Septimus Heap, Book Six_ Darke - Angie Sage [90]
“I could ask you the same thing,” said Septimus.
“Huh?”
“Jen, you might think that’s a nice fancy dress witch’s cloak, but it’s not. It’s the real thing.”
“I know,” said Jenna quietly.
“You know?”
Jenna nodded.
“But I thought that no one could wear a Darke witch’s cloak unless they’re . . .” Septimus looked at Jenna. She returned his gaze steadily. “Jen—you’re not?”
Jenna was defensive. “I’m only a novice,”
“Only a novice? Jen. I . . . I . . .” Septimus ran out of words.
“Sep, stuff’s happened.”
“You’re telling me.”
Jenna stifled a sob. “Oh, it’s been so horrible. It’s Mum . . .”
They sat in the straw at the back of the Dragon House and Jenna told Septimus about Merrin, about the Darke Domaine and about what had happened to Sarah. Now, at last, Septimus understood what had been going on since he had left Marcia that afternoon.
Jenna reached the end of her story and fell silent. Septimus said nothing; he felt as if his whole world was falling apart.
“It’s all so rubbish, Jen,” he muttered eventually.
“I hate birthdays,” said Jenna. “Stuff happens on birthdays. Everything you love gets messed up. It’s awful.”
They were silent for a while, then Septimus said, “Jen. I’m really, really sorry.”
Jenna looked at Septimus, his face lit by the soft yellow light shining up from his Dragon Ring. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him look so unhappy, not even when he was a small, frightened boy soldier. “It’s not your fault, Sep,” she said gently.
“Yes, it is. It wouldn’t have happened if I had helped you when you asked me—if I had listened properly to what you were saying. But I was so taken up with . . . with all my stuff. And now look at the mess we’re in.”
Jenna put her arm around Septimus’s shoulders. “It’s okay, Sep. There are so many ifs. If I had taken more care of the Palace. If I’d searched it ages ago when I first thought I saw Merrin. If Dad had done something when I’d asked him. If I’d gone to Marcia earlier instead of asking Beetle. If Marcia had explained things properly to Mum. If if if. You were just one of a long trail of them.”
“Thanks, Jen. I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Me too,”
They sat quietly together, lulled by the regular breathing of the sleeping Spit Fyre. They were beginning to drift off to sleep themselves when they heard something that made the hairs on the backs of their necks prickle. From outside the Dragon House came a scraping sound, as though someone was scratching fingernails on brick.
“What is it?” whispered Jenna.
Septimus felt Spit Fyre’s muscles suddenly tense—the dragon was awake. “I’ll go and see.”
“Not on your own, you won’t,” said Jenna.
The scraping was making its way toward the front of the Dragon House. Spit Fyre gave a warning snort. The scraping sound stopped for a moment and then continued. Septimus felt Jenna grab his arm. “Use this,” she mouthed, pointing to her witch’s cloak.
Septimus nodded—it seemed that a witch’s cloak had it uses after all. Hiding beneath the cloak to disguise their human presence, they crept forward, squeezing between Spit Fyre and the rough sides of the Dragon House. Suddenly Spit Fyre made an odd movement that almost flattened Jenna and Septimus against the wall. Keeping his head on the ground, the dragon raised himself on his rear haunches. His back spines stabbed at the rafters of the Dragon House, deepening the grooves they had already made. He snorted and his fire stomach gurgled.
Septimus glanced at Jenna; something was wrong. They inched around Spit Fyre’s wings and stopped dead—black against the purple glow of the Safety Curtain were the unmistakable shapes of three Things.
One of the Things had hold of Spit Fyre’s sensitive nose spine and was pushing the dragon’s head down into the straw. Spit Fyre snorted once more, trying to draw in enough air to make Fyre—but because the Thing was holding his head down, his fire stomach could not work. A dragon can only make Fyre with his lungs full and his head held high.