“In my day all Princesses retired to bed at six o'clock until they became Queen. I myself went to bed at six o'clock every night until I was thirty-five and it never did me any harm.”
Jenna looked at the ghost in amazement. Then, suddenly, she smiled at the thought of how relieved everyone else in the Palace must have been, all those years ago, when six o'clock came around.
The Queen misinterpreted Jenna's smile. “Aha, you are seeing sense at last, Granddaughter. I will leave you now to go to sleep for I have important business to attend to. I will see you in the morrow. You may kiss me good night.”
Jenna looked so horrified that the Queen took a step back and said, “Well, then, I can see you are not yet used to your dear Grandmama. Good night, Granddaughter.”
Jenna did not reply.
“I said, Good night, Granddaughter. I shall not leave until you bid me Good night.”
There was a strained silence until Jenna decided that she could stand looking at the ghost's pointy nose no longer. “Good night,” she said coldly.
“Good night, Grandmama,” corrected the ghost.
“I will never call you Grandmama,” said Jenna as, to her great relief, the ghost began to fade away.
“You will,” came the ghost's high-pitched drill of a voice out of thin air. “You will...”
Jenna picked up a pillow and, furious, threw it at the voice. There was no response;
the ghost had gone. Taking Aunt Zelda's advice, Jenna counted to ten very slowly until she felt calm, then she picked up Our Castle Story and quickly turned the thick yellow pages to Chapter Thirteen. The title of the chapter was “Queen Etheldredda the Awful.”
4
The Hole in the Wall
While Jenna sat reading Chapter Thirteen, Septimus Heap, Apprentice to the ExtraOrdinary Wizard, had just been caught reading something he was not meant to have read. Marcia Overstrand, ExtraOrdinary Wizard of the Castle, had been temporarily defeated by a squabble in her kitchen between the coffeepot and the stove. In exasperation she had decided to leave them to it and go check on her Apprentice. She had found him in the Pyramid Library immersed in a pile of tattered old texts.
"What exactly do you think you are doing?" Marcia demanded.
Septimus jumped guiltily to his feet and shoved the papers under the book he should have been reading. “Nothing,” he said.
“That,” said Marcia sternly, “was exactly what I thought you were doing.” She surveyed her Apprentice, trying—but not entirely succeeding—to keep her stern expression. Septimus had a startled look in his brilliant green eyes and his curly, straw-colored hair was tangled from the way Marcia knew he twisted it when he was concentrating. “In case it has escaped your memory,” she told him, “you are meant to be reviewing for your Prediction Practical Examination tomorrow morning. Not reading a load of five-hundred-year-old drivel.”
“It's not drivel,” objected Septimus. “It's—”
“I know perfectly well what it is,” Marcia said. “I have told you before. Alchemie is total twaddle and a complete waste of time. You may as well go boil your socks and expect them to turn into gold.”
“But I'm not reading about Alchemie,” protested Septimus. “It's Physik.”
“Same difference,” said Marcia. “It's Marcellus Pye, I presume?”
“Yes. He's really good.”
“He's really irrelevant, Septimus.” Marcia reached under the book Septimus had hastily placed on top— The Principles and Practice of Elementary Prediction—and drew out the sheaf of yellowed and fragile papers covered in faint jottings.
“Anyway,” she said, “these are only his notes.”
“I know. It's a pity his book has disappeared.”
“Hmm. It's time you went to bed. You've got an early start tomorrow. Seven minutes past seven and not a second later. Understand?”
Septimus nodded.
“Well, off you go then.”
“But, Marcia...”