At the kitchen table, over a pot of coffee, Simon read out the note to Lucy.
“‘Dear Simon, my sincere apologies for breaking our appointment last night. I regret to say that I was detained by circumstances beyond my control and could not get a message to you. However, all is now resolved. Would it be convenient for you to renew our appointment for midday today?’”
“Yaay!” yelled Lucy, jumping up and punching the air. “Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I say it would be all right?”
Simon grinned. “Yes, Lu, you did. You said it quite a lot, I seem to remember.”
At the Wizard Tower, Septimus slept on.
Up in the Pyramid Library, Marcia was very happy indeed. She had her Apprentice back and now things could get back to normal. Marcia was preparing the next stage in Septimus’s DeCyphering course—the practical. For all Apprentices, this meant having a go at the hieroglyphs inscribed into the flat silver top of the golden Pyramid that crowned the Wizard Tower. It was generally agreed that they were indecipherable—or as Marcia preferred to call them, gobbledygook. But it was a tradition and she supposed they should stick with it.
In front of Marcia was the old rubbing that a long-ago ExtraOrdinary Wizard had made of the hieroglyphs. It wasn’t, thought Marcia, very clear. No wonder no one had figured out what they meant. She remembered ruefully a comment she had made to Septimus about “going back to original sources” and she had a nasty feeling that was what he might do. He would take himself to the very top of the Pyramid and sit there, working it out. Or, at the very least, go up there to do his own rubbing. A shiver went right through Marcia—she had had enough nightmares about Septimus falling to last her a lifetime. Marcia came to a decision. She scribbled a note for Septimus in case he woke before she returned, then she was off—tippy-tapping down the stone stairs, pinning the note on Septimus’s door, then back up to the Library to pick up an envelope she’d forgotten, down the steps again, rapidly past the ghost of Jillie Djinn and out of her rooms.
In the Great Hall, Marcia rapped on the door of the duty Wizard’s cupboard. Hildegarde answered.
“Ah, Miss Pigeon,” said Marcia frostily. “I thought you might have company this morning.”
“No, Madam Marcia. It is very quiet this morning.”
“Mr. Banda otherwise engaged, is he?”
“I think so, Madam Marcia. Did you want to leave a message in case he drops by?”
“No,” said Marcia. “I don’t.”
“Is there anything I can help you with?”
Marcia handed Hildegarde an envelope. “My choice for the rotation scheme Apprentice for the Pyramid Library. Send it up to the Sick Bay, will you?”
“Of course, Madam Marcia. Right away.”
“I’ll be back in about an hour.”
“Very well, Madam Marcia.”
Hildegarde called for the duty Message Apprentice and gave him the envelope; then she went into the duty Wizard’s cupboard and sat down with a sigh. She knew she had done something to offend Marcia but she had no idea what. She sat down and finished a note.
Dear Milo,
Thank you for your message. I will meet you at the old bakehouse at two o’clock this afternoon.
Hildegarde
Marcia ignored Hildegarde on the way back. She hurried by, put the stairs on fast and zoomed straight up to the twentieth floor. She found Septimus in the kitchen, making porridge.
“Aha, Septimus!” she said cheerily.
“Morning,” said Septimus, blearily scraping the porridge into his bowl.
“Coffee?” asked Marcia brightly.
“Oh! Yes, please.” Septimus looked surprised. Generally it was his job to make the coffee.
Marcia snapped her fingers at the coffeepot, which was loitering in the shadows with the sugar bowl. “For two!” she told it. The coffeepot scooped in a couple of spoons of coffee, added three teaspoons of sugar, stood under the tap, which obligingly turned on, then scuttled over to the stove and settled onto a ring. “Light!” Marcia told the stove.
Septimus smiled. When he made coffee, he had to do it himself. The coffeepot was a one-Wizard pot and took absolutely no notice of him.
Marcia waited until Septimus had finished his porridge—which was drenched in syrup—and two tiny cups of hot, sweet coffee were sitting on the table; then she took a dark blue velvet drawstring pouch from her pocket, which Septimus recognized as a standard Manuscriptorium Charm bag. Marcia pushed the bag across the table to Septimus. “For you,” she said.