Fyre (13 page)

“What?”

“Zelda means she gave Bert some milk and Balm Brew,” said Wolf Boy. He turned to Aunt Zelda. “So what did you do with the python?”

“I swept it out with the
BeGone
broom,” said Aunt Zelda, shuddering at the memory. “Later I found that a bowl was missing and I realized what had happened. That disgusting snake had swallowed it. So I put the two bowls away with a
Return
Spell
. It’s only a matter of time—the bowl will come back one day; things that belong together always do.”

“It will be too late by then,” said Jenna flatly.

Aunt Zelda looked desolate. “Jenna dear, I am so, so sorry. I know I should have told you, but I hoped the Dragon Boat would recover her strength in her own way and we would never need to use the
Triple
again.”

“Now I understand why you wouldn’t do the
Revive
,” said Jenna. “It wasn’t about it being better for the Dragon Boat to heal herself at all. It was because you’d lost a bowl. I wish you’d told me the truth.” Jenna was trying not to feel angry, but she could not believe that Aunt Zelda had kept something so important from her. She remembered what Sarah said about witches:
they tell you what they want you to know—not what you want to know
.

Jenna had been stroking Bert, who lay sleeping on the cushion beside her. But being stroked by someone who was upset made Bert feel edgy. Suddenly the duck gave Jenna’s hand a sharp peck. Jenna, to her utter embarrassment, burst into tears.

“Hey, Jen,” said Septimus, “it’s okay.”

“No, it’s
not
.” Jenna sniffed.

“We can fix it, I know we can,” Septimus insisted.

“But
how
?” Jenna asked, blowing her nose on her red silk handkerchief.

Septimus picked up one of the bowls and turned it over in his hands. “When he’s got the
Fyre
going, I bet Marcellus could make another one.”

“I’m afraid he can’t, dear,” said Aunt Zelda. “A new bowl would not belong. It couldn’t communicate with the others. You see, they are all from one original piece of ancient gold.”

“Ah . . .
Cloned
gold.”

“Gnomed gold?” asked Aunt Zelda, whose hearing was not as good as it had been.

“
Cloned
. Each one belongs to the other. Like identical triplets. Oh!” Septimus suddenly realized what he had said. He glanced at Jenna.

The shock at the disappearance of the third bowl had put all thoughts of Wolf Boy’s brothers out of Jenna’s mind. But now she was glad to think of something else for a while. She nudged Septimus. “Go on.”

“Ahem,” said Septimus nervously. Suddenly, it seemed such a big thing to tell Wolf Boy.

The little cottage fell silent. Aunt Zelda stared mournfully at the fire.

“Triplets,” said Jenna, trying to get Septimus to speak.

“Weird. Don’t you think?” said Wolf Boy.

“What’s weird?” Jenna asked.

“Triplets. Twins. People being identical.” Wolf Boy shook his head. “I dunno why, but whenever I see twins or triplets it always gives me a peculiar feeling. Right here.” Wolf Boy pushed his fist against his stomach. “Something about people looking the same, I guess.”

Septimus and Jenna exchanged glances.
Tell him,
Jenna mouthed.

Wolf Boy was a good lip reader. “Tell him what?” he asked suspiciously.

Septimus looked at Wolf Boy. “Um. There might be another reason why you feel like that.” He pushed his fist against his stomach just as Wolf Boy had done.

“Yeah?” said Wolf Boy, picking up a bowl and twirling it to catch the reflections from the firelight.

“Identical triplets,” said Septimus. “I mean . . .”

Wolf Boy put the bowl down and stared at Septimus, puzzled. “What?”

Septimus floundered. “Well, some people actually are triplets but they don’t know they are but even so they still kind of know deep down because even though they can’t remember it they were together once I mean so close together you can’t imagine it and so that’s why they get this weird thing when they hear about triplets and . . .”

“You all right, 412?” Wolf Boy asked.

“Yep. Fine.”

Jenna could bear it no longer. “Sep, just tell him straight.”

Wolf Boy looked worried. “Tell him
what
straight?” he asked.

Septimus took a deep breath. “
You
are an identical triplet. We’ve found your brothers—well, Beetle has. He went to the Young Army Record Office. And there are two more like you: 410 and 411.”

“Jeez.” Wolf Boy slid down to the floor with a bump.

Septimus grinned. “I suppose you’re the lost bowl,” he said.

“Swallowed by the python,” Jenna added.

Aunt Zelda looked up, shocked. “Swallowed by the python? Who?”

“It’s all right, Zelda, no one’s been swallowed by the python,” Wolf Boy said gently. “But it seems . . . wow, it’s so
weird
 . . .” He grinned. “It seems I got two brothers. Just like me.”

“Oh, yes, so you have. I forgot.” Aunt Zelda smiled.

“You
knew
?” asked Septimus.

“I remember now. There were two boys at your fourteenth birthday party. They worked in a cave place . . . what was its name?”

“Gothyk Grotto,” Jenna supplied.

“That’s it, dear. I thought at the time, Wolf Boy, that your voices sounded so alike. But it slipped my mind.”

“Two more of
me
 . . .” Wolf Boy was muttering.

Septimus could not stop smiling. “Yep, two more of you. Except they’ve got less hair. And they’re not so thin. And they are really pale compared to you.”

“That’s right,” said Aunt Zelda, pleased that she could at least remember this. “At the party—you were sitting opposite them, Wolf Boy dear.”

“Opposite?”
said Wolf Boy, shocked.

“They’re really nice,” said Jenna.

“Yeah. Yeah . . .” Wolf Boy mumbled.

“You could do a lot worse,” said Septimus. He was an expert in long-lost brothers.

Wolf Boy shook his head. “Yeah. I know. I really liked them. Matt and, er, Marcus, yeah?”

“That’s right.”

Wolf Boy put his head in his hands. “It’s . . . it’s so
horrible
.”

Jenna glanced anxiously at Septimus. “What’s horrible?” she asked, putting her arm around Wolf Boy’s shoulders.

“It’s so horrible that I met my brothers and I had
no idea
. They could have been anyone. I should have recognized them,” he said, sounding upset. “But I didn’t. I
didn’t
.”

“How could you?” said Septimus. “You were only three months old when they took you away.”

“Took me away?”

“Your father was a Custodian Guard. He made a joke about the Supreme Custodian and they took his children away. You and your brothers.”

Aunt Zelda reached out and took Wolf Boy’s hand. No one said anything for some minutes.

At last Wolf Boy spoke. “You know, 412, it was bad what they did to us. Really,
really
bad.”

“Yes, it was,” said Septimus. “It was disgusting.”

Jenna picked up the two gold bowls and cradled them in her hand. “Sep,” she said. “I want to take these to Marcellus. We have to go.
Now
.”

Septimus sighed. He wanted to stay and talk to Wolf Boy. “But, Jen, I told you. Marcellus doesn’t have the
Fyre
going yet. It will be weeks before there is any chance of making another one.”

Jenna shook her head stubbornly. “I have to try, Sep.
I have to
.”

It was Wolf Boy who settled the argument. “Why don’t we check out the
Triple
rules first?” he suggested. “There are lots of books here that you don’t have in the Castle—you know, witchy books. We might find a way around needing the third bowl. Witches are good at finding their way around things.”

“That’s a good point, Jen,” said Septimus.

Jenna could only agree with Wolf Boy. Witches clearly were very good at finding their way around things. “Okay,” she said. “We’ll stay tonight. And look through all the books.

Supper was pig-foot pie garnished with steamed eel heads followed by a large communal bowl of cabbage leaf and marshberry jam puree, into which Aunt Zelda suggested they dip dried wormsticks, although no one did. The usual pushing of food around plates occurred, and even Septimus, who had once loved Aunt Zelda’s cooking, found the pig foot on his plate hard to swallow. They helped Aunt Zelda clear the table and wash the plates; then Aunt Zelda went upstairs to bed, leaving them feeling queasy but still very hungry.

Wolf Boy fetched three straw mattresses and laid them out beside the fire along with three pillows and quilts. As the gentle sound of Aunt Zelda’s snores drifted down the stairs, Wolf Boy began setting up a tripod over the fire, from which a large hook dangled.

“What’s that for?” Jenna asked.

“The cooking pot,” said Wolf Boy. “Like we had in the Forest. ’Scuse me a moment.” He got up and went into the kitchen, returning with a round black pot, which he carefully hung on the hook. He threw another log on the fire and they watched the flames jump up and curl around the side of the pot. “Rabbit stew,” said Wolf Boy. “
Proper
rabbit stew. With good stuff in it like—”

“Rabbit?” asked Jenna.

“Yep. With potatoes and onions and carrots and herbs.”

“No eels?” asked Septimus.

“No eels,” said Wolf Boy firmly. “No wormsticks and positively
no
pigs’ feet.”

As the cooking pot bubbled gently, a delicious smell filled the room and ushered out the lingering taint of eel. Jenna felt ravenous. “Do you always cook your own stuff?” she asked.

“I’d be as thin as one of those brooms up there if I didn’t,” said Wolf Boy. “Zelda doesn’t mind. She goes to bed early, I clean up and then I sit here with my cooking pot and memorize some potions or something.”

“You don’t get lonely?” asked Jenna.

“Nah. I’m not alone. Zelda’s upstairs, Bert’s here and the marsh is outside. I love it.”

To Jenna’s dismay, the search through Aunt Zelda’s witchy library yielded nothing at all. As the moon rose high above the snow and its silver light filled the cottage, they settled down for the night, pulling the quilts around them to keep off the chill that was creeping in. The cottage grew quiet and they began to drift off to sleep, lulled by the silence of the frozen marsh.

Suddenly Wolf Boy sat up. “Hey!” he said.

“Wassamatter?” Septimus mumbled blearily.

“So what am
I
called?” asked Wolf Boy.

“Huh?” asked Jenna.

“My name? What’s my name?”

“Wolf Boy,” said Jenna, confused.

“No. I mean my
real
name. There’s Matt and Marcus, but what about me?”

“Ah,” said Septimus. He glanced at Jenna.

“Your surname is Marwick,” said Jenna. “That’s a good, ancient Castle name.”

“Marwick . . . yeah, that’s nice, feels right, somehow,” said Wolf Boy. “But what is my first name?”

“Well.” Septimus sounded reluctant.

Wolf Boy was getting impatient. “Oh, spit it out, 412. It can’t be that bad.”

Septimus thought it could. “Mandy,” he said.

“Mandy?” Wolf Boy sounded incredulous.
“Mandy?”

“Yeah. Sorry, 409.”

Wolf Boy buried himself in his quilt. “Sheesh . . .” Jenna and Septimus heard him muttering.
“Mandy . . .”

10

T
HE
C
LOUD
F
LASK

“M
orning, Mandy,” said Septimus, stepping
over the recumbent Wolf Boy. A wiry arm shot out and a hand fastened itself around Septimus’s ankle. A growl came from beneath the quilt. “Don’t . . . call . . . me . . . Mandy.”

“Ouch, 409, that
hurts
.”

“Good.” Wolf Boy sat up, his long matted tails of hair fuzzed by sleep.

“So what
do
we call you?” Jenna’s voice came from the far end of the room. The marsh light had woken her early, as it always used to, and she was gazing out of the window watching the snow falling thick and fast across the marsh. “You’ve got three different names now.”

Wolf Boy considered the matter. “Yeah. Well, Marwick’s good. I like Marwick. Or Wolf Boy is fine. Don’t think much of 409 anymore—not after what they did to us. No more numbers, hey, 412?”

“Yeah,” agreed Septimus. “No more numbers.”

“That’s a deal,” said Wolf Boy. “So . . . I think I’ll use Marwick officially, like when I have to sign my Keeping papers and stuff like that. But Wolf Boy’s good for the rest of the time.”

“Until you’re too ancient to be called ‘boy’ anymore,” said Jenna.

“Yeah. Then I’ll be plain old Marwick. Sorted.”

Aunt Zelda got up late. She looked tired and drawn, Jenna thought, as she walked slowly and heavily down the stairs, her grizzled hair unbrushed and her large patchwork dress looking gray around the edges. A pang of pity went through Jenna—suddenly, Aunt Zelda was old. Jenna rushed over and wrapped her arms around her great-aunt.