Fyre (10 page)

In the attic room the three watchers fell silent. The grandmother knew what the Princess was waiting for. She had not lived above the Dragon House without thinking about the beautiful Dragon that lay beneath and, especially on long, cold winter nights, wondering if the creature was still alive. And that was exactly what Jenna was wondering now.

The ice numbed Jenna’s feet but still she waited for a small
ther-umm
of hope. A sudden gust of bitter wind blew a flurry of snow off the battlements; it sprinkled her bluish toes with icy white frosting and Jenna realized that her feet had gone numb. There was no hope of feeling anything now. The wind—or something—brought tears to her eyes. Slowly she kneeled down, pulled on her furry socks and her brown leather boots. She stood up, irresolute for a moment and then, watched by the family far above, and the ghosts of fifty-four Queens, Princesses and Princesses-in-Waiting, she began to retrace her snowy footsteps.

The small boy watched Jenna go. “She looks sad, Gramma,” he whispered.

The grandmother watched Jenna walking slowly back along the path, her red cloak a splash of color against the monochrome whites and grays of the snow-covered walls and the dark Moat and wintry trees beyond.

“Yes, she does,” the grandmother agreed. “It is not good for the Princess to be so sad.”

7

F
ALSE
T
RAILS

M
arcia watched Terry Tarsal wrap
up her new shoes in his special
By Appointment to the ExtraOrdinary Wizard
gold tissue paper.

“Thank you, Terry,” she said. “You’ve done a lovely job.”

Terry glowed with pride. It wasn’t often Marcia handed out praise. “It’s been a real pleasure, Madam Marcia; it’s always nice to do something special. I think the glitter really adds something to them. And I just
adore
the little bit of blue fur peeking out at the top. Inspired.” Terry sighed as he put the neatly wrapped shoes into a smart gold box. “These have been a lifesaver. I’ve had twenty-nine pairs of brown galoshes to waterproof for the Ramblings Roof Gardening Society. Highly depressing.”

“I can imagine,” said Marcia. “Nothing worse than galoshes.”

“Especially brown ones,” said Terry, tying his best bow around the box with the dark blue ribbon he kept for special customers. He handed the package to Marcia, who took it excitedly. “That will be half a crown, please.”

“Goodness!” Marcia looked shocked but she handed over the exact money. It was worth it.

Terry quickly put the money in the cash register before Marcia had the chance to change her mind. “Going somewhere nice this evening?”

Marcia was. Milo Banda had asked her to accompany him to a new show at the Little Theater in the Ramblings, but she wasn’t about to let Terry know. “That’s for me to know and you to wonder, Mr. Tarsal,” she replied. Feeling flustered at the thought of the evening, Marcia hurried off. The door threw itself open and she rushed out.

Splash!

Terry Tarsal went pale. He knew exactly what had happened. It was the wretched kids next door. They’d done it again. They had moved the puddle cover. Terry rushed outside to find his worst nightmare. His most prestigious customer was up to her neck in icy, muddy water right outside his shop. She didn’t look too pleased about it.

“Get me . . .
out
!” spluttered Marcia.

Terry was small and thin but he was stronger than he looked. He grabbed hold of Marcia’s arms and pulled hard. Marcia landed on Terry with a soft, obliterating
therwump
.

“Oof!” gasped Terry.

Marcia picked herself up and, like a large purple dog, shook as much water as she could off her
Magykal
cloak. Painfully, Terry crawled over to the puddle and extricated the gold shoebox floating forlornly on top. He should have known that a week occupied by twenty-nine pairs of brown galoshes was not going to end well.

Terry got to his feet. “I am so,
so
sorry, Madam Marcia. It’s this blasted puddle. I’ve tried filling it in. You wouldn’t believe the amount of trash I’ve put down there, but it just stays right there—a great big hole filling up with water. I don’t understand. We shouldn’t even
have
puddles at this time of year.” Terry looked down at the soggy gold mess in his hands. “I’ll make these as good as new for you, I promise.”

“Thank you,” said Marcia, wringing out the furry hem of her cloak. “No chance of having them by this evening, I suppose?”

“I’ll work through until I’ve done them. What time are you going out?”

“Seven thirty,” said Marcia without thinking.

Terry smiled. “They’ll be with you by then. I’ll bring them to you. And once again, I am
so
sorry.”

“Not as sorry as
someone
is going to be,” muttered Marcia, as she dripped away along Footpad Passage and bumped into the Footpad communal snowman—which sported an uncomfortable pointy stick.

Beetle climbed the wide white marble steps of the Wizard Tower. At the top he stopped to savor the moment. He turned and looked at the beautiful snowy Courtyard with its freshly cleared path winding from the Great Arch to the foot of the steps. Beyond the high wall of the Courtyard he could just see the snow-covered roof of the Manuscriptorium, with its lazy skein of smoke from the blazing fire in the scribes’ new sitting room drifting skyward. Beetle felt indescribably happy—and only very slightly unsettled from having just bumped into Jenna.

Pushing Jenna from his mind, he turned back and looked up at the huge silver doors that soared up above him. The Wizard Tower was particularly striking that morning. It was bathed in a shimmering silvery-blue light, with delicate flashes of purple shooting across the surface. Beetle could scarcely believe that here he was, about to give the Wizard Tower password for the very first time—and that the
Magykal
doors would open just for him. He smiled and savoured the moment just a little longer.

“Forgot the password, Chief?” a cheery voice came from behind him.

“No, I—”

Silas Heap bounded up the steps, his curly straw-colored hair disheveled as usual and his green eyes smiling. Silas liked Beetle. “Allow me,” Silas said. And before Beetle could say anything, the double doors had swung silently open, Silas had taken his arm, and marched him across the threshold.

The words W
ELCOME,
C
HIEF
H
ERMETIC
S
CRIBE
materialized at Beetle’s feet. And then W
ELCOME
, S
ILAS
H
EAP
flashed up and faded quickly away.

“
Seal Watch
,” said Silas in explanation. “A bit late, but you know what they say.”

Beetle hazarded a guess. “You’re late? What time do you call this? Where on earth have you been?”

Silas looked baffled. “No. Better late than never.”

Beetle watched Silas Heap head across the Great Hall toward the
Sealed
lobby and heard one of the guard Wizards demand, “Silas Heap—
where on earth have you been
?”

Beetle smiled and headed for the silver spiral stairs. He had an appointment to keep on the twentieth floor.

Marcia met Beetle at the door. She ushered him in, and for the very first time Beetle met the ghost of his ex-employer, Jillie Djinn. Marcia put a warning hand on Beetle’s shoulder.

“Move across the room slowly. Try not to alarm her.”

The ghost stared at Beetle, taking in his Chief Hermetic Scribe robes. She looked down at her own ghostly Chief Hermetic Scribe robes and then back at Beetle. A bewildered expression settled over her face like a fog as she watched Beetle’s careful, almost apologetic progress across the room. Beetle was very nearly out of the room when he stumbled against a small table and caused Marcia’s collection of Fragile Fairy Pots to wobble. It was then that Jillie Djinn, ex-Chief Hermetic Scribe, realized that she was dead. She opened her mouth and a great howl of grief came from deep within:
“Aeiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee . . .”

The scream did not stop. Marcia hurried Beetle out and quickly closed the door. She looked pale and—Beetle now noticed—rather damp. Her dark hair was shiny and wet, hanging in tendrils about her shoulders. But before he had time to ask what had happened, Marcia ushered him into her study and closed the door against the desolate wail outside. Marcellus Pye was there, sitting on a small chair in front of the desk. He seemed, thought Beetle, a little tense.

He was. Marcellus had just sent Septimus on an errand and he had been about to check on the
Fyre
Cauldron while he was away. Time was ticking by.

“Thank you for coming at such short notice, Beetle,” said Marcia.

“He is not the only one who has come at short notice,” Marcellus observed tetchily.

“Beetle has not brought it upon himself, Marcellus. Unlike you,” Marcia riposted. Keeping her gaze on Marcellus she said, “Beetle, perhaps you would like to show Mr. Pye the
Vent cooling system
.”

By not even a twitch of a muscle did Marcellus betray any familiarity with what Marcia had said. His studied expression—seventy percent annoyance, twenty-five percent bemusement, five percent boredom—remained the same.

Beetle took the gleaming white piece of paper out from his folder and laid it in front of Marcellus, who looked at it with no more than a natural curiosity. “What is this?” he asked politely.

Marcia stabbed her finger onto the title. “Vent cooling system,” she read out very deliberately. “As you
know
, Marcellus.”

Marcellus picked up the sheet of paper and perused it. “How strange. It looks just like a spider’s web.” He looked up at Marcia. “And why do you think I know about this”—he glanced deliberately down at the title—“vent cooling system?”

Marcia fought down her mounting irritation. She had expected Marcellus to cave in when confronted with the diagram, or at least look guilty. Either he was a very good actor or this actually was nothing to do with him—Marcia was not sure which. She stabbed her finger at the scrawled note at the foot of the page.

“Because, Marcellus, you have written on it.
There!
”

Very slowly—playing for time, Marcia suspected—Marcellus fished out his little round spectacles and put them on, carefully fitting the curled earpieces behind his ears. Marcia tapped her foot impatiently.

Marcellus peered at the note. “Julius FYI—Vent Cooling System. M,” he muttered. “FYI . . . strange name.” Beetle began to correct Marcellus, but Marcia held her hand up to stop him. Marcellus looked up at Marcia. “And no doubt you think that the ‘M’ is for Marcellus?”

“Yes,” said Marcia. A waver of uncertainty wandered into her voice.

Marcellus scented victory. He smiled and put the paper back down on the desk. “Well, I do hope you don’t call me out to inspect every little note in the Castle signed with the letter ‘M.’ I shall be spending all my time going up and down Wizard Way. There must be so many notes out there from . . . let me see now . . . Milo, Morwenna, Marissa, Maureen,
Marcus
—”

Marcia blanched at the mention of Marcus. Marcus Overland, ex-Ordinary Wizard, had once been given Marcia’s ExtraOrdinary Wizard robes by the Wizard Tower laundry in error. He had paraded around the Castle in them, acting very badly indeed. There were still people who were convinced that Marcia had once run screaming down Wizard Way, waving a large pair of bloomers above her head. “That’s enough of that, Marcellus,” Marcia told him. “There is no need to be sarcastic.”

“I was merely pointing out the infinite possibilities of the letter ‘M,’” said Marcellus.

Beetle watched with a mixture of admiration for Marcellus’s cool head and annoyance at how Marcellus was putting Marcia off. It was time for some straight talking. From his folder he took a translucent piece of paper on which he had marked the position of all the puddles, and placed it on top of the Vent diagram.

“We had hoped you might be able to help us, Marcellus,” he said smoothly. “For the last few weeks I have been monitoring a very strange occurrence. Puddles have appeared throughout the Castle.”

Marcellus looked genuinely surprised, and then—Beetle was sure—a brief flash of panic crossed his face. Feeling more confident, Beetle continued, “At the beginning of the Big Freeze we had nine. My scribes have been checking on them daily and despite temperatures well below freezing, they report that no puddle has frozen over. And then two days ago four more were reported. Two appeared in scribes’ back gardens, and two in iced-up alleyways. It is odd, don’t you think?”

“I suppose it is,” said Marcellus. “But I don’t know why you are telling
me
.”

Beetle pointed to the papers lying in front of them. “You will see that on this top tracing paper I have a map of the Castle. On it I have placed a red dot where each puddle is.” Beetle looked up at Marcellus. “There are thirteen in all.”