In the land of Ingary, stranger things had been known to happen than doors opening up from and onto new and unexpected places. Mrs Pentstemmon warned him about that, really, she did, the day he fell into her black-and-white foyer unceremoniously. Quite panicked he was, too, the day it happened but he was glad if he was going to fall anywhere that he fell into a perfectly good witch's home -- and a teacher at that -- in a perfectly good world where wizards were expected and magic was commonplace. Heaven only knew he could use the training and really, it was about time he stopped running. He simply didn't realize that yet.

At one point he could have sworn (and he had been the swearing type, but when one was in Ingary swearing took on new meaning so he tried to curb that instinct) Mrs Pentstemmon called him one of the best wizards she knew. Or maybe he'd got it wrong and what she really said was that he was the most undisciplined. She was far from the first teacher to tell him that his handwriting was a mess and no one would ever be able to decipher a spell if he wrote it down, but that suited him. It was only after he left Mrs Pentstemmon's tutelage that he... well, he did something that would forever change the course of his life. But what was done was done, and he had a new friend in Calcifer, and a home to call his own. That the home was enchanted to move about the countryside also suited him. He really hadn't stopped running yet, even if he called Porthaven home and sold the odd spell or charm here and there. He didn't even mind it the day the orphan boy Michael showed up on his doorstep and wouldn't leave. Most wizards in Ingary had formal apprentices, just as he had apprenticed with Mrs Pentstemmon, and it didn't matter to him if the house -- the castle, the moving castle -- had one more resident, although he suspected Michael had begun saving up the coin he earned.

That was all right too. As long as there was no one and nothing to really pin him down, he was quite happy. Quite content. It was good to be on his own, good to be out from under the thumb of his disapproving sister back home and to know that she was a whole world away. It was good to be learning, good to be earning something of a reputation, good to be alive. There were only two things he missed from home: rugby and his niece, Mari. Fortunately, both those things could be revisited when he felt the urge. And in the meanwhile there were spells to cast, villagers to terrorize, and obligations to ignore. Yes, life was simply wonderful.

It's been one of those days: he went over the spells with Michael, and went over them again, and again and again, but there was far too much distraction on both sides, and things simply didn't work. Eventually he sent Michael off to town just to get him out of his hair. Now he's at their kitchen table going over the latest missive from the King. If he thought things were going to slow to a manageable crawl after the war ended he was sadly mistaken; there's an entire list of things to be done.

Sometimes, he yearns for the days when things were easier. When he wasn't accountable to the king at all, when he was free to menace the countryside at leisure from the comfort of his very own spider-infested castle. What he wouldn't trade is Sophie, not for a minute. He'd like that simpler, less obligation-filled life with her at his side. But just because he's a wizard doesn't mean that things happen the way he wants. He knows: he's tried to press the issue and failed in stunningly miserable ways.

At least now his heart is where it belongs, solidly in his own chest. Still, he's tired: with the parchments pushed aside, he rests his forehead on the table itself.

From the comfort of the hearth, Calcifer sings a familiar little tune.

Mae bys Mari Ann wedi gwywo,
A Dafydd y gwas ddim yn iach;
Mae'r Baban yn y crud yn crio,
A'r gath wedi scrapo Johnny bach
Sospan fach yn berwi ar y tân
Sosban fawr yn berwi ar y llawr
A'r gath wedi scrapo Johnny bach.
Dai bach yn sowldiwr,
Dai bach yn sowldiwr,
A chwt i grys e' mas.

Without so much as looking up, he waves a tired hand in Calcifer's general direction.

Sophie and Howl are far from the only ones taking an audience with the king this morning. There's a whole room full of advisers, hangers-on, Royal this-and-thats, Very Important People, the Mayor of Kingsbury, and so on. Wizard Suliman is there, and that fills someone with hope that he'll be released from his obligations as Royal Wizard.

But they'll have to wait and see. As the king enters the room everyone who's not already standing does so. And when the king sits and nods and his... whomever they are make the motion for everyone to sit, Howl takes his place behind Sophie's chair, resting his hands on her shoulders. Whether or not it's mentioned, he knows that it was the two of them as much as the king who are responsible for things going the way they've gone.

Without preamble, the king begins.

"Today, I am here to discuss the details of Strangia's surrender and to talk about what happens next. First, I'd like to let everyone know that none of this could have happened without the help a few key people."

(Howl's hands tighten on Sophie's shoulders.)

"But for the sake of brevity, I won't single anybody out. We have some rather important developments to discuss..."

Whatever the king says next goes right over his head. He hasn't done any of this for the glory and notoriety; heaven knows he's got enough of the latter regardless. He and Sophie will always know what they've done, and it's something they can be proud of forever. As the king rambles on in a dull, dry way, a smile starts on Howl's lips. As the king continues, the smile grows. And by the time he's done with his introductory speech, he's positively beaming. He's just realized something, and time will prove him either right or wrong.

It's probably a very good thing Sophie can't see his face right now.

"Welcome."

As the door closes behind them, its four (and barely visible fifth) blobs of paint by the knob glowing happily, the bar and noise sounds fade: Howl pats Angela's hand on his arm. "It's not much, but we call it home."

In front of them, the fireplace -- as always -- is the room's centerpiece, and though there's a merry little fire burning in the hearth, it's noticeably devoid of fire demon. "Calcifer's out. And Sophie is visiting her sister Lettie, but she promised to be back shortly. Michael is off delivering packages to the king. We can take you to Kingsbury later if you like. In the meantime..." With a flick of his wrist, he pulls two chairs out from the table.

The room they're in is high and square; in addition to the fire it's got beamed ceilings. An archway leads to a set of steps. "That's the flower shop. We've been remiss lately, due to the work we're doing for the king. In the midst of a war, not many people want to spend their money on flowers, anyway." He gives a rueful little sigh but shrugs. "I'd like to assure you that being here is perfectly safe; the troops are far to the north these days. Can I offer you a cup of tea?"

The workbench and shelves are full of potions and ingredients; they clatter occasionally. All the items hanging from the ceiling -- herbs and dried flowers, bits and pieces of things, feathers, strings, trinkets -- seem to sway back and forth like sea anemones in some invisible breeze.

The castle is simply brimming over with magic.

For as long as he can remember -- or at least as long as he can remember since he's lived in Ingary -- Howl has never panicked at anything. There are things that have given him pause; he's run from pursuit; he's had to talk himself into being brave enough to fight certain battles; he's been casual and sarcastic while faced with danger.

Today, however, begs to tell a different story. It's his wedding day and he can feel the tight edges of panic trying to set in and take over. He can feel it in the pit of his stomach, in the brutal way it picks at the corners of his thoughts. As if it were one of his spiders, he can feel it crawling the length of his spine.

Deep in the heart she put back into his chest, he's supremely confident that marrying Sophie is the absolute best and most perfect thing he can do. He loves her. He loves her when she's maddening and bossy and irritable. He loves her when she's shy and meek and young. He loves her when she's full of wonder, when her power as a witch shines to the forefront. He loves her when she has that faraway look in her eyes, the one he could lose himself in so easily. Yes, marrying her is what he wants and it's what he's wanted since he knew in that instant he loved her and there would never be any other.

There's a very good reason the wedding is here in Ingary: Ingary, unlike Wales, moves by the rhythm and rules of what most people call fairy tales and if that's the case as he suspects it truly is, he and Sophie deserve their fairy-tale ending and it will go something like this: and then the groom kissed the bride and they went off together and lived happily ever after.

Right. That's the fairy-tale ending. The only problem with it is that happily ever after and Howell Jenkins or even Howl Pendragon don't seem to be a very good match. His life is full of bumps and bruises, of unexpected twists and turns, and how can he possibly promise Sophie a life of ease and wealth? He can't. All he can promise her is a life of adventure, or possibly misadventure.

"Oh, stop," he says to the air around him. It's his last moment of solitude before this whole thing starts. Unhappily, his sister and her husband and family are at the castle, at his home. Megan's being her critical self ("how anyone can live like this is beyond me") and Gareth, dutiful husband that he is, has already gone through a bottle and a half of Kingsbury's very best port wine ("you never send us anything like this for holidays, Howell, Megan was right that you've been holding out on us") and Neil is bemoaning the lack of computers or games ("I'm bored; I want to go home and watch the telly"). Only Mari, his flower girl, seems delighted with the place. In fact, he brought her out here earlier to look at the flower meadow and she was transfixed, made herself a circlet of bluebells that he enchanted to stay fresh for a year. But now she's back at the castle with his sister, and here he is.

Last-minute preparations, he tells himself.

Everything looks perfect: the chairs are set up, a warm gentle breeze blows obligingly. There's no altar as such, merely a circlet of space surrounded by slender trees, their branches decorated with ribbons to commemorate the occasion. The meadow's spiders have obligingly spun decorative and festive webs designed to catch and retain the dewdrops. The sun is out, no clouds dare to threaten, and all the flowers have opened perfectly. All that's missing is a flock of songbirds filling the air with their tune, but that's all right. On one's wedding day, one wants to be heard above the general din.

The suit Sophie made for him is outstanding and handsome, fits him perfectly, and he's got the idea in his head that this one is enchanted with very special charms, things like the wearer of this suit will never stray from the one he weds and whoever wears this will have a heart that's always true and while he's flattered, those things are unnecessary: he loves her with all his heart and suspects he always will. The advantage is Sophie's; he's not seen her dress as she holds with the tradition that says it's ill luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding. So he paces in his field because at the moment, this is what keeps the vague feelings of dread and panic at bay.

In a few hours' time, he and Sophie will be married. They'll return to the castle with the guests and partake of a feast gifted to them by the King of Ingary himself, and then off to magical places far, far away for a week's time and...

...he hopes fervently that Calcifer hasn't misplaced, burnt, or blackened the rings. Having a fire demon for a best man is an interesting proposition at best, but he doesn't have time to think about it too hard before he's interrupted by the gentle clearing of a throat: Wizard Suliman, who's presiding over the ceremony for them. At his not losing our nerve, are we? Howl shakes his head and smiles.

How can he be losing his nerve when it moved out and took up residence elsewhere days ago?

"Come on, Sophie! Hurry!" Laughing and running -- not hand in hand, she's a girl and holding hands is disgusting -- Howl races on little legs through a field of purple flowers. They smell so good!

"Achoo!"

(They're supposed to sneeze a lot, just in case anyone's watching.)

"I bet I can fill my basket before you do!" He's teasing; they have to act like children. He knows they're not and hopefully Sophie knows they're not. The main difference is that everything's so tall in comparison to his usual height, but this isn't as bad as being a dog for that. Bumping into Sophie, he whispers. "This is the field they avoided. Grab as many of the flowers as you can." It's simple lavender, but he imagines it must not grow further north where it's cooler. And there are different varieties. With any luck, they'll have this charmed up and spread round the boundaries of Ingary in no time.

Sophie's clearly decided that his challenge is worth rising to, however; she gives him a little-girl oh really? sort of look before gathering up handfuls of lavender, laying them in her basket. She's adorable at this age: nowhere near as cranky as she was when she was old, but neither is she as complex and engaging as she is at her true age. She may be taking advantage of form to stick her tongue out at him, but she laughs and runs and fills her basket with the choicest ripest stems. She knows flowers far better than he does; it's easy for him to follow her lead.

Both baskets are almost full by the time they look up to see a Strangian soldier standing by the edge of the field waving to them. "Oi! You! You can't play there! Go... achoo!... home before I... achoo!... come chase you... achoo!... off!"

That, of course, is their cue. This time he does reach over and grab Sophie by the hand, and they start to run. She knows how this goes: they run and run on little legs, but the wind that picks them up once they're out of view of the soldier is just as strong as the one that stole them away from Zanzib.

Fortunately, they don't even lose too many of the flower stems along the way. The walk up the path from the flower fields near the castle is much more arduous on little legs; Howl makes mental note to appreciate all the times he ran Michael around back and forth when he was younger. Of course, he probably won't ever say a word about it, but don't they say it's the thought that counts?

"Wizard Howl to see the king!"

"Wizard Howl to see the king!"

"Wizard Howl to see the king!" The voices start to blur together in an echo as he's passed from page to page along the corridor. He doesn't need their help; he's been here more than enough times of late to have the path memorized. Besides, he's aggravated, annoyed, and tired. He's spent the past twenty-four hours either spying in Strangia or being yelled at by Sophie and neither of those pursuits were the way he intended to spend his day. It might seem dutiful for him to report to the king just now, but this isn't duty: this is negotiation. As he's ushered into the royal meeting chamber and told to sit, he shakes his head and stands.

He's exhausted and wants to go home, and he's not without power in this castle. He is Royal Wizard, and as such, the king relies on him. And that reliance translates to things the king probably couldn't have conceived of when he granted Howl his position.

Yes, the war is important, critical even. But when he's done telling the king about his foray into Strangia and the two-week calm before the storm, he holds up his hand before the king can say a word.

"I tell you, your highness, I'm content to stay in Ingary and work on weapons systems or medical supplies or even seven-league boots for you and your army, but I won't be doing any more reconnaissance missions for you in enemy territory." The cost for the last one was too high; he won't let that happen again. He already doesn't know whether the damage done with Sophie is even reparable. "And I won't be doing any more work -- period -- unless we build in some prearranged time off."

"Preposterous," the king tells him, enraged, "we're in the midst of preparing for war! There are no holidays from that!"

This, he knows, is where being a fairly decent strategist and negotiator come into play. "It's true. There are no holidays from war, but even wizards need time to regenerate their magic." It's not true, strictly speaking, but he's betting the king won't be able to argue it. "Our magical reserves are fast becoming depleted with all this work we're doing. We have two weeks' time before the Strangian army sets foot on our soil and I promise you -- I swear -- we'll have your army fully stocked and ready by then, and keep the supplies coming for the next month after that. For six weeks you have me but then, your majesty, I respectfully request a break. One week, no more. Just one week. Surely as strategic and strong a ruler as yourself can survive without my help for seven days."

He'll not let this destroy what he has with Sophie... if it's not already too late to repair the damage done by the king's last set of orders. Truthfully, he'll do whatever needs to be done to mend that, irrespective of the king's wishes, demands, or threats. If worse comes to worse, he'll simply take Sophie -- kicking and screaming if need be -- to Wales so they can stop this madness and remember what's most important.

The king gives him a somewhat appraising glance. "Six weeks for seven days?"

Howl nods.

"I'll want twice the number of self-healing medical kits before the six weeks are up."

"Half again as many," Howl counter-offers. "We're already stretched to our limit. Doubling it will leave you without a Royal Wizard, I can promise you that."

"You can't just quit!" The king gets to his feet, irate. "This is my land, and my word is law."

"Half again as many." He can be as fierce as the king if need be; the edges of reality start to fade in and out a little and he becomes somehow bigger, more feral, menacing, towering over the king. "Half again as many." By the time he says it the second time, he's back to his normal stature.

The king blinks once, twice. "I need you, Howl. Six weeks for seven days, and half again as many kits. But more if you can manage."

"Fair enough. Oh, and no more trips to Strangia." He doesn't even give the king a chance to bluster over that one. "They know my face there now. I would serve you no further purpose as a spy." His bow is deep and compliant, only... not really. He knows he could leave any time he wants -- take Sophie to worlds the King of Ingary has never even dreamed of -- but the proud and vain part of him actually likes carrying the title Royal Wizard, even if it is only until Wizard Suliman's back on his feet properly. He also likes the little taste of power, of tit-for-tat, of being able to recommend actions to the king.

He's never claimed to be without ego.

Standing again, he looks the king straight in the eye and nods. "I'll not take up any more of your time, your highness. For the next six weeks, you know where to find me." He's almost certain he hears the king muttering don't push it, Howl Pendragon beneath his breath as he turns to leave, but that doesn't concern him. There's an end in sight. Knowing that, he almost has the courage it will take to face Sophie again. She's so angry with him but now... now he's got those seven days as a peace offering.

He hopes it's enough.

"You can open your eyes now, Sophie." Letting go of one of her hands, he takes in a deep breath of fresh air: he's led her to their flowers, to the very end of the path just before the ground turns to marsh. There, he's got a table covered in a fluttering white tablecloth. A single candle lights the scene; the table is laid out with place settings for two.

A pair of tree stumps have been fashioned into chairs; there's a crystal carafe filled with brandy next to the pair of snifters. Overhead, the stars glitter.

The night is perfect.

"I thought a few moments together. You've been working so hard and really, cariad, you deserve the very best."

Hopefully, this will be to her liking. It's a little bit safer than the trip to Zanzib, and a change of pace from an evening at the pub.

Ugh.

Drat.

Ffffffuu.... With greatest difficulty, Howl rolls over onto his front, face to the floor. "Hell's teeth."

It's a very fine phrase, given the way he's feeling at the moment. "I have a hangover."

The floor is so, so comfortable. He's really quite disinclined to move at all.

Ever.

For as long as he lives.

That's the last time he goes to his Rugby Club reunion.

It all happens in such a blur: the battle with the Witch is long forgotten and put aside to think about later, because things must be done and they must be done quickly. Nothing spurs on a cowardly man like the prospect of being caught. So there are runes to write and measurements to take and brackets to install, and Sophie and the dog to avoid, and Calcifer to listen to, and the five-pointed star in a circle to let Michael draw. He knows that much magic.

The basics cared for, he jots quick notations round the star and circle, then takes Michael and dashes out into the yard, only to return a moment later to ask Sophie what they're selling in the shop. She tells him flowers and that's perfect; he can work with flowers. To prepare for the move he has to redecorate, so to speak: the colors on the doorknob need to change. Paint bucket in hand, the blue blob becomes yellow and the green one purple and the red one orange, but he leaves the black one alone.

He also pointedly doesn't touch that tiny slice of silver that leads to the pub. No, that's his entirely secret escape. Well, his and Sophie's, but nobody else gets to use it. In fact, he's charmed the door against anyone other than the two of them even noticing the silver. The tip of his black suit's sleeve dips into the paint as he works and comes out all colors of the rainbow; when he shakes it off, it's black again and he ignores Sophie's question about which suit it is: he's got precise and difficult work to do. He sends Michael out into the yard for the silver shovel and once he's got it and chalks a sign on both handle and blade, the entire room seems to breathe in a quiet hush.

Now for the hard part: moving Calcifer. He is, after all, the heart and soul of the castle. "Are you ready, Calcifer?"

The fire demon peeks out from between the safe haven of a pair of logs. "As ready as I shall ever be. You know this could kill me, don't you?"

Without smiling, Howl holds up the shovel. "Look on the bright side: it could be me it kills. Hold on tight. One, two, three." Slowly, steadily, he digs into the grate and works the shovel underneath Calcifer, lifting him up even more steadily and gently and when he turns around, Calcifer rests uneasily on the silver shovel and the room fills with smoke. With utmost caution he moves with Calcifer into the chalk circle and then into the center of the five-pointed star. Holding the shovel as steadily as possible, he takes one complete turn and Calcifer turns too, orange eyes wide and round with panic.

It's like the whole room turns with them. When they've made the circle, Howl steps out of the star and circle -- again, with enormous caution -- and kneels by the hearth, redepositing Calcifer into the grate. The logs that had fallen off earlier are replaced immediately; smoke still hangs everywhere in the room as the movement settles. The inside of the castle is... different, as if it's inhabiting a different body all of a sudden and needs to squeeze to fit into it. But what they've known as the castle meets the strangeness of the new location and melds together with it until they're one again: it's their home but a little different.

"Have you done it, Calcifer?" Howl coughs away the smoke that still lingers.

"I think so." The fire demon rises up the chimney, looking as healthy -- if that word can be used to describe him -- as ever. "You'd better check for me, though."

Rising from his knees, Howl moves to the door and opens it, yellow blob downward; the door opens onto a street in Market Chipping. Nodding at Calcifer, he shuts the door, turns the knob orange-down, and tries again. This time, a wide, weedy drive follows away from the door lined by clumps of trees; at the end stands a grand stone gateway with statues on it. He turns to Calcifer. "Where is this?"

Calcifer's voice is defensive. "An empty mansion at the end of the valley. It's the nice house you told me to find. It's quite fine."

Almost but not quite tempted to smile, he nods. "I'm sure it is. I simply hope the real owners won't object." Closing the door on the scene, he turns the knob purple-down. "Now for the moving castle."

It's close on dusk outside; a warm wind full of enticingly different scents blows in, clearing away Calcifer's smoke. Trees and bushes and leaves and flowers move by; there's a glimpse of the sun setting on water beyond and Sophie's halfway to the door in an instant. "No, your long nose stays out of there until tomorrow." Howl closes the door with a snap. "That part's right on the edge of the Waste. Well done, Calcifer. Perfect. A nice house and lots of flowers, as ordered." Flinging the shovel down, he turns without further comment or apology and heads up the stairs for bed and it's blessed relief: he's asleep in an instant.

It's been a very long day.