Simon, in his black-and-gold Alchemie robes, was waiting for them.
“Hello, Simon,” said Septimus, not entirely pleased to see him.
Simon, however, looked happy to see his little brother. “Hello, Sep,” he said. “What a place. Isn’t it beautiful?” He pointed to the Fyre below.
“Yes, it is. It’s amazing,” said Septimus, thawing a little at Simon’s enthusiasm.
“Apprentices,” said Marcellus. “It is not safe for the secrets of the Fyre to be known by only one person. Or even two. By the end of today, I hope that there will be three of us who will understand all there is to know about the Fyre. ‘Safety in numbers’ is the expression, I believe. And safety is what we want.”
And so, they became a team. Patiently, Marcellus took Simon and Septimus through all the stages of bringing the Fyre to its full power, which, now that the chimney was completed, it was safe to do. They worked through the day, methodically running through Marcellus’s long checklist. They regulated the water flow through the Cauldron, cold when it entered, hot when it left to find its way out through the giant emergency drain into the river. They drummed the Cauldron, they measured the height of the Fyre rods, they checked the levers that operated the huge hoppers of coal buried in the cavern walls—the Fyre blanket, Marcellus called it—and a hundred other small things that Marcellus insisted upon. “For safety,” as he said countless times that day.
It was late afternoon when Marcellus, Septimus and Simon stood once more on the dizzyingly high platform at the top of the Fyre Chamber. Above them was the huge oval opening to the Alchemie Chimney, which would take up the heat and the fumes and provide a much-needed airflow through the Chamber. But it was not the unobtrusive opening in the roof that claimed their attention—it was, of course, the perfect circle of the eye of Fyre far below, brilliant red brushed with its delicate blue flame, that returned their gaze. Underneath the blue they could see the dark twinkling of the graphite rods, each one a perfect five-pointed star, silently powering the Fyre around it. Marcellus smiled. All was well. They climbed up the pole to the lower Fyre hatch, sweaty, tired and longing for fresh air once more. But there was one more thing to do.
An hour later, the decoy fire in the furnace of the Great Chamber of Alchemie and Physik was lit and burning well. Marcellus lowered the conical fireguard over it so that the flames were safely contained. “Good,” he said. “That will produce enough smoke to satisfy everyone. Time to go.”
They headed wearily up the long incline back to the lock-up. Septimus had been so impressed with Marcellus’s insistence on safety that—even though he knew Marcellus did not like to talk about it—he said, “I just don’t understand how the Great Alchemie Disaster ever happened.”
Marcellus sighed. “That, Septimus, makes two of us. I don’t understand either. It makes no more sense to me now than it did all those hundreds of years ago. But what I do know is that if the ExtraOrdinary Wizard had not intervened in such a high-handed manner—excuse me, Septimus, it rankles to this day—and closed down the Fyre, then many lives would have been saved. And my house in Snake Slipway would not be so perishing cold every Big Freeze.” Marcellus smiled at Septimus’s bemused expression. “The Ice Tunnels were not just the old communication tunnels between the ancient Castle buildings; many of them were also part of the Castle heating system. As you know, they run beneath every old house. The hot water from the Fyre kept us all warm. People loved the Fyre in those days.”
“Ah,” said Septimus, thinking that that made a lot of sense.
Evening was falling when they emerged from the lock-up. They hurried off to Alchemie Circus, where Lucy had been anxiously awaiting the first plume of smoke to appear from the chimney. She ran excitedly toward them.
“It’s working—look!” Lucy pointed up to the thin wraith of white smoke that was climbing lazily up into the evening sky.
“Well done, Lu,” said Simon. “It’s a brilliant chimney.”
“Thanks, Si,” said Lucy.
“Yes,” said Marcellus. “It’s very nice. Very nice indeed.”
People had been hanging around Alchemie Circus all day, waiting for the first breath of smoke to emerge from the chimney, but with the onset of dusk, most had drifted away. But although the Living had got bored and gone home for supper, Alchemie Circus was, in fact, still packed—with ghosts. They had come to see what many considered to be the very heart of the Castle come alive once more. Most approved, but there were some who did not. These were the ghosts who had been present at the Great Alchemie Disaster. Indeed there were some there who had entered ghosthood because of the disaster. Some had been burnt to death by the hundreds of subsidiary fires that had swept through the Venting system and burst, unannounced, up through the floors of houses. Others—like Eldred and Alfred Stone—had been frozen into the Ice Tunnels during the panic to Freeze them. But those who had lived before the disaster had good memories of the Fyre. It had been the beating heart of the Castle, and those who had known life with it considered the present-day, Fyre-free Castle to be a poorer place.
But nothing stayed secret in the Castle for long and word soon spread that the Fyre was lit. Later that evening, after Septimus had gone back to the Palace for Sarah’s last-night-of-the-holiday supper, Marcellus, Simon and Lucy joined the edgy crowd at the foot of the chimney, many of whom were clutching the recently reissued All You Need To Know About The Great Alchemie Disaster pamphlet.
“Oi!” someone called out. “It’s the Alchemist fellow.”
A young woman carrying a toddler waved the pamphlet angrily. “Have you read this?” she demanded.
“Madam, I wrote it,” said Marcellus.
“Rubbish!” yelled a bookish, elderly man wearing a fine pair of gold-rimmed glasses.
“Well, I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy it. I did my best.”
“I meant there is no way you wrote this. You Alchemists!” the man spat out the word in disgust. He waved his copy of the pamphlet under Marcellus’s nose. Marcellus caught a waft of old paper—it was one of the original ones. “You Alchemists always covered everything up. And you, Mr. Pye, were one of the worst offenders.”
Marcellus held his hand up in protest. “I am sorry,” he said. “Please believe me, the Great Alchemie Disaster was not of our making.”
“So whose fault was it, then?” demanded a teenage boy. “The tooth fairy’s?” The crowd giggled.
Marcellus had known that the return of the Fyre to the Castle would not be popular. He had given the problem a lot of thought and he hoped he had a solution. He raised his voice above the murmurings of discontent. “To prove to you that we have nothing to hide, we will be starting guided tours of the Great Chamber of Alchemie.”
There was a stunned silence.
“All will be welcome and it will be my pleasure to meet you at the UnderFlow Quay and show you around personally. You may book the tours with Rupert Gringe at the Boathouse. I look forward to seeing you all again shortly.” With that Marcellus bowed and strode away.
Lucy ran after him. “Guided tours?” she asked. “Are you sure?”
“Just to the Great Chamber. It will make them feel involved. We show them the furnace and all the gold. They’ll love the gold. Give out a few souvenirs, that kind of thing. Simon can talk to the young women. They’ll love that.”
“Huh,” said Lucy.
“People need to know that there are no secrets in the Great Chamber of Alchemie and Physik,” said Marcellus.
“Aren’t there?” asked Lucy.
“Of course not,” said Marcellus. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
Lucy wasn’t sure. All she knew was that something about the Fyre did not make sense. And that Simon said suspiciously little about what he did at work all day.
“Well, thank you, Lucy,” said Marcellus. “You have done a wonderful job on the chimney. I really don’t know what I would have done without you.”
Lucy suddenly realized that her work was done. “Oh,” she said.
“Right.”
“And to show my appreciation at this historic moment I would like to offer you . . .” Marcellus paused.
“Yes?” said Lucy, wondering if Marcellus was about to overcome the legendary stinginess of Alchemists and actually pay her.
“The chance to accompany me to the Wizard Tower tomorrow to collect the Two-Faced Ring. It is an historic occasion.”
“Thanks but no thanks,” snapped Lucy. “I have better things to do. Like knitting curtains.”
Marcellus watched Lucy stride off down Alchemie Way, plaits flying. She looked annoyed, he thought. But he wasn’t sure why.
24
NOT A GOOD MORNING
The next morning at the Palace, Septimus was up at dawn. He put on his new Apprentice robes—which Marcia had sent to him a few days earlier—checked through his Apprentice belt to make sure all was in order, and grabbed a quick breakfast. Yesterday’s misty drizzle had given way to a beautiful morning, crisp and clear. As Septimus walked quickly up Wizard Way, he saw the Wizard Tower rearing up into the blue sky, gleaming pale silver in the early morning sun. Septimus felt excited to be going back to work at last and was even looking forward to his practical DeCyphering. It was a perfect morning to take the Flyte Charm up to the top of the Golden Pyramid and make a new rubbing of the hieroglyphs.
Hovering in the bright, still air above the hammered silver platform, Septimus managed to produce a very good rubbing using a thin but strong sheet of Magykal tracing paper and a large block of black wax. The hieroglyphs came up crisp and clear, but they still made no sense—particularly the strange blank square in the center. Undaunted, Septimus took the huge piece of paper back down to the Library, where he and Rose settled down to the prospect of a happy morning puzzling.
Back at the Palace, Silas Heap was feeling considerably less perky. Slowly surfacing after a night of vivid and horrible dreams, Silas could not shake off a fuzzy, disconnected feeling in his head and a high-pitched ringing in his ears. He wandered downstairs, convinced that he had forgotten something although he could not remember what. Silas was hoping for a quiet breakfast in the family kitchen and he was pleased to see that there was no sign of Edmund and Ernold anywhere. He was due at the Wizard Tower for yet another Seal Watch later that morning and needed some quiet time to clear his head. But Silas was not to get it. He had just poured himself a strong cup of coffee when Sarah breezed in, slamming the door behind her.
“Ouch!” Silas winced.
Sarah looked at her husband disapprovingly. “I don’t know what you were doing last night, Silas Heap, but you deserve your headache this morning. Really!”
“What d’you mean?” mumbled Silas. He blinked a few times, trying to get rid of an odd blue fuzziness around Sarah. It made him feel queasy. “You know I was on midnight Seal Watch. And the twins were after me, so I had to wait for them too. You know that, Sarah. I explained at supper.”
“Silas, you didn’t get back until four o’clock in the morning. I had no idea you were going to be so late. You might have told me. What were you doing?”
Silas shook his head and wished he hadn’t. “I . . . I don’t know.” He groaned. “Watching that Seal, it makes you feel really sick.”
“Huh!” said Sarah. “Well, you can come and do something useful for a change. I need some help out here.”
“Sarah. Please. Just let me finish my coffee. I have to get to the Wizard Tower soon.”
“The coffee can wait, Silas.”
Silas gave in. He knew that arguing with Sarah would take as long as actually doing what she wanted. He got up and followed her out into the Long Walk.
All kinds of weird and wonderful objects, many of them extremely valuable, were now piled up in the Palace entrance hall, spilling out across the floor and teetering in unwieldy stacks. Sarah had grown used to it but after Silas had tripped over a pyramid of musical Coronation Frogs and become entangled in a string of metallic red and gold Coronation Bunting and nearly strangled himself, even Sarah had had to admit that things were out of control.
At Sir Hereward’s suggestion, Sarah had opened up a series of large rooms at the far end of the Long Walk to store the Coronation Clutter. With the old ghost’s help—few people are brave enough to refuse a request from a sword-carrying ghost with one arm and a dented head—Sarah now had a band of helpers. Only the Uncles—as Ernold and Edmund had become known—had successfully eluded her, which had made her all the more determined to get Silas to help. She propelled him into the entrance hall, where a disconsolate group of Forest Heaps and assorted Palace helpers were getting to work under the eagle eye of Sir Hereward.
“Sarah, it’s a mountain,” protested Silas. “I really don’t have the time.”
Sarah was unmoved. “The sooner you start, the sooner you’ll finish. You can help the boys with that.” She waved toward a large upright piano, glittering with red and gold curlicues, and sporting some very fine gold candleholders. Sam and Jo-Jo were struggling to push it onto the old carpet that ran down the center of the Long Walk.
“What on earth is it?” asked Silas.
“It’s the Coronation Pianola,” sighed Sarah. “Apparently you press the foot-pedals and it plays the music for the Coronation Tea. Little Betsy Beetle and her grandmother brought it. They pushed it all the way from the Ramblings. And do you know, Silas, they live on the top floor?”
“Goodness,” said Silas. Goaded by the thought of little Betsy Beetle—who had never grown taller than four feet high—he set to. “Right then, come on, boys—heave.”
“So where’s Milo when you need him?” Silas muttered grumpily as they maneuvered the Pianola onto the carpet. “As soon as there’s work to be done he’s gone. Typical.”
“Stop wasting your breath, Silas,” said Sarah. “You’ll need it to push.” She gathered up a tall pile of silver plates on the top of which she had precariously balanced the Coronation Canary—long dead and now stuffed and living forever in a golden cage—and followed on behind the Pianola. Behind Sarah came Barney Pot pulling a trolley full of Coronation Cutlery, Maizie Smalls with the Coronation Bunting (“Keep it away from Silas, Maizie, please,” Sarah had pleaded), Edd pushing the Coronation Puppet Theater, which wobbled along on three squeaky wheels, and Erik struggling with a huge sack of dusty Coronation Cushions, which made him sneeze.
At last the procession reached its destination. Just as Sarah was unlocking the big double doors that led to the old Conference room where she had decided to store the clutter, a door opposite opened and Milo emerged, blinking in surprise.
“About time,” said Silas. “Give this a shove, will you, Milo? I really must go. Oh, hello, Hildegarde, what are you doing here?”
Everyone stared at Hildegarde, who had followed Milo out of the room.
“Nothing!” said Hildegarde quickly.
“Exactly,” said Milo. He quickly locked the door and pocketed the key. “Excuse me, Sarah, Silas: I really must be off,” and before either of them could protest, Milo ushered Hildegarde rapidly away down the Long Walk.
“Typical!” said Silas. “Right, boys, one, two, three, heave.”
By the time the Coronation Clutter was stored away in the Conference room, Silas was very nearly late for his Seal Watch. Edmund and Ernold were nowhere to be found—which did not surprise him. Like Milo, they were never around when there was work to be done. Silas decided to risk Sarah’s ire at leaving the twins behind and hurried off to the Wizard Tower.
As Silas walked out of the Palace Gate he glanced up to the Alchemie Chimney and, to his amazement, saw a breath of smoke curl up into the sky. Silas felt a stab of excitement. The Fyre was lit! Very soon the tedious Seal Watches would be no more and the Two-Faced Ring would be confined to oblivion. Silas was surprised at the feeling of relief at the thought. He had not realized how much the brooding presence of the ring had gotten to him over the weeks.
A breeze coming in from the river obligingly bowled Silas quickly along Wizard Way and cleared his he
ad in the process. He climbed the marble steps up to the Wizard Tower with a spring in his step, looking forward to lunch in the new canteen after his Watch. He whispered the password and the tall silver doors swung silently open to reveal a large crowd of Wizards in the Great Hall. This didn’t worry Silas; it was getting near lunchtime and the newly refurbished canteen was proving highly popular. As Silas wandered in, whistling a happy tune under his breath, a nearby Wizard nudged a neighbor. The word spread, and in a moment the Great Hall fell silent and all eyes—green, every one of them—were on Silas Heap.
“Um . . . hello,” said Silas, realizing that something was not as it should be. “Nice day. Well, actually a bit windy but lovely and—”
“Silas Heap!” Marcia’s voice carried across the Great Hall.
“Good morning, Marcia,” Silas called back, a little anxiously.
“No, it is not a good morning,” came Marcia’s reply.
The crowd of Wizards parted to give Marcia a clear run at her prey. As Silas watched the ExtraOrdinary Wizard advance toward him, an expression of fury on her face, he wished that he was still shoving the recalcitrant Pianola through a doorway—in fact Silas would have willingly shoved any number of recalcitrant Pianolas through an infinite variety of doorways in exchange for not being where he was right then.
Marcia reached him. “Where have you been?” she demanded.
“Sorry. Been moving stuff.” Silas looked at his timepiece. “I know I’m cutting it a bit fine, but I’m not late.”
“That, Silas Heap, is not the point.” Close up, Marcia looked scary. Her green eyes glittered angrily and her frown cut a deep line between her eyebrows.
“What’s wrong?” asked Silas nervously.
Marcia did not answer his question. “Silas Heap!” she announced. “You are under a Wizard Tower Restraint Order.”