Howl's Moving Castle Fanfiction: As Others See Chapter 1 by Jedishampoo

Summary: A magical misfire ends with the wrong Howls in the wrong worlds. Howl's Moving Castle (Movie) crossover with Howl's Moving Castle (book).

Author's Notes: This is mostly an excuse to play with the people involved and see how I might make the movie characters deal with Book!Howl and the book characters deal with Movie!Howl. Thanks to sakura haru and sharpeslass for their betas!

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters in this story, Diana Wynne Jones or Studio Ghibli does. I'm just playing with them.

x x x

As Others See, Chapter 1

Howl laid the spell-page on the workbench, then set his hands on his hips and looked down at Markl.

"Well," he said.

Markl looked back up at him, smiling, silent and expectant. The morning Market Chipping sunlight streaming through the window picked golden bits out of the boy's red hair, making him look younger, almost innocent and angelic. Howl wondered if he was about to do something foolish.

The spell on the bench was an iffy one. But ever since Howl had discovered its existence he'd thought about it and thought about it, unable to extricate it from his mind. He'd found it last week in one of his uncle's old notebooks, but it was clear it had been culled from something older still. The leading edge of the yellowed page was torn and the rest ragged and showing signs of creeping black, as if it had been burnt and the ashes knocked off. Rescued perhaps, then; not culled.

And some of the typeset and spellings were the tiniest bit archaic. Earlier this morning Howl had finally shown the page to the old lady, wondering if she knew anything about the spell or had seen it before. She'd merely laughed, an odd little cackle.

"Tell me what happens when you try it," she'd said.

Howl had laughed at her in return. "I might not. Besides. You could just watch what happens, if I do try it."

"Hmm," she'd said, and had taken her coffee outside for her morning cigar.

It wasn't dark magic; Howl was fairly certain of that. The ingredients were rare but normal. He just wasn't sure what the spell would do. He had a pretty good idea, though.

A shower of dust motes swarmed, glinting, into the shaft of sunlight, set dancing about by Sophie's broom. Markl sneezed.

"Sophie!" Howl turned and said.

"What? I'll be out of your way soon," she said in her most no-nonsense voice. Her broom swished back and forth, back and forth, swaying like her dark green skirts, sending the dust motes sparkling and whirling into the air with every swish. Surely when she was done, the floor would be exactly as dirty as it had been before.

There must be a method to her madness, Howl thought, but he was damned if he knew what it was. So he watched her for a few moments, telling himself that he was not procrastinating the execution of this spell. Just enjoying the view, and the sound of her humming.

Watching her clean made him feel a bit warm, and swirly. He would have been hard-pressed to identify every individual feeling boiling around in his stomach, but there were a few he could pick out. Watching her clean his castle made him feel homey, secure. Watching her hips swing back and forth as she swept made him feel something else entirely. His thoughts crept inexorably back to last night, in his bed, and the swirly warmth edged up a couple of degrees, formed itself into a tight ball, and settled somewhere below his stomach. Dimly he realized that his expression had probably gone rather melty.

"What does the spell do, Master Howl?"

"I'm not sure," Howl said, coughing to erase the melty expression and banish the brief, erotic fantasies, and to re-focus on the task at hand. Still he watched her. Hadn't he read somewhere, a long time ago, that men spent at least one out of every ten minutes thinking about sex? Howl thought perhaps lately he'd exceeded that statistic. But how could he help it? Sophie really was amazing; she cooked, cleaned and sewed like any good Ingarian girl. She was the only one sweet and nice enough to put up with him. She also ran away from home, broke curses, was heart-stoppingly passionate-- another phrase he'd read at some point flashed through his brain. That the perfect wife was a lady in the parlor and a courtesan in the bedroom. Too true. He read too much. But she was perfect for him, in any case.

He eyed the engagement ring glinting on her right hand. Now he only had to nail her down to the "wife" part, and all would be right and tight. A month or so more, that was all, she'd promised. Wait until her mother and sister were resettled, and it could be done properly, knowing all along that it was not even remotely proper for her to be living here. Sophie chose her moments of propriety according to her own personal method. It was one of the few traits they had in common.

Right now she apparently found it proper to clean, as she did every morning after breakfast. The sunlight turned her hair alternate shades of palest gold and silver as she moved in and out of the beams, feet dancing to her own private tune. The melty feelings started up again. Howl turned resolutely back to the bench.

"Well, are we going to work it?" Markl wanted to know. His young voice held a note of impatience.

"I don't know," Howl prevaricated. But he had to be honest with himself, at least. There really was no doubt that he was going to do the spell. The future!-- who could resist a peep or two? All that remained was to start. "Yes."

"Awesome." Markl sneezed again.

Behind them, Sophie sighed. "All right, I understand," she said, and set the broom against something with a wooden click. "Calcifer, if you would please heat me some water, I'll clean your hearth outside. Those birds we passed through yesterday-- they made such a mess!"

"Sure," Calcifer told her, in a nicer tone than he'd ever used with Howl. Howl silently added "charmed fire demons" to his mental list of things Sophie had accomplished in the last few months. Then he stretched out his arms and cracked his knuckles. Something glinted on his blue sleeve, and he stared at it for a moment in horror. It was one of his own newly re-dyed blond hairs. He picked it off and reattached it to his head, and then cracked his knuckles again.

"All right, Markl, hand me the blue rose extract, would you? Careful! It's expensive. Do you remember what it does?"

"It's a medium for spells that have a time release. The base holds the time steady until you set it off."

"Wow, that's pretty good," Howl told him with some admiration. He tapped a few precious drops into a bowl. He made a motion over the bowl with his finger, spreading the drops to make a thin coating up the sides.

Markl stood on tiptoe to look at the paper and then held up a packet of dried rubber-leaf. Howl nodded at him and Markl dropped it in, then fetched the other ingredients, one by one.

To be truthful, Howl was glad of the chance to relearn some of this old book-magic. His contract with Calcifer had made those sort of basics moot, even after the contract had been broken. But the routine was comforting. He was becoming rather staid.

As Markl dropped ingredients into the bowl, Howl's thoughts drifted outside. He could just hear Sophie's singing, the soft words filtering through Calcifer's open hearth. It was an old song, one of those sad ones that elderly men sang in taverns after hours with tears creeping down their weathered faces.

"There," Markl said after a bit. "Now do you speak the incantation aloud?"

Howl shook his head and raised his hand, and looked at the words on the yellowed page. Artumnus elo forthum, he thought. And lo, lo, lo, the fair barmaid did go, go go--

The ingredients in the bowl flared like concentrated, captive lightning.

Ooops, Howl thought as he felt himself falling backwards, just before his head connected with the edge of the kitchen table.

Howell looked over at Michael, and then down at the book on the table, and then he crossed his arms and pouted. The magic was pointless and rather dangerous and Howell was not quite sure why he was going to perform it.

Go to the future, indeed! Past years were easy-- they'd already happened, and one could visit them at any time. Of course what he was doing now had already happened, for people in the future. But it was best left to those people to come backwards, not for him to go forwards. Or something. Thinking about it made his brain hurt.

But the King had commanded it. His advisors had discovered the old spell-book in the castle archives-- Howell thought he might sneak into those archives some day to see if there were any other such dangerous items laying around, if he ever got up the energy, that was-- and the King had wasted no time in finding a wizard to perform the magic for him.

Ben Suliman had only escaped the task by claiming he was not powerful enough to accomplish the spell. Howell wished he'd been half so intelligent, but he never could resist an opportunity to show off.

Oh, he'd told His Majesty no, at first, of course. One might have a peep when divining, but the King had wanted a spell to take him fifty, sixty years into the future. He'd wanted to see what had become of him, and Princess Valeria, and he'd also wanted to see the political climate of the future, to see if the Strangians were sincere in their current desire for everlasting treaties.

Howell, stupidly, had told the King that the spell was unworkable. That there wasn't enough blue-rose oil in the world to make such a thing possible. Five years would be the extent of it, he prophesied. So the King had said, well then, make it five years.

The King was a lot more savvy than most people gave him credit for. It was no wonder he'd railroaded Sophie when Howell had sent her to the palace all those months ago.

Thinking of Sophie conjured her. She and her sister blew in through the door like forces of nature, arriving for their daily co-chaperoned visit/cleaning session. Multicolored leaves swirled in behind them, some as red-gold as his fiancee's hair, others yellow or crackling brown. Sophie tsked in annoyance at the mess they made of the castle room, and slammed the door shut behind her.

Michael's eyebrows rose in hope as the girls entered, and then fell as he saw that it was only the lovely Lettie accompanying Sophie today. If there was no Martha to gape at, then girls held no interest for Michael. Even Sophie. He looked at Howell, matching his pout.

"Everything's ready," Michael ventured.

"I know," Howell whined. Still he hesitated to work, and instead watched as the girls removed their cloaks and hung them in the broom-cupboard. He felt rather smug and self-satisfied doing so. Sophie had turned out much prettier than he'd imagined she might, all those months ago. It was a lucky thing he'd picked her to fall in love with, once he'd had his heart returned.

Her face was heart-shaped and pale, surrounded by wisps of hair-- titian, he supposed he might call the color-- that looked well with her darkish-yellow dress. She was slender as a tree-sprite, wearing the colors of fall, as sunny as the outside. She was exactly his type.

He'd chosen the right place to settle, in Ingary, it seemed. In Wales it always rained. And Welsh girls tended to the dark, like Lettie. He'd used to like dark-haired beauties, he thought, but decided he didn't care for them any longer.

"Hello, Howl," fair Sophie said and walked over to where he and Michael stood at the bench. Howell leaned forward to give her a chaste peck on the lips. She allowed it for a couple of seconds and for a couple of seconds he enjoyed it, enjoyed the little spark of interest that jabbed at his belly when he kissed her. Then she swished off, her long, braided hair thumping him on the shoulder as she turned.

Howell coveted that hair-color. He might try it some day. Perhaps for the wedding in a few months' time; they'd make a fabulous pair.

They'd make a fabulous pair now, he thought, if he could ever get her alone. He'd taken her to Wales (accompanied by a sister, of course), shown her what life was like there, and hinted that not everything modern was a bad idea. She'd even met a few of his old girlfriends. But like most Ingarian girls, she was a tougher nut to crack when it came to the physical. So perforce, he would wait, and hope fervently that all there would work itself out in the end.

"Hello Sophie, dear," he told her back. "And Lettie," he added.

That young lady took her own look around, and apparently not spotting anyone she'd wished to see, sat at one of the kitchen chairs with an unladylike oomph.

Michael refused to ask about a certain person, though Howell knew he wanted to. "Are we going to start this spell or not?" Michael asked.

"You're awfully bossy today," Howell told him with a glare.

Michael colored. "Sorry."

"A-hem," Howell added for emphasis, and stretched out his arms to begin building the spell, being careful not to drip his long sleeves into anything expensive.

"If you're a-hemming to us, then don't," Sophie said at that. "In fact, don't mind us at all. I'm just going to do some cleaning and Lettie has promised to help me work on the suits. You can just do whatever you were doing before we came."

"That's exactly what we were planning to do," Howell told her with a sniff. "I was a-hemming at Michael."

"Keep on doing it, then," Sophie retorted.

"I will," Howell said. She was in a feisty mood today, he thought. He liked that about her. She was nice, but not too nice. But to make sure he had the last word in that little argument, he added, "a-hem, Michael."

Michael obediently pulled out ingredients, being extra-careful with the rare blue-rose oil, and handed them to Howell. Howell flipped them in turn onto the metal plate and said the appropriate words at the appropriate times. When the spell was finished, they'd wrap the plate and deliver it to the King. Well, Michael would deliver it to the King. Howell would take a bath, or try to make a little time with Sophie, or both.

"Elos," Howell said at the appropriate time, swishing his left hand dramatically. His voice thundered in just the right manner; he liked the way this one was going, and hoped the girls were suitably impressed.

"Oh, by the way, Michael. Martha said to say Hello," Lettie said just then.

"Really?" Michael asked, and turned away for a second. He lost the rhythm of the spell and dropped the pinch of livrous serum powder in front of Howell at exactly the wrong moment.

"Forthum," Howell said, and then, "Oh, shit." He briefly saw Michael's wide-eyed look of horror, receding as Howell fainted dead away.

x x x

"Howl, wake up!"

It was Sophie's voice. But Howl didn't want to wake up. His head hurt something awful. And the little hand slapping at his face wasn't helping.

"I said, wake up!"

Her voice sounded concerned. He supposed that he ought to try a little harder for consciousness. And then the memory crawled into his aching skull that he'd been doing something, something delicate and probably dangerous. Oh heavens, that awful spell-- he tried to open his eyes. "Mwake," he mumbled.

"You had better be," Sophie said. "Or I shall dump the mop-water on you."

"Don't," Howl managed in the face of such nastiness. What was wrong with Sophie? He was growing more concerned by the moment, about her and the spell, and what might possibly have gone wrong while he was out. He peeled his eyelids apart, and tried to focus on Sophie's blurry face above him. She had something reddish draped over the top of her head. Odd. "Hello, sweetheart," he told her.

"Huh?" she said, and leaned in a little closer. She placed a thumb and forefinger on one of his eyelids and pulled them apart. "Your eyes have gone all strange. They're a bluish-green color."

"Side-effect of the spell. It'll pass," he said, sliding one of his elbows along the floor beneath him to push himself up. With his free hand he hooked her around the neck and pulled her down for a quick kiss. He whispered against her lips, "don't worry, Love! I'm awake. I'll be all right. Is Markl okay?"

Sophie only slapped his hand away, and the look on her face, if it hadn't been so blurry, might have suggested she was considering slapping him again. "Who?" she asked. Then she turned for a moment to speak to someone behind her. "He's all stupid! Lettie, you practice magic. You should have known better!"

"Oh, God, Howl. I'm so sorry," a male voice quavered from behind Sophie.

"For what? Wait, who is that?" Howl asked Sophie, grasping the leg of the kitchen table to drag himself to a sitting position. His eyes focused finally on Sophie, sitting next to him on the floor. Something was wrong with her. Her hair was-- red? Was it the odd light in the room? He realized that the room looked wrong, too. Or was that a side effect of the spell, also? Howl realized that was not possible. "Oh, no, Sophie! What happened to your hair, sweetheart? How long was I out? Where am I? When am I? Are you all right? Please tell me that you're all right!"

He leaned over to try and hug her. He'd botched his time-control of the spell, and sent himself too far into the future, or something, and things were not as they should be. Why had he ever wanted to try that spell?

But Sophie only scooted away from him, dragging her bottom across the floor, dirtying her pretty yellow dress. Her eyes narrowed.

"Who are you, and what have you done with Howl?" she said.

"I am Howl. Oh, no." Howl closed his eyes and shook his head to clear it of his shock at such words. It pounded. He winced and cradled his temple in his palm.

"It looks like Howl," the male voice said.

"Well, it's not," Sophie said. "I would know."

"She's got a point," the other girl said. She sounded like Sophie's sister Lettie.

"It is Howl," Calcifer's voice said from somewhere around his ear. Howl glanced over and saw Calcifer, all blue-and-green, hovering at eye level. "I sent a spark into his brain to be sure. It's not our Howl, though. And I would definitely be the one to know that. I've known him for longer than any of you."

"A spark? Into my brain? Are you crazy, Calcifer?" Howl had to ask. The rest of it was too confusing, so he focused on his most immediate concern.

"Well, you were acting all weird," Calcifer-- or the thing that looked sort of like a blue Calcifer-- said. "And now we know."

"The question is, where is the real Howl?" the man's voice said. Howl looked up and connected the voice to a tall, thin and dark-haired adolescent standing behind Sophie.

"I'm pretty real, I think," Howl said, burying his face in his hands again. "I've gone into the future, and I hate it. Oh, Sophie."

"Maybe it is Howl, and he just went to the future and changed," the young man suggested.

"Nah, it's not our Howl, and never was," Calcifer said as he floated back over to a grate. "He's a Howl from somewhere else, and that's all there is to it. It's not like we don't know other worlds exist."

"Whoever he is, that certainly looks like a green-slime mood, and I won't have any of it, do you hear?" Sophie's voice said. "Now look at me. At me! And talk. Though I know you probably don't want to, but I don't care."

That voice! Sophie was being practically cruel, and he couldn't take it. He let himself wallow in despair and regret for a few moments, then collected his more rational thoughts. Calcifer was probably right. He wasn't in the future, only some other world, or dimension, or something. And he was a wizard. He would put everything right. First, though, he would get rid of this damned excruciating headache. A wave of his fingers sent the pain spiraling away, a thankful circumstance in this world gone wrong. He grabbed the edge of the table to stand. The dark-haired young man moved forward with an outstretched hand to help.

"Don't touch him!" Sophie said. "You don't know where he's been."

Both Howl and the young man rolled their eyes at her. Like he hadn't already kissed her.

"I'm Michael Fisher," the teenager said, shaking Howl's hand once they were standing side-by-side.

"Howl," Howl said. "A wizard," he added, with a look at the not-Sophie. Then he took a few moments to glance around the room. It was sort of like his castle, and sort of not at the same time. There were the steps leading down to the door, and the door-switch with its colors, but the switch was square instead of round. The main room itself was smaller and darker than his own, with a smaller hearth containing the blue-green Calcifer staring at him out of orange eyes. There were several doors scattered about the room, all in the wrong places. It was tidy, though, Howl could say that about it. He glanced at the girls and their sewing and cleaning accoutrements. The other girl, Lettie, gave him a hesitant smile.

"I'm Lettie," she said. She was very pretty. She looked a little like Sophie, but nothing like the Lettie he knew.

"Hello," Howl said, with his usual greeting-a-pretty-lady grin.

"Ooooh," Sophie said, and pulled a chair out at the table. "Sit. Talk."

"Better do it," Calcifer said. "She'll bully you until you do so it's best to get it over with."

"Will she?" Howl asked with some interest, and gathered his courage to look more closely at the not-Sophie. She was an almost twin to his Sophie, except for her hair, which was reddish-blond and twisted into a long braid at her back. And except for her expression, which was twisted into a look of distrust that his Sophie rarely if ever wore. But other than that, she was very like. The same apparent height, the same little figure, that pale, heart-shaped face. And from what he remembered of that brief kiss, she wore the same scent. Oh, Sophie, he thought, and almost lapsed into despair once more as she glared at him.

"You'd mentioned a spell," Michael said in a kind voice as he sat at the table across from Howl. "We were doing a spell, too, and um-- well-- Howl was knocked unconscious. What sort of spell were you doing?"

"Well," Howl began. He might as well tell the truth, he decided. It could only help him get home more quickly if he had help. "I found it. It was an old one, buried in my uncle's things."

x x x

"Howl! Oh, Howl. Please wake up."

Howell winced. It was Sophie's voice, seeping into his eardrums as if from a distance. It was still too loud. His head hurt like hell, and the floor under it was very hard. So he moaned, to show that he was alive and not liking it, but otherwise didn't move.

He was rewarded with a cool little hand that fluttered over his cheeks and his ears, and a soft pair of lips that kissed his forehead. "Howl, thank heavens. You frightened me half to death. Markl, will you please wet a dishtowel for me? Cold water!"

The voice was soft but still too loud, but the touching and the attention he had liked. So Howell moaned again, an "uhhhh" like a dying animal. He only dimly thought, Markl? Maybe he'd lost partial hearing, for surely she'd really said Michael.

"Poor Howl. Give me a moment. You knocked your head pretty badly when you fell, Markl told me. Thank you," she said, and he felt gentle fingers behind his ears, lifting his head, and then a cool, wet cloth pressed against the back of his skull. It felt nice, almost as nice as the kissing. "You've got a bit of a bump. Does your head hurt?"

"Yes," he mumbled, and raised a weak hand to wave a little spell that took care of it. He still didn't get up, but he did creak open his eyes. The pain was gone but the aftereffects of his knock on the head clearly weren't, because Sophie had an aura of silvery-white about her face.

"Oh, my poor love." Sophie leaned over to kiss his eyelids, and his mouth, briefly, and then she sat up with a smile. "How odd. Your eyes have turned the strangest color. They're a sort of greenish-blue."

"Side-effect of the spell, Sophie dear," Howell said. But not in too strong a voice, lest the pity and the kissing stop. "It will pass."

"Oh. Good," she said. Her light fingertips ran over his shoulder, his chest. The strange silver halo followed her movements. "Is anything broken? Do you think you could sit up?"

Howell sighed, and realized that Sophie's concern would only last so long. "No. And probably. Help me?" He lifted a floppy arm. It was encased in plain blue. He wondered briefly where his jacket had gone.

"Of course!" Sophie slid a dark-green-clad arm under his neck-- hadn't she been wearing yellow?-- and gently pulled him up. Howell managed to sit just far enough upright so that he could lean against her. Astoundingly, she didn't protest, only wrapped her arms around him. She was concerned. This was a side of Sophie he'd never seen. He decided he liked it.

"Tell Michael I'm going to kill him, and Lettie, too. For good measure," Howell said, leaning his head back into the warmth of her neck.

"What?" a child's astonished voice cried.

"Michael? Do you mean Markl? Don't be silly. Why should you want to kill him? Or Lettie? She hasn't done anything to you, has she? You haven't even seen her in weeks."

It began to penetrate Howell's brain that something was not right. Not only was Sophie kissing him and holding him and being openly kind to him, but she was saying things that made no sense. If there was one thing he could say about Sophie, it was that she usually made some sort of sense, even if it was an arcane sense.

And he was beginning to realize as well that something was off in his surroundings. The castle room seemed larger and brighter, and the flagstone floor was not covered in flagstones at all but in rugs and smooth, polished wood. Oh lord, he thought. That damned spell. He closed his eyes to block out his strange surroundings and tried to remember the sequence of events before he'd passed out. The elos and the forthum, right, he thought.The timing had been off on the old livrous, and 'oh, shit' had definitely not been part of the spell. Still, he thought, that shouldn't have sent him off into a another world, only punished him with a small explosion or two. The spell was dangerous, sure, but his environment had been pretty controlled, Letties and Marthas and Michaels aside.

Still, Sophie was acting odd, but at least she was Sophie. She looked, sounded and smelled like Sophie. He couldn't have gone anywhere too terrible.

Howell turned his head to look at her up close. He was astonished to find that the silver halo was not an aura at all but her hair, cropped to just past shoulder-length and white as an old lady's. He stared. "Sophie, dear, what happened to your hair?"

Even more astonishingly, she laughed. "Haven't we had this conversation before?" she asked, and kissed him again, lips warm and soft against his. "You are confused. Let's get you up, and we'll get you a glass of water and check you over."

"I'll get it," the child's voice said again. With Sophie's help Howell stood, and he could see a red-headed little boy scampering over to a tap in the corner of the castle's kitchen-- living room-- whatever. He almost said, who is that, and then realized that it would be an incredibly stupid question. Obviously, it was Markl. Howell eyed that red hair, and remembered Sophie's absent titian waves.

Was this the future? Was that his son?

"You're not really going to kill me, are you, Master Howl?" the boy asked. Howell breathed a deep sigh of relief at that Master, and decided that this was probably not the future, then. Just some other universe. He hoped. And if this was another universe, then that was Michael-but-not-quite, and that was Sophie-but-not-quite.

"No?" Howell answered.

"Good," the boy-- Markl-- said, and handed him the water. Howell looked at it. He wondered if there was brandy here, and then decided that brandy was not really a proper priority and could wait. He sat at the kitchen table, waved Sophie off with an "I'm all right" look, and swallowed the contents of the glass. It certainly tasted like good old Ingarian water.

He looked again at his sleeve, and then down at the rest of his plain blue shirt. Good tailoring, but not his, he didn't think.

"Sophie, where's my jacket?" he called in a strained voice.

The not-quite-Sophie had bustled out through a nearby doorway and was just then returning with a bucket and a handful of dirty rags. She'd been cleaning. The similarities between this world and his were almost stranger than the differences.

"I should think all your jackets are upstairs, in your closet," she said, with another concerned look from her big brown eyes. His Sophie's eyes. "You weren't wearing it this morning. Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes," Howell lied. Upstairs could wait, too. He looked around at the not-castle room, and saw the magic bench nearby, and then, across the way, a wide hearth.

"Calcifer? You there?"

"Yeah." Orange flames peeped out from among the logs, and then some small, yellow, fire-demon eyes. "If you are. You went somewhere for a minute there, but I guess you're back. You gotta pay more attention to your magic, pal."

"True," Howell said, swallowing his bile at admitting such a thing, even while only play-acting. He looked at the magic-bench again, at the books and bowl and packets scattered there, and knew that the bench was where he would have to start, if he wished to know where he was.

He stood and spotted the yellowed paper. The spell written upon it was nearly exactly the same spell he'd been building for the King earlier. Nearly, but not quite.

"I tried to straighten up the bowl, Master Howl, but the spell was already gone. Poofed!" Markl said from beside him.

"So it is," Howell said, looking at the blue-rose-oil extract and the empty bowl, mind racing. He would have to play it cool and say as little as possible to keep them from realizing that he wasn't who they thought he was. Well, he was who they thought he was, technically, but not really. His brain hurt again just to think about it.

Luckily they seemed to accept him as Howl, as a wizard, and to accept his odd behavior without much in the way of questions. Howell would have to be especially careful around Calcifer, though. That fire demon didn't look like his Calcifer but he certainly had his attitude, and most likely all his powers.

Howell scratched light symbols on the wooden bench with a fingernail, trying to see the shape of the events which had taken place there. It seemed this world's Howl had built nearly exactly the same spell as Howell had, and at exactly the same time. That was an impossible coincidence.

The situation was already beyond reckoning, so Howell couldn't conceive that there had been any more than two of them doing such a thing at the same time. And so, since any number higher than two in this situation was already beyond impossible, he posited that the two of them had simply switched places.

Furthermore, both spells had gone wrong, apparently at the same time. Perhaps as a result of the impossible coincidence? Or had the botched spells caused it? And there was a barrier of some sort that kept him from returning, he could feel it. Howell's brain hurt more.

"What sort of spell were you doing, anyway?" Sophie called from across the room.

Howl heard the familiar voice, and the questioning tone, and answered as he usually might have without thinking. "None-of-your-business, Miss Long-Nose," he called back.

The room stilled with something beyond silence. Howell realized too late his mistake, and looked up. Sophie was staring at him with wide eyes and her mouth hanging open. Markl and Calcifer wore similar expressions. Apparently this Howl was a different sort of fellow from he. Or perhaps he surrounded himself with overly-sensitive people. Howell tried a grin at the Sophie.

She snapped her mouth shut and hmphed at him. "Obviously you're not feeling well, or you would not have said such a thing."

"It was just a joke!" Howell whined.

Just then a short old lady with somewhat familiar eyes buried in a flabby, wrinkled face shuffled into the room. The crone looked at him, and gave a short cackle. "He's gone all wonky," she said, and plopped herself onto a couch in front of the hearth.

"And how is that not ordinary?" Calcifer said, snapping his strange little orange flames.

"I think you should probably go up to bed to rest, and leave Markl to clean up the spell," Sophie told him. She was still glaring, but her voice had softened somewhat.

Howell agreed. Not only because he needed time to think-- alone-- about what was going on here, but he wanted to get into that closet. And find the bathroom. He couldn't think straight when he wasn't dressed well and groomed and ready to face the world.

"Exactly," he said, and ran up the stairs as quickly as he could.

x x x

"And I woke up on the floor," Howl said. It had been a very short story. He'd left out the part about how he hadn't known precisely what the spell would do, as well as the part where he'd thought the wrong words. Basically he'd said, I found the spell, tried it, ended up here. Howl looked around the table at the expectant faces-- Michael's, Lettie's, Calcifer's, and Sophie's. It was obvious that they were waiting for him to continue. "That's it," he added.

"Um," Michael said.

"That's not very helpful," Lettie said. "Spells go wrong all the time, and yet this sort of thing never happens. Are you sure you did it correctly?"

"Um," Howl began.

"I think we can assume he knows what he's doing," Michael said.

"Thank you," Howl told him with some sincerity. He was glad someone here seemed to be on his side. Still, they were all virtual strangers. The tension in his shoulders threatened to bring back the headache; he shook his arms a bit to loosen his taut muscles, and caught a glimpse of a drooping, bright-blue and iridescent sleeve. He held up an arm and stared. "What in the world am I wearing?"

Sophie rolled her eyes. "Howl's favorite jacket. Not his best one, though."

"I should hope not," Howl told her, looking down at the horrible scalloped edges, the too-wide lapels. His fingers flew to his earlobes. Only one ear drooped with the familiar weight of an earring. "Why couldn't I have kept my own clothes, at least?"

"They're not that bad," Sophie said with a prim expression. Her voice grew an edge of sarcasm. "Would you like to change?"

"Yes," Howl said, letting despair take over for a moment again. "No offense, but I'd like to change everything. Get back to my right life, world, clothes, whatever." What he couldn't admit was that he had no idea where to start. Other worlds he had experience with; other realities were something new. "I wonder where your Howl is?" And how many more there are, he added silently.

"Probably wherever you came from," Calcifer answered with a wave of his green flame-hair. "This sort of thing isn't too common. You two just switched, somehow, doing the same magic."

"The spells certainly sound similar," Michael added.

"Do they?" Howl asked with hope. He could accept this as a best-of-the-worst-case scenario. It was disconcerting enough to imagine one other Howl, let alone any more. He looked around the not-quite-familiar room again. From what little he'd seen, his and the other Howl's lives seemed similar enough, eerily so, in fact. It led him to wonder, really wonder, how many other Calcifers and Michael/Markls and Sophies existed--

"Sophie!" he blurted aloud at the thought of her. The redheaded girl shot him a questioning glare and he shook his head at her. "If he's there, then I wonder what my Sophie is doing. Or what he's doing?"

"I know exactly what he's doing," the redhead told the group, crossing her arms across her chest and leaning back in her chair. "He's waking up on the floor and pretending to be you. He's very clever that way."

"It's what I would have done, if I'd realized sooner what was going on," Howl admitted. He chewed at a fingernail.

"Will your people notice the difference?" Michael asked, tentative. "You do look very alike."

"So I hear," Howl said dryly around the finger in his mouth. But he couldn't shake the new, terrible thought that he wasn't sure whether or not Sophie would immediately know that the other man wasn't him, unless the other man told her. She was so very sweet and trusting, nothing like this world's Sophie, who was even yet staring at him with an expression he would have called confrontational. But while he personally found his Sophie's trusting nature endearing and heartwarming, it could be a liability in situations like these. Calcifer might realize the other Howl was an imposter, or even the old lady. But not, he had to admit to himself, Sophie. At least not right away. He chewed so hard on his fingernail that he threatened to break it and ruin his well-groomed hands. "What's he like? Would he hurt her?"

"No!" this Sophie cried. "He's vain and sly, but he's really quite kind-hearted."

"He just doesn't want anyone to know it. Um. Sometimes he can be difficult to deal with, if you don't know him," Michael warned.

Well, so could he, Howl thought silently with what he felt was great self-intuition. Oh, Sophie.

Aloud he said, "Well, I can promise you all that I won't hurt you. Calcifer can vouch for me, I'm sure, because after all he did enter my brain."

The blue-and-green Calcifer managed to look somewhat sheepish at this.

"All I want to do is find a way home," Howl continued. "And I assume you want him back?"

"Of course!" Sophie said, voice holding the same vehemence with which she'd defended the other Howl earlier. She held out a slim hand that was heartbreaking in its size, shape and familiarity. A small, reddish stone winked at him from one of her fingers. "We're engaged to be married."

"Oh, me too," Howl began, and took his finger out of his mouth to hold up his own hand, then remembered that the ring upon it was not his. He dropped the hand to his side, out of sight, and looked at Michael, his ally. "Now that my intentions are clear, can I see the spell?"

"Oh! Perhaps I should contact Mrs. Fairfax," Lettie spoke up. Her dark eyes widened with some other idea. "Or Wizard Suliman."

"Suliman?" Howl asked with some trepidation. She might know what to do in this situation. But then, he'd hoped to spend the rest of his life avoiding her. And now that he knew about them, all incarnations of her.

"He's Lettie's sweetheart," Sophie explained with a sly smile.

"He?" Howl asked. He was beginning to feel like an idiot. And his head was starting to hurt again.

"Why, yes. Is your Wizard Suliman a woman?" Sophie asked. She looked interested. She still didn't appear to like him, but, perhaps now that her initial shock had worn off, she had lost some of her animosity. Howl decided that having this Sophie on his side could only make his time here more bearable.

"Yes. She was my teacher," Howl told her. He smiled at her, one of his own personal favorite lady-killing smiles.

But she wasn't going to fall for it. Her interested gaze morphed into another glare. She stood and looked at Lettie. "Still, that's a good idea, Lettie. Why don't you go and get him? I think we're going to need all the help we can get to set things right."

"I'll show you the spell," Michael said, standing.

"I can't leave you here, not without a chaperone," Lettie said with wide eyes.

Sophie pooh-poohed that comment with a wave of her hand. "I'll be all right with Michael. And if he tries anything, then Calcifer, you have my permission to fry his brain."

"Gotcha," Calcifer laughed.

"I'm not going to try anything," Howl objected, loudly, but he had the distinct impression that no one was listening.

x x x

Howell stood in the other Howell's bedroom, looking out the window at the white clouds and blue sky. There was no rainy backyard, no swingset, no greeny-gray Wales. He looked around the room. Nothing recognizable met his eyes; the room was packed near to the ceiling with glittering (and some quite interesting-looking) objects, but all of them were unfamiliar, and none of them comforted him in the least. He began to feel a little sick.

He looked up at the ceiling. There weren't even any spiders. Wait, there was one, building a web between two of the ceiling-beams. Howell watched its eight legs working and weaving for a few moments, and felt better for having seen it.

"Right," he said. He went back out into the hall and spotted the bathroom directly across from the bedroom. He hadn't had a real bath since yesterday, because this morning he'd figured on finishing the King's spell first thing.

The bathroom wasn't modern. It contained no shower, only an old claw-footed tub. He turned one of the taps experimentally. Hot water gushed out and Howell smiled to himself. "Thanks, Calcifer," he whispered. He undressed, dropping the plain blue shirt and black pants to the floor, and looked at the packets lined neatly next to the tub. Sophie's doing, surely. He examined the words and pictures of flowers printed upon them, and sniffed the contents of a few of them. They were close enough to what he needed.

He'd been soaking happily for a good fifteen minutes when the bathroom door opened. Howell was a bit shocked to see Sophie squeeze through the gap, carrying a couple of fluffy white towels. She laid these on the closed toilet lid.

"You'll need these, I think," she said, and set her hands on her hips, and smiled at him.

"Sophie," Howell said, with what he was sure was a scandalized expression. "I don't know if you'd noticed, but I'm in the bath."

She had the grace to blush a little. Watching her, he had to admit that it looked well with that strange silvery hair.

"Well fine, then. Be modest if you wish," she told him with a little sniff. She bent to pick up his discarded clothing and turned to leave.

She hadn't quite shut the door behind her when Howell had an idea. "Sophie," he called after her. He considered his words, and decided to be as nonchalant as possible. "You know the land of Wales?"

"I think you've mentioned it before." She halted but didn't turn, and he could sense her tension through the back of her green dress. "Why do you ask?"

"I was just thinking about it," he mumbled, not having heard the answer he wanted. "No reason."

"All right," she said. She hadn't left, but neither had she turned to look at him again. Howell found his eyes drawn to the curve of her hips as she hugged his clothes to her chest and leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb. It was an interesting situation, having her in here when he was completely naked. The bubbles hid everything, but still. It was disconcerting and rather exciting at the same time. He couldn't decide whether or not he wanted her to leave. This Sophie was definitely nothing like his.

She continued in a soft voice. "You're worrying me, Howl. I do hope you rest. Would you like me to bring you anything else?"

"What a little servant! You don't have to wait on me hand and foot," he told her.

A short silence greeted this. "I know you're grumpy, but I'm only trying to help," she said after a few moments in an injured little voice, and swished out, shutting the door behind her.

Howell soaked for a few more minutes, considering her. Hopefully he wouldn't be here long. Still, he would have to be more careful if he wished to keep her convinced that he was the Howell she knew, but he wasn't sure how to deal with her. Twice now he'd upset her with his normal random, throwaway comments, things his Sophie would not have blinked an eye at. And her reasonable, hurt reactions made him feel guilty in some way. He hated feeling guilty.

Whenever he said something to his Sophie that she didn't like, she would only gripe back at him with something unrelated. When she was really cross, she became utterly silent (and she had no idea that this was how Howell knew she was angry with him).

This line of thought naturally made him consider the other Howell. He wondered if he was there in the Ingary where he, Howell, belonged. If so, then he wondered what Sophie and Michael and everyone were making of him. Howell nursed a forlorn hope that they'd tied him up and locked him in the broom-cupboard, and were feverishly working on a way to get him, Howell, back.

Actually, they were probably petting him and feeding him chocolate and whatnot for being such a nice guy. "Grrr," Howell said, and rinsed his hair. The fluffy towels were quite welcome.

So was the bedroom closet full of clothing. Howell sifted through the hangers. He found a blue suit which was close to acceptable, though its sleeves and collar were much too plain for fashion. He found a nice white lawn shirt and tried it on with the blue suit-jacket over it. It was a tiny bit small around the middle.

"Grrr," Howell said again, and magicked the waist to make it fit. For good measure, he lengthened the sleeves and shirred the edges to give them more flair.

Once he had on the matching pants-- also slightly snug, though he left these as they were-- he checked his reflection in a tall, gilt-and-jewel-edged mirror. The blue color of the suit complemented his blond hair and his new, strange, bluish-green eyes. He decided the suit's color could stay as well. A snazzy pair of impractical black boots completed his sartorial splendor.

Feeling much better than he had over an hour ago, Howell left the bedroom. He resolutely did not look out the window at the Not-Wales, but trod with confidence down this castle's narrow stairway. There was an entire crowd waiting for him in the large yet cozy kitchen/living area.

Sophie was there, her back to him as she pulled something out of a small black stove next to the hearth. Her brown eyes widened a bit when she turned and spotted him. Her cheeks flushed, again, just a little. She didn't speak, just swiveled to set a pan on a trivet at the table. Howell wondered what he'd done this time to upset her, and then he thought once more about how attractive she was despite the white hair.

"I cleaned up the spell, Master Howl. Just in time for lunch," the red-headed Markl said. The boy ran to the table and stuck a fork into the hot pan and pulled something out onto a plate. It looked like toasted cheese. Little bowls of soup already dotted the table. Howell's stomach perked up, rumbling at the sight and smells of the food.

Sophie poured tea into little chipped cups and glanced at him again, then turned away and tossed some crumbs at Calcifer in his grate. Her cheeks were practically flaming this time. Howell hadn't said anything so he couldn't possibly have upset her; he wondered if perhaps she was simply overwarm from cooking.

The flabby old lady creaked her way to the table and looked over at him. Her strangely familiar eyes examined him, up and down and up and down again, and Howell feared that he was about to be exposed. He realized just then whose eyes those were. Then he realized that she was leering at him.

"Nice pants," she said, and then picked up a fork to eat.

Ah, Howell thought, and then rather than doing what he'd planned, which had been to begin his serious attempts to do a home-location spell, he sat down to eat with them. He was bathed, and well-dressed. A little food would set him up just right.

x x x

End Chapter 1

On to Chapter 2

Click HERE to e-mail Jedishampoo