Septimus Heap, Book Six_ Darke - Angie Sage [80]
They went through to the Manuscriptorium, which was deserted. It was wreathed in shadows, illuminated only by the light that shone up from the basement where the Conservation, Preservation and Protection Scribe, Ephaniah Grebe, lived and worked. Of Jillie Djinn there was no sign.
“Miss Djinn will be in her rooms,” Beetle whispered to Marcia. “She never stays down here after the scribes have gone home. She goes upstairs and eats biscuits. And counts things.”
Beetle led Marcia through the lines of desks to the back of the Manuscriptorium to a short flight of worn stairs with a battered blue door at the top. Marcia tippy-tapped up the stairs and tugged irritably at the silver bellpull beside the door. The faraway tinkle of a bell rang forlornly somewhere at the top of the building. They waited for the sound of Jillie Djinn’s footsteps descending, but none came. Impatiently Marcia rang the bell again. There was no response.
“It really is too bad,” muttered Marcia. “The Chief Hermetic Scribe should always be available in emergencies.” She stomped back down the steps. “We’ll just have to search this wretched place until we find her. She’s got to be here somewhere.”
Suddenly something caught Marcia’s attention. She pointed to the narrow stone arch at the side of the Manuscriptorium that led to the Hermetic Chamber. “I thought I saw someone go in. Out of the corner of my eye. But she must have seen us—what is she playing at?” Marcia hurried over, her python shoes tapping on the old oak floorboards.
Beetle hung back as Marcia stepped through the arch into the pitch-black passageway that led to the Chamber, but she beckoned him to come with her. He followed her in.
The Hermetic Chamber, the inner sanctum of the Manuscriptorium, was reached by a seven-cornered passage, which was specially designed to catch any stray Magyk that might try to escape from the Chamber or, indeed, enter and disturb the delicate balance within. It was also completely light tight and soundproof—and somewhat unnerving.
As Beetle followed the rustle of Marcia’s cloak brushing along the stone floor of the passageway, he had the uncomfortable feeling from the way she had slowed down that she was a little spooked. As he went deeper into the passage and lost any glimmer of light, Beetle began to feel pretty spooked himself, but as they turned the seventh and last corner, the light from the Hermetic Chamber flooded the final few feet of the passageway and Beetle relaxed. Half obscured by Marcia’s flowing cloak, he saw with some relief—for he’d had the distinct impression that Marcia had been expecting something altogether different—the Chief Hermetic Scribe, Jillie Djinn, sitting at the familiar round table.
The white walls of the Hermetic Chamber made it feel dazzling after the darkness of the passageway. Beetle glanced around—everything looked just as he remembered it. The ancient dark Glass was propped up against the roughly plastered walls, as was the old-fashioned abacus. The large, round table was in the middle and underneath it, Jillie Djinn’s tiny feet in their sensible—and sadly scuffed—black lace-ups were resting on the main Ice Tunnel hatch, which, Beetle noticed with relief, was closed and clearly had been for a long time, judging by the dust covering it.
Jillie Djinn seemed smaller than Beetle remembered. The harsh light in the Chamber showed up the shabbiness of her dark blue silk robes—a shabbiness that he had not seen before. Jillie Djinn had always been rather fond of new silk robes and was very particular