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 WELCOME, CHIEF HERMETIC SCRIBE materialized at Beetle’s feet. And then WELCOME, SILAS HEAP 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.