tell me what it is and not play games with me."
"Because if I tell you, you will know. And if you know, then the Syren will know - "
"The Syren?" asked Septimus. He glanced down at the name on the book: Syren - the name after Syrah's name. Syren - the name that had replaced Syrah's name. A chill ran down his spine; he was getting a bad feeling about the island. Septimus lowered his voice. "If you cannot tell me what I am to do, then at least I must know what I am dealing with. Who - or what - is Syren?"
They had now reached the edge of the trees at the top of the hill. "Very well," said Syrah. "But before I tell you about the Syren, I must know one thing: Can you do a MindScreen? If you cannot, then please believe me, it is better you do not know right now."
But Septimus could indeed do a MindScreen.
He well remembered the day that Marcia had taught him. From the moment he had emerged from tidying the Pyramid Library the day had taken on a surreal quality. Everything he said or did, Marcia had anticipated. She had finished his sentences for him, answered his unasked questions, fetched a book for him that he was about to go and find and had played countless other little tricks. By the end of the morning Septimus had felt as if he were going crazy - how did Marcia know what he was thinking and what he intended to do?
Marcia then insisted they eat lunch together, rather than Septimus going down to the Wizard Tower canteen as he usually did. Septimus had sat in the little kitchen and eaten in silence, refusing to be drawn into conversation. He had concentrated hard on everything on the table and had focused totally on every morsel of the rather good Wizard Tower Hotpot-of-the-Day that Marcia had had sent up. When he saw Marcia looking at him with a faintly amused smile, he did not look away but tried to put up a mental screen between his eyes and hers, thinking only of mundane things. By the end of dessert - Wizard Tower Chocolate Pie with Sparkles - Marcia was beaming. She put down her spoon and clapped her hands. "Well done, Septimus," she had said. "I used all my powers of Reading, and not only did you work out what I was doing, but you also worked out how to Screen me. Very good! You have mastered MindScreen Stage One all on your own. We will spend the afternoon on Stage Two - making your MindScreen undetectable. If you manage that we will do Stage Three - allowing you to use decoy thoughts, which will always give you the upper hand." She had smiled. "Then you will be protected against any nosy Being or Wizard - including me." The afternoon had progressed well and Septimus had reached Stage Three, although at times his decoy thoughts had made his Stage Two break down, which Marcia had said was always a problem with a beginner but would improve with practice.
"Yes." Septimus smiled. "I can do a MindScreen."
"Good," said Syrah, then like an animal diving into its burrow, she plunged into the trees and disappeared. Septimus followed and found himself momentarily blinded by the shadows after the bright sunlight. He set off after Syrah with some difficulty. Despite being windblown and stunted, the little trees grew close together and were covered with tiny, tough, fleshy leaves that snagged and cut at him as he pushed through. The trees grew in twisted corkscrew shapes, which reached out in unexpected directions as though to deliberately trip him up, but Syrah deftly zigzagged through, dappled shadows falling on her threadbare green tunic. She seemed to Septimus like a small woodland deer, jumping here, leaping there as she followed a path that only she knew. Syrah stopped at the far edge of the copse and waited for Septimus to catch up. As she stood silhouetted against the bright sunlight, Septimus noticed how extremely thin she was. Her threadbare tunic hung from her like a rag on a scarecrow, and her thin brown wrists and ankles emerged from the ragged hems like knobby sticks. She reminded him of the Young Army boys who would not eat - there had always been one or two in each platoon, and they had never lasted long. What, he wondered, had Syrah's life been