silver legs that waddled like the owl’s. Then it uncurled its handles and one handle lifted its lid with exaggerated courtesy while the other helped him to a generous spoonful.
    ‘Oh, I love the mustard—pot!’ cried the Wart. ‘Wherever did you get it?’
    At this the pot beamed all over its face and began to struta bit, but Merlyn rapped it on the head with a teaspoon, so that it sat