Septimus Heap, Book Six_ Darke - Angie Sage [37]
Suddenly the side of the coffin was ripped away. Light flooded in. Beetle fell out of the Manuscriptorium Pending Cupboard. He landed with a painful thud on the floor. Someone screamed.
“Crumbs, it’s you,” gasped Foxy.
Beetle lay on his back, dazed. He felt like a piece of Jell-O that had been tipped out of its mold before it was properly set. Tentatively he opened his eyes and found himself looking straight up Foxy’s nose—which was not Foxy’s best aspect.
“Wargh?” he croaked feebly in reply.
A crowd of scribes had gathered around Beetle.
“Hey, Beetle, you all right?” asked a girl with short brown hair and a concerned expression. She kneeled down and helped him sit up.
Beetle nodded slowly. “Yeah. Thanks, Romilly. I’m fine. Now. But I thought I was about to be . . . um, not fine.” He shook his head, trying to get rid of all the terrifying thoughts that had crowded in on him during the last few minutes.
Suddenly a horribly familiar voice rang out. “What—atchoo—is going on here, Mr. Fox?”
Foxy leaped to his feet. “Nothing, Miss Djinn,” he gasped. “Just a small, um, accident with something in the Pending Cupboard. A boomerang Charm. It . . . came back. Unexpectedly.”
The short, rotund figure of the Chief Hermetic Scribe, swathed in her navy blue silk robes, stood at the entrance to the Hermetic Chamber on the other side of the Manuscriptorium. Luckily, due to her cost-cutting measures, the lights were very dim and she could not clearly see what was happening in the shadows beside the cupboard.
Jillie Djinn sneezed again. “It seems you cannot keep control of even a simple Charm, Mr. Fox,” she snapped. “If there is another incident—atchoo atchoo—like this—atchoooo—I shall be forced to reconsider your recent appointment.”
“I . . . I . . .” Foxy stammered.
Jillie Djinn blew her nose loudly and with great attention to detail. It was not a pretty sight. “Why, pray, was the Charm not given to me for stocktaking?” she demanded.
Romilly could see that Foxy was struggling with an answer. “It’s only just come back, Miss Djinn,” she said.
“Miss Badger, I asked the Charm Scribe, not you,” said Jillie Djinn. “And it is from the Charm Scribe that I require an answer.”
“It’s only just come back, Miss Djinn,” Foxy repeated.
Jillie Djinn was not pleased. “Atchoo! Well, now that it is back, I require it for stocktaking. Immediately, Mr. Fox.”
In a panic, Foxy hissed at Beetle. “Give it here, Beet. Quick. Before she comes over to get it.”
At last Beetle understood what had happened. He put his still trembling hand into the top left pocket of his Admiral’s jacket, pulled out the tiny curved piece of polished wood and handed it to Foxy. “Thanks, Foxo,” he muttered.
The desks in the Manuscriptorium stood tall and dark under their dim lights, like winter trees at sunset. Quickly Foxy loped through them to the far side of the Manuscriptorium and gave his Chief Scribe the tiny Boomerang. Jillie Djinn took it and looked at Foxy suspiciously.
“What are all the scribes doing away from their desks?” she asked.
“Um. Well, we had a bit of trouble,” said Foxy. “But it’s all right now.”
“What kind of—atchoo—trouble?”
“Hmm . . .” Thinking on his feet was not Foxy’s strong point.
“Well, Mr. Fox, if you can’t explain I shall have to go and see for myself. Oh, for goodness’ sake, get out of my way, will you?” Foxy was hovering in front of Jillie Djinn as though guarding an invisible goal, but unfortunately his talents did not lie in the goalkeeping arena either. The Chief