Marcellus gave a rueful smile. “I am not surprised, Apprentice. I had a little, ah, contretemps with Marcia recently and to tell the truth, I was not expecting anything else.” He raised his glass to his old Apprentice. “Here’s to you, Septimus. And my thanks to you for all your work. I know this last month has not been quite what you had hoped for, but I have so enjoyed having you to help me.” Marcellus paused. “I did hope you might decide to . . . what is the phrase . . . jump ship. Become my permanent Apprentice.”
“I did think about it,” said Septimus. “A lot.”
“But you decided not?”
“Yes.”
Marcellus nodded. “I understand. One has to make choices. You will be difficult to replace, Apprentice. However, I do have someone in mind.”
Septimus looked surprised. It had not occurred to him that Marcellus would replace him with someone else. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
Late that evening, when Septimus had gone up to his room to pack his bag, the new residents of the house opposite Marcellus Pye got an unexpected visit from their neighbor.
Lucy Gringe, resplendent in a beribboned dressing gown she had just finished making, opened the door. “Oh!” she said. And then, remembering her manners, “Hello, Mr. Pye. Do come in.”
“Thank you.” Marcellus stepped inside. “Goodness,” he said. It was chaos.
“Excuse the mess. Wedding presents,” said Lucy cheerfully. “It’s nice to see you. Would you like some herb tea? Come through.”
“Oh, well, actually I wondered if Simon was—” But Lucy had already set off. Marcellus followed her along the dark, narrow corridor, catching his long pointy shoes on various objects strewn across the bare floorboards.
“Ouch!”
“Sorry, Mr. Pye. You okay?”
“Oof. Yes. Thank you, Lucy.”
They negotiated the obstacle course and reached the tiny kitchen, which consisted of a fire with a large pot hanging over it and a deep stone sink set on tree-trunk legs, in which sat the remains of supper. The kitchen was a jumble, covered with pots and pans that had nowhere to hang, half-open boxes and stacks of plates. Lucy saw Marcellus’s gaze travel around the room. “We’ll get it sorted,” she said cheerfully. “I’ll call Si; he’ll be really glad to see you.”
“Ah,” said Marcellus, still lost for words.
Lucy opened the back door and yelled into a tiny yard enclosed by a high brick wall, “Si . . . Si! Mr. Pye!”
Simon, who had been trying to unblock a drain, emerged from the shadows, wiping his hands on his tunic.
“Si, Marcellus is here to see you,” said Lucy.
Simon smiled. “Good evening, Marcellus. Good to see you. Would you like some tea?”
Marcellus, a fastidious man, had decided it might be safer not to risk the tea. “Your good lady wife . . .”
Lucy, still not used to being called Simon’s wife, giggled.
“. . . kindly offered me some, but I mustn’t stay long. I have a proposition to put to you, Simon.”
Lucy and Simon looked at each other.
Simon cleared a pile of plates off a rickety chair. “Please, do sit down, Marcellus.”
Marcellus saw the sticky ring left on the chair and shook his head. “No, no. I really must get back. This won’t take a moment.”
Five minutes later Simon and Lucy watched Marcellus Pye cross the snowy slipway back to his house, the moonlight glinting off the gold fastenings on the back of his shoes.
Simon was lost for words. In his hand was a precious copy of the Alchemist’s oeuvre, the I, Marcellus, with instructions to read it thoroughly and meet Marcellus at six o’clock the following evening.
“Well,” said Lucy. “Who’d have thought it?”
15