Septimus Heap, Book Six_ Darke - Angie Sage [57]
“I can’t see him,” Beetle whispered.
Foxy looked over Beetle’s shoulder. “Shoot. I did see him. I know I did. He’s probably in the Hermetic Chamber.”
Beetle was indignant. “He shouldn’t go in there.”
“Try telling Miss Djinn that—he goes wherever he wants,” said Foxy gloomily as he quietly closed the door. “He’s up to something, Beet.”
Beetle nodded. That was most certainly true.
“Little toad,” said Foxy.
The little toad was indeed up to something. He was, as Foxy had suspected, in the Hermetic Chamber.
Merrin was waiting—and he didn’t like it. To pass the time he was eating a long licorice bootlace pulled from the secret siege drawer of the large round table in the middle of the Hermetic Chamber. The drawer was now crammed with a stash of sticky licorice, while its rightful contents languished in the garbage bin in the yard.
Merrin was pleased with his afternoon’s work. He was getting good at this Darke stuff, he thought. He’d used a Darke Screen and had walked out of the Palace right under Sarah Heap’s nose, which had been fun, especially when he had deliberately trodden on her foot. And now, because Jillie Djinn had been snappy with him, he’d fixed that too. She wouldn’t ever do that again, thought Merrin, as he smirked into the ancient Glass propped up against the wall.
Merrin peered into the darkness of the Glass and behind him he saw the reflection of the Chief Hermetic Scribe, sitting hunched over the table. He tried out a few more expressions in the Glass, tapped his feet impatiently and wandered over to the Abacus, where he began clicking the beads endlessly back and forth in such an irritating way that anyone else but the cowed Jillie Djinn would have yelled at him to stop it right now!
Merrin sighed loudly. He was bored and there were not even any scribes to annoy. He toyed with the idea of going down to the basement and smashing a few things, but the Conservation Scribe scared him. He wished the Things would hurry up. What was taking them so long? All they had to do was bring the stupid Darke Domaine with them—what was so difficult about that? He kicked the wall impatiently. Stupid Things.
Leaving Jillie Djinn staring into space, Merrin wandered out along the seven-cornered passageway and surveyed the dark and empty Manuscriptorium. It was oddly spooky without the scribes. He wouldn’t be spending any time in this dump, he thought, but it would suit the Things nicely. It would keep them out of his way too, and he could hang out wherever he wanted. And do whatever he liked. So there.
Chapter 19
The SafeChamber
As Beetle resumed his place at head of the Call Out, the person who should have been leading it was immured in the basement of a house on Snake Slipway. Not far above him, a loud knocking on the front door by a breathless Wizard went unheard.
Septimus was listening to Marcellus Pye discussing the dangers of, and defenses against, the Darke. Time was ticking on. Very slowly. So far there had been at least an hour’s worth of dangers, if not more.
Alchemist and Apprentice were sitting inside a tunnel-like, windowless chamber. The atmosphere was oppressive; the air was fuggy with candle wax fumes, and a faint taint of lingering Darke made Septimus edgy. Unlike Marcellus Pye, who sat opposite him in a comfortable tall-backed chair, Septimus was perched uncomfortably on a bumpy stone bench. Between them was a small table, thick with candle grease, on which yet another burning candle added its contribution.
Marcellus, however, looked at ease. He was in his secret SafeChamber with his Apprentice, instructing him in the defense of the Darke, and that—as far as he was concerned—was how things should be. A SafeChamber was something every self-respecting alchemist always possessed, but never admitted to. In what Marcellus now called “his first life” as an alchemist, five hundred years in the past, he had installed his SafeChamber