“Pretty much. Unfortunately I cannot remember the finer details of its operation. I used to know it, but like many memories, it has faded. I was hoping you might remember. I would like to get it working again. So much more pleasant than the long climb down.”
“To the Chamber of Fyre?”
“To the Chamber of Fyre. So, Apprentice. Shall we go?”
Gingerly Septimus stretched out his hand and placed his palm on the opening plate—the worn part of the smooth, cool surface behind the brick. The green light sprang up below once again; it grew bright and then began to fade.
“Oh,” said Septimus. “That shouldn’t happen.” He took his hand away and rubbed it on his tunic; then he put it back and leaned his whole weight against the surface. This time the green light immediately glowed bright and suddenly, silently, a concealed oval door slid open revealing a tiny, blue-lit chamber.
“Oh, well done!” said Marcellus, excited. “Shall we step inside?”
Septimus followed Marcellus through the door into a virtually spherical space. Its walls were a smooth, shiny black material with no obvious features. It was, as far as Septimus could tell, identical to the one he had known on the Isles of Syren.
“Perhaps you would like to close the door, Apprentice?”
Septimus was not sure that he would. “Marcellus, when did you last use this?” he asked.
Marcellus looked surprised. “Oh, goodness. Well, it’s all a bit of a blur, really. There was a lot going on at the time. Esmeralda was with me; I remember that.”
“So, about four hundred and seventy-five years ago?”
“About that, I suppose.”
For someone who had dabbled in moving from one Time to another, Marcellus was always annoyingly vague about time, Septimus thought. “I’m asking because Syrah said that it needed to be used every day to keep it, er, alive.”
“Alive!” Marcellus laughed. “Superstitious nonsense. It is a piece of machinery.”
“I know,” said Septimus, “but that was how she explained it. And it makes sense to me. She said its life drained away unless it was . . . what was the word she used? Recharged.”
Marcellus was skeptical. “Septimus, you must remember that Syrah was Possessed. She was just saying words like a . . . Oh, what are those birds with many colors?”
“Parrots. Syrah was not like a parrot,” said Septimus, annoyed.
“No, of course not. Not the real Syrah,” Marcellus said soothingly. “However, I can assure you that this chamber is not alive.”
Septimus felt that it would be wrong to back out now. There was a worn spot beside the door, and he placed his palm onto it. A red light glowed beneath, lighting up his hand, and the door closed silently. A small orange arrow pointing downward now appeared on the other side of the chamber. Septimus went over to it and reluctantly raised his hand to press it. “Are you sure about this?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Marcellus. “Of course I am.”
Taking a deep breath, Septimus placed his hand on the orange arrow and pressed. The floor of the chamber gave a sickening lurch and his stomach did the same. The chamber was falling fast and Septimus had forgotten just how terrifying it was. When he had been in the one on the Isles of Syren, he had been with Syrah, and she had known what she was doing. Now he was with Marcellus, who looked just as scared as he was. Septimus watched the orange arrow plummeting down the wall, like a bird hit by a stone.
It is going too fast, he thought. It is going too fast.
Suddenly the descent stopped with a bone-jarring thud that set their teeth rattling in their skulls. Marcellus staggered back and grabbed hold of Septimus. This brought them both slithering to the floor, which—being shiny and slightly tilted—sent them cannoning across the chamber, where they fetched up in a pile against the wall.
“Aaaaah,” Marcellus groaned.
Septimus extricated himself from Marcellus’s shoes. He stood up shakily and shook his head, trying to clear the buzzing inside.
“Do you think it’s landed all right?” Marcellus whispered from the floor.
Septimus didn’t think it had, but there was only one way to find out—open the door. He saw a telltale worn patch on the opposite side of the chamber from where they had come in; he walked gingerly across the sloping floor and placed his hand on the wall. Septimus waited for the green light to appear that would signal the opening of the door. A glimmer of green rose briefly beneath his hand, then faded away. Septimus rubbed his hand on his tunic to remove any dust and pushed it back on the patch, leaning all his weight on it.
Nothing happened. No green light. No opening door. Nothing.
A sharp intake of breath came from Marcellus. “Try again, Apprentice,” he urged.
Septimus tried again. Nothing happened.