They walked hesitantly forward, feeling as though they were wading through treacle, forcing themselves through an invisible barrier. Septimus held out the Questing Stone, which sat, hot, in his hand, glowing a brilliant fiery red. It shone like a beacon, clearing a path through the haze. As they pushed their way deeper into the House of Foryx, shadowy shapes that they had at first taken for drifts of candle smoke and disturbances in the air became clearer. Figures began to emerge from the miasma and circle around them.
“There are ghosts in here,” Beetle whispered. “Tons of ’em.”
“They’re not ghosts,” said Septimus. “They’re real. I mean…alive. I can hear them. I can Hear the Sounds of Human Heartbeats. Hundreds of them.”
“What are they doing?” Jenna whispered.
“The same as us, I expect,” said Septimus. “Trying to get back to their own Time.”
“But we’re not doing that.”
“We will be.”
Jenna said nothing. Beetle felt awful.
The figures around them became increasingly solid; their robes took on colors and shapes and their faces became clear.
There were farmers, hunters, women in fine clothes, serving men and women in rough tunics, knights in all kinds of armor and finery, a large family of exotic-looking people festooned with gold with an interesting line in pointy headgear.
Ullr was restless. He struggled in Jenna’s arms, trying to jump down. But Jenna clutched the cat even more tightly. The last thing she needed right now was to lose Ullr.
Jenna and Septimus were scanning the crowd, hoping to see the familiar sight of Nicko’s fair curls and Snorri’s white-blond hair. They began to realize that they, too, had become visible, and that they—and the Questing Stone in particular—were the center of attention.
Suddenly the crowd parted and a young woman in a threadbare green cloak and tunic made her way to the front, heading straight for Septimus. She fixed Septimus with her surprisingly brilliant green eyes and pointed a long, delicate finger at the Stone. “You have the Questing Stone,” she said in amazement.
Septimus nodded.
“And what are you called?”
“Um. Septimus. Septimus Heap.”
The girl looked at Septimus with a puzzled expression. “Well, Septimus Heap, you are very…short,” she said as if searching for the right words.
“Short?” asked Septimus indignantly.
“I mean…young. You are very young. Surely you have not finished your Apprenticeship?”
“No…I haven’t,” he replied, puzzled.
“So what, pray, are you doing on the Queste?” demanded the girl, sounding a little like Marcia.
“I—I’m not really on the Queste,” stammered Septimus. “Or rather…I didn’t mean to go on the Queste. Someone gave me the Stone and I took it by mistake.”
“By mistake?” The girl now sounded completely like Marcia. “How very foolish. Still, we can’t be choosy. My Master will just have to make do with you. We were expecting great things but now…” The girl looked Septimus up and down with an expression that said she had no expectations of any kind—let alone great ones—when it came to Septimus.
Jenna had been impatiently waiting for her chance to ask the girl if she had seen Nicko, but as she opened her mouth to speak, a tall, important-looking woman swept up to them. She was wearing a dark blue fur-edged robe and her long face reminded Beetle of a horse he used to feed apples to on the way to school. She pushed aside the grumpy girl in green.
“Welcome to Eternity,” said the woman.
“Eternity?” Beetle gasped. “Are we dead?”
“You are alive in all Times, and yet dead in all Times,” she replied. “Welcome.”
Beetle thought it was not the best welcome he had ever had. He glanced at Jenna and Septimus. They did not look too thrilled either.
“I am the Guardian of this House,” the horse-faced woman continued. “This House is a Place of Waiting. Here you will want for nothing, for here you will want nothing. Many arrive but few wish to leave.”
A dark-haired young woman wearing a long white fur cloak and a large amount of gold jewelery pushed forward. “Some of us wish to leave,” she interrupted the Guardian. The young woman looked at Jenna, Septimus and Beetle. “I can smell the snow on you,” she said longingly. “I come from the Palaces of the Eastern SnowPlains. All I wish is to go home to my family. But you have Come In and told no one your Time. No one has had the chance to go.”
The girl in green who, Septimus now realized, was wearing a very ancient Apprentice tunic—one of the full-length ones with the old hieroglyphs—was getting impatient. “Madam Guardian,” she said. “I have come to take the Apprentice boy to our Master.”
“My friends must come too,” said Septimus.
The girl looked at Beetle and Jenna in surprise. “You have brought friends with you—on the Queste?” she said, and then she noticed Jenna’s red robes and gold circlet. In a flurry of embarrassment she made a low bow. “I beg a thousand pardons, Princess. I did not realize.” She turned to Septimus, even more disapprovingly. “Why did you bring the Princess, Apprentice? It is most foolhardy. Who will protect the Castle now?”
“I didn’t bring her,” said Septimus, feeling exasperated. “It was her idea. We are looking for our brother; we think he is here.”
The ancient Apprentice looked shocked. “You are a Prince. Forgive me.” She bowed once again.
“No—no, I’m not a Prince,” said Septimus quickly.
The Apprentice stopped in midbow. “Follow me,” she said curtly. She set off through the crowd, like a mother duck with three wayward ducklings. The crowd parted to allow them through, staring at them as they went.
They followed the mother duck up a broad flight of stairs that took them higher and higher until they were surrounded by the waxy haze of candle smoke that hung over the hall far below. At last, coughing and spluttering in the smoke, they came to a wide balustraded landing lined with marble benches along the walls and a hundred tiny alcoves containing yet more candles. Now that they were away from the crowd, the ancient Apprentice relaxed a little. She stopped and turned to them in the manner of a tour guide. Pointing through the haze, she said, “Here you see four stairways. Each of these leads to a tower. In each tower is an ancient Glass.”
Septimus glanced at Jenna—now they were getting somewhere. “What kind of Glass?” he asked.
“I will not explain. You are too young to comprehend,” she replied, lapsing into Marcia-speak once more. “Follow me.”
The girl pushed open a concealed door in the soot-stained white marble walls. “Take a candle,” she instructed, pointing to a collection of lit candles in brass candleholders lined up in an alcove by the door. She took one herself and stepped through the door.
They took their candles and followed the girl into a narrow passage, which was cut into the marble walls so that the sloping sides met at a point not far above their heads. It wound steeply upward and as they followed the girl’s practiced steps, they slipped and slid on the smooth marble underfoot.
“Where are we going?” asked Septimus.
The girl did not reply.
Breathless from the climb, some minutes later they arrived at the end of the passageway. The candles flared and cast distorted shadows across the smoke-blackened marble. For a moment, Septimus thought he was seeing things: in front of them, barring their way, was the big purple door that led to Marcia’s rooms.
“That’s Marcia’s door!” Septimus gasped. He looked around at Jenna and Beetle. “It is, isn’t it?”
“Looks like it,” said Beetle. “Can’t be though, can it? Must be a copy.”
“No. It’s identical. Look, there’s where Marcia caught Catchpole scratching his initials when he was on door duty.”
Septimus pointed to a B and an unfinished C. “And that’s where Spit Fyre chewed the edge, and that’s where the Assassin kicked it. It’s the same.”
At Septimus’s approach it did what Marcia’s door always did—unlatched itself and began to swing open.
“Weird,” said Beetle, trying to peer inside. “Do you suppose we’ll find Marcia in there too?”