“Beetle, you know what. About liking her.”
Beetle shot Septimus a look as if to say, How did you know? “Well. No,” he said. “She didn’t want me to. I could tell.”
“Could you? How?” Septimus really wanted to know.
“I just could. And then . . . well, I suddenly knew for sure that she didn’t care. Not in that way. But it’s fine now. I’ve got better things to do.”
“So that’s okay, then?” Septimus sounded doubtful.
Beetle smiled. He realized what he had said really was true. “Actually, Sep, it is okay. What I love is being Chief Scribe. Most days I wake up and I still can’t believe that’s what I am. Most days I don’t even think about Jenna.”
“Really?”
“Well . . . maybe that’s not totally true. But it’s okay. And anyway, she’s very young.”
“She’s not that young—she’s nearly fourteen and a half now.”
“Yeah . . . well. Even so.”
“Same age as me.” Septimus grinned.
“You’re six months older, remember—after your time with Marcellus?”
“Oh, yeah.” That was not something Septimus liked to remember much—being stranded in another Time. The more he thought about it the less he wanted to go back to Marcellus’s house in Snake Slipway, which—especially at night—reminded him of that Time. He took a deep breath of the Wizard Way air from his Time and wandered along with Beetle toward the Manuscriptorium.
At the door, Beetle said with a grin, “Want to come in and have a FizzFroot? I’ve got buckets of ’em upstairs now.”
Septimus shook his head. “I should really be getting back to Marcellus. I have to tell him that Marcia won’t let me do another month with him.”
“Oh, come on, Sep. Just one little FizzFroot. You haven’t seen my new place yet.”
Septimus needed no excuse to change his mind. “Okay, Beetle. Just one.”
The new Chief Hermetic Scribe took the ExtraOrdinary Apprentice through the Manuscriptorium with a proudly proprietorial air. The large room with the tall desks was empty. Unlike the previous Chief Hermetic Scribe, Beetle did not believe in keeping scribes at work after dark had fallen. It was brightly lit with fresh candles placed in the ancient candleholders set into the wall and the room no longer had the air of suppressed boredom and gloom that had pervaded it in Jillie Djinn’s time. Beetle and Septimus headed toward the short flight of steps that led up to a battered blue door.
The rooms of a Chief Hermetic Scribe were modest in comparison with the rooms of an ExtraOrdinary Wizard, but Beetle loved them. There was one long, low-ceilinged room with a multitude of beams that spread almost the entire length of the Manuscriptorium. The room had a line of three low dormer windows on either side. One side looked out across the rooftops to the Moat and the dark Forest beyond, and the other looked out on Wizard Way. Off the main room was a small, beamed bedroom, a bathroom and a tiny kitchen where Beetle kept his stash of FizzBom cubes to make up the FizzFroot.
“Wow,” said Septimus, admiring the minute kitchen dominated by the large bucket of refurbished FizzBom cubes on the shelf. “You can do just what you want. Without Marcia banging on your door telling you not to.”
“Let’s hope so,” said Beetle with a grin. “Chocolate Banana, Apricot Ginger or a weird blue one—no idea what it is.”
“Weird blue one, please.”
“Thought you’d say that. Cheers, Sep.”
“Cheers, Beetle. Happy new home.”
It was much later when Septimus finally left the Manu-scriptorium and headed back to Marcellus’s house in Snake Slipway. As he approached the tall, thin house, with its windows ablaze with lighted candles, Septimus felt very guilty for being so late. He looked up to the little attic window where his bedroom was and saw the lighted candle in the window, which Marcellus always placed there at night. He thought of the welcoming fire in the grate, the sloping eaves, his desk and his bookshelf full of Physik books, and he felt a stab of sadness. He realized he had loved being there too. He thought about the great Chamber of Alchemie and Physik where the Fyre was ready to be lit—which he was going to miss. He sighed. There were two places in the Castle where he belonged, but he had to choose one. And he had chosen. But it didn’t mean he liked the other any less. And it didn’t make it any easier to tell Marcellus.
Septimus let himself into the house with a sinking feeling in his stomach. Marcellus was waiting. “You look frozen,” he said as he ushered Septimus into the small front room. “Your lips are quite blue.” He made Septimus sit beside the fire and drink some of his special hot ginger. While Marcellus was putting another log on the fire, Septimus took the opportunity to rub the FizzFroot blue off his lips.
“That’s better,” said Marcellus, settling into his old armchair opposite Septimus. “You’ve got some color back now.”
Septimus took a deep breath. “I have to leave tomorrow,” he said.
“Ah,” said Marcellus.
“I’m sorry,” said Septimus.