A/N If you recognise something, then it belongs to Diana Wynne Jones! Read and review, constructive criticism would be brilliant! I hope you enjoy.

The Memories of Christopher Chant

Today was the day. This was the single thought that stuck in Cat's head all night and kept him awake; making him toss and turn until his hair was messy and static and his eyes were aching but couldn't quite close. In ten hours time - eight hours time - six hours time (all too soon, whenever it was!) he would become Chrestomanci. And what, Cat thought in desperation, was a person supposed to make of that?

His lives so far had been divided into two distinct sections. Section A, Gwendolen: encompassing everything from his birth to his almost-death in the Garden. Admittedly, that wasn't his favourite part of the story, but he couldn't just forget the times when he had been reasonably happy, back in the days when Gwendolen was all he had. Why was he thinking about Gwendolen? Better not to dwell on Section A, if he didn't want Gwendolen's procession of his dead selves to reappear in his nightmares. Or, worse, Gwendolen herself. Then there was Section B, Janet. That was the good part, he could safely dwell on that; in fact, he would go as far as to say that everything that his life in the last thirteen years had been rather magical (Cat smiled contentedly, then yawned) He was extremely tired. And he should probably try to get some sleep - he had to look his best tomorrow. Cat wasn't sure that he would ever be able to hold a crowd like Chrestomanci could, although that probably had a fair bit to do with the older man's extravagant dress sense, and an awful lot to do with the fact that most strangers could probably have pointed him out if you said nothing but "tall, dark and handsome."

That train of thought brought him to another point; something Cat had been pushing to the back of his mind while he worried about responsibilities and terms of office and so forth. Chrestomanci. That was still how he thought of his guardian, even now that he was older - out loud, of course, he called him 'sir;' Roger and Julia still called him "Daddy," but he couldn't exactly have gone with "Second Cousin," although he suspected Chrestomanci would barely have noticed. It took long enough to like being me, Eric, Cat thought miserably, now they want me to be a title instead. And Chrestomanci - the current Chrestomanci, he should say - would go back to being plain old Christopher.

The thought shook Cat out of feeling sorry for himself, and he began to grin - even the butterflies in his stomach settled down as he laughed. Stop thinking so much and go to sleep! he told himself sternly, shifting about a little in the warm, cosy bed. This time it was Janet's voice he heard; his adopted (but much loved) older sister: There's no such thing as a plain old Christopher, you idiot! and you will always be Cat to me.

He would always be Cat, the young enchanter decided, as he drifted off to sleep with only a vague sense of triumph, to the people who knew him, at least.

He had always been Christopher Chant, thought Christopher, annoyed with himself for doubting it. Of course he'd been Christopher Chant; who else could he have been? It was simply that he had been Chrestomanci as well. He might look more mature, but not-so-deep inside he was definitely the same Christopher who had travelled the Almost Anywheres with Tacroy, read aloud from 'The Arabian Nights' to Oneir and Fenning, learnt to play cricket - died playing cricket, as a matter of fact - smuggled books for a four-armed goddess …there was no doubt about it, he hadn't changed much. Satisfied with this reasoning, Christopher turned his head to look at Millie, who seemed to be sleeping peacefully beside him. Surely, if anyone had the right to say, "But who am I exactly?" it was his wife and not himself. But, oddly enough, she never did. He was sure that she liked being Millie. And (he hoped very much) she liked being his Millie. If anyone had changed; well, as much as Christopher hated to lose, he had to concede yet again - she had gone from bossy child-goddess, to unhappy runaway, to a wonderful wife and mother. It was only as he wondered quite genuinely what he would have done without her that Christopher realised how much he had changed. In fact, his younger self had been something of a headstrong, argumentative prig. And had he really lost all those lives?

Lord, he really couldn't sleep tonight!

Very well, thought Christopher in defeat, sighing as he heaved himself out of bed and wandered blindly to the chair where he had left his dressing gown (beautiful silk, deep blue with small white stars which really seemed to shine in the light.) A walk might do him some good; then, perhaps, he might finally be able to rest! Just as he opened the door, he remembered the invention of candles. It would be rather careless of him to lose the last life on the stairs; he hastily found and lit a match, shivering slightly in remembering a different box of matches, each containing one of Cat's lives.

Armed with a candle and an elegant, if not particularly warm, dressing gown, Christopher slipped quietly out into the corridor, closing the door behind him. The feeling reminded him oddly of Stallery, when he had explored the old house in the dead of night, looking for Millie, and Grant had shaken off a strong sleeping spell and followed him. To be honest, Christopher was still impressed with that - it had been a good spell, and he was an enchanter after all.

His eyebrows rose in surprise as he realised that the few steps he had taken (surely more than a few, he seemed to have descended an entire flight of stairs without realising) had led him to the old bedroom door. It didn't feel like a very long time since it had been his room, but he couldn't remember exactly when he had last been in there. It was likely that it had, in fact, been some years. He suspected that it may have turned into one of those rooms he was always surprised to discover, much like the one filled with various contraptions he had stumbled upon the other day, and thought probably belonged to Roger. Thinking about Roger reminded Christopher so painfully of his age, especially as he stood outside the bedroom that had been the site of so many adolescent tantrums, schemes and deep conversations. Then again, if remembering made him feel old, it made him smile too … what had the view been like from his window? He felt the pull of memory and curiosity, and turned the handle of the door -

- Christopher stalked into the bedroom, making a point of slamming the door behind him. Gabriel. Any other time - any other time, he might have taken those comments lying down, but he was already feeling low about Millie going off to her new school; didn't anyone understand that? Of course not, he thought bitterly, no-one ever understood anything - especially not Gabriel. He decided to sit by the window, look out at the lawns and sulk for the foreseeable future.

"WONG!" Throgmorten appeared from beneath a pile of clothes. Christopher nodded grimly. At least the cats were usually on his side.

"Christopher!" someone said from the other side of the door, making him jump. There was a knock, and the voice repeated, with an obvious edge of exasperation, "Christopher? It's Conrad. Are you going to starve yourself?"

Grant. Was Grant on his side? Christopher thought he probably was. It did spoil the illusion of his being completely misunderstood, but at least it was company.

"I have food," were the words that made him get up and open the door. True to his word, Conrad Tesdinic was hovering just outside with a tray. He grinned with relief when he saw Christopher, who used his vague look to pretend he was indifferent to both food and friendship.

"Very good of you, Grant," he said, "You can come in, if you like." Conrad looked as if he might say something cutting in response, then took a second look at Christopher and seemed to decide against it. The older boy had been crying, but not much, and mostly out of anger - he wondered if it was obvious. Then he stopped wondering and took two sandwiches at once.

"Splendid work," he said gratefully, to an amused Conrad. "How did you manage - ?"

"Thanks to Jason," was the unexpected answer. "He knocked over a gravy boat and I had to change, so I said I was still hungry and they brought me those - is that cat safe?"

Christopher looked in surprise at Throgmorten, who was looking up at Conrad in a rather challenging way. He always forgot that new people were wary of the Series Ten cat. And they had good reason to be.

"Throgmorten," he said, swallowing a mouthful of bread and cheese, "This is Grant. Grant, Throgmorten. He's an Asheth Temple cat."

"Like Millie?" asked Conrad, distractedly. He thought it was the least friendly-looking animal he had seen in his entire life. Christopher smiled.

"Not quite. Millie's a person," he reminded Conrad, who glared. As a precaution, Christopher took the sandwiches over to the bed and sat down.

"Has Millie written yet?" Conrad asked, glad that Christopher had given him an excuse to ask. Christopher shook his head, and Conrad thought that was probably part of the problem. Christopher had devoted his holidays to cheering Millie up while she recovered from flu - so much so she had taken to asking Conrad for help in getting some time to herself. In that time, he had learnt more about cricket than he had ever wanted to know, but he also knew that Christopher was probably the best friend he had ever had, and that Christopher was worried about Millie (and no wonder, that Swiss school sounded horrible.) So, however much he didn't want to get Christopher ranting again, he thought he should probably try to talk him round. For everyone's sake.

"I bet she's just settling in," he told Christopher, who immediately focused on polishing off the sandwiches. "Getting to know everyone. Like me. I only wrote to Anthea last week." This admission was rewarded with an actual reaction, and if Christopher couldn't remember exactly who Anthea was, he didn't show it.

"Did you, really, Grant?" he asked, black eyes narrowed with curiosity. "I mean to say, there isn't a post box you can just pop a letter in and off it goes to another world, is there? Or is there?"

Conrad hadn't really thought about it like that before. "I don't think so," he said honestly, "Gabriel said it would get there." Christopher's expression darkened.

Fortunately, all he said was, "It's an interesting idea."

The ghost of Gabriel's name remained in the air, making for an awkward silence. Gabriel had been unnecessarily, if characteristically, unkind when Christopher had unintentionally made it rain inside and not out. It was the latest in a long line of arguments, but the first since Millie's departure, which made it even worse. Christopher and Conrad caught each other's eye, and Conrad, with a sinking feeling, knew what might improve Christopher's mood. Regretting having got himself involved, but knowing that it was too late to back out now, he asked:

"Do you want to play cricket?"

That, Christopher thought, had been a defining moment in their friendship. His last look around the room was a fond one, then he turned to leave, thinking how impressive it was that Conrad, from a safe distance in Series Seven, was still his best friend. Now, thought Christopher, who was starting to enjoy his stroll, where will I end up next?