Septimus Heap, Book Six_ Darke - Angie Sage [18]
The consulting of the Castle Alchemist had, naturally, lapsed with the demise of Alchemie in the Castle. But now, for the first time in many hundreds of years, there was, with Marcellus Pye, a true Alchemist available once again. After much thought, Marcia had decided to include Marcellus in the discussion. She was now regretting her decision—something told her he was going to be awkward.
Marcellus Pye glinted spectacularly in the firelight. He was dressed in a long, black, fur-lined velvet coat, which sported an extravagant array of shiny gold fastenings. The most unusual thing about him, however, was his shoes. Long and pointy, in soft red leather, they tapered to three-foot-long thin strips of leather that ended in black ribbons, which were tied just below his knees so that he did not (very often) trip over them. The onlooker, if they managed to stop looking at his shoes for a moment, would also see that below his dark hair brushed low over his forehead—which gave him an old-fashioned appearance—he too wore a small pair of gold spectacles. He also had a book on his knees, although it was smaller than Marcia’s tome. His book, written by himself, was called I, Marcellus. Marcellus Pye was carefully consulting the last section, titled “The Almanac,” before he answered Marcia’s question.
“That may be true according to the Apprentice calendar,” he said. “But—”
“But what?” Marcia interrupted irritably.
“Snur . . . snurrrufff!”
“Goodness me, what is that noise?”
“It’s Jim Knee, Mr. Pye. I told you before—he snores. I do wish you would listen.”
“Jim Knee?”
“I told you—Septimus’s jinnee. Ignore him. I do.”
“Ah, yes. Well, well. As I was saying before I was interrupted, according to my own Almanac, which gives considerably more accurate detail, and which my Apprentice helped to—”
“Ex-Apprentice,” said Marcia tetchily.
“I have never revoked his Indentures, Marcia,” Marcellus countered, equally tetchily. “I regard him as my Apprentice.”
The subject of their discussion squirmed uncomfortably.
“Those Indentures were meaningless,” snapped Marcia, refusing to let the subject drop. “Septimus was not free to become your Apprentice—he was already Apprenticed to me.”
“I think you will find he was Apprenticed to me before he was Apprenticed to you. About five hundred years before, in fact,” Marcellus said with a slight smile that Marcia found intensely annoying.
“As far as Septimus was concerned,” countered Marcia, “your Apprenticeship came later. And Septimus is the one who matters. In fact, he is the very reason we are both here right now—because we are concerned for his safety, are we not, Mr. Pye?”
“That goes without saying,” Marcellus Pye said stiffly.
“And so let me repeat what I said earlier, just in case that too has slipped your mind. Septimus has a window of seven weeks in which to commence his Darke Week. I am worried that if he goes tonight, at the Dark of the Moon, as you have suggested—”
“And as he wishes,” interrupted Marcellus.
“He wishes it because you have suggested it, Mr. Pye—don’t think I don’t know that. If Septimus embarks on his Darke Week tonight, he will be in greater danger than on any other night. Far better that he waits until the full moon in two weeks’ time, when it will be less risky for him and also for the . . .” Marcia trailed off. She was anxious that if Septimus entered the Darke at such a potent time it would unbalance the Magyk in the Tower even further, but she had no wish to tell Marcellus Pye her concerns—it was none of his business.
“Less risky for him and also for the what?” Marcellus asked suspiciously. He knew Marcia was keeping something from him.
“Nothing you need to worry about, Marcellus,” Marcia replied.