Septimus nodded and the room began to spin. “What happened, Jen?” he asked.
“How did I get here?”
“You fell into the Moat, Sep—at least that's what Queen Etheldredda said. She said it was your own fault and that you were late. She said you were lucky that she happened to be on the Slipway, and she rescued you. Well, Reclaimed you, is what she said. Whatever that means.”
“Er ... I learned it last week. But I can't remember it. Brain's not working.”
“No, I shouldn't think it is. You almost drowned.”
“I know. But I want to remember. Sometimes when you nearly drown your brain doesn't work so well afterward. Suppose that's happened to me, Jen?”
“Don't be ridiculous, Sep. Your brain seems fine to me. You're just tired and cold.”
“But ... oh, I do remember. It was in the latest edition of the Spirit Guide,” he said suddenly. “That's it. Reclaime: Ghostly transportation of living creatures in order to ensure they remain as such, i.e., living. Um ... may involve removing from imminent life-threatening danger or longer term planning, such as ensuring that they do not encounter approaching danger. Most commonly reported occurrence is being pushed from path of runaway horse by ghostly hands. There, brain's okay.” Septimus closed his eyes and looked pleased.
“Of course it is,” said Jenna soothingly. “Now look, Sep, you're soaked. I'm going to get you some dry things. Just rest while I go find the Night Housekeeper.”
Jenna tiptoed out, leaving Septimus dozing on the rug. Queen Etheldredda was waiting for her outside the door.
“Ah, Granddaughter,” she said in her high, piercing voice.
“What?” asked Jenna irritably.
“How is your dear adoptive brother?”
"My brother is fine, thank you. Now would you mind getting out of the way? I want to get him some dry clothes."
“Your manners are sorely lacking, Granddaughter. You know I saved the boy's life.”
“Yes. Thank you very much. It was ... very nice of you. Now, please, may I get past?” Jenna tried to duck to one side of the ghost, having no wish to Pass Through Queen Etheldredda.
“No, you may not.” Queen Etheldredda stepped in front of Jenna and barred her path.
The ghost's features took on a stony look. “I have something to tell you, Granddaughter, and I suggest you listen well. It will be greatly to your adoptive brother's disadvantage if you do not.”
Jenna stopped—she recognized a threat when she heard one. The Queen leaned down toward Jenna and a deep chill filled the air. Then she whispered in Jenna's ear, and Jenna had never felt so cold in all her life.
9
Prediction Practical
Alther, what do you mean, he spent the night at the Palace?"
Marcia demanded very early the next morning. “Why?”
“Well . . . er, it's a little complicated, Marcia,” Alther replied uncomfortably.
“Isn't it always, Alther?” snapped Marcia. “You do realize that if he doesn't get back right away he's going to miss his Prediction Practical?”
Marcia Overstrand was sitting at her desk in the Pyramid Library at the top of the Wizard Tower. The Library was dark and gloomy in the early morning light, and the few candles that Marcia had lit flickered as she thumped Septimus's Prediction Practical Papers down on the desk in exasperation. Her green eyes flashed crossly as Alther Mella floated along the book stacks peering at some of his favorite titles.
“This is very bad, Alther. I spent all day yesterday setting up the Prediction Practical and it's got to begin before 7:07 A.M. Any later than that and all the stuff will have started to happen—and then it's just Telepathy and Cognizance, which is not the point.”
“Give the lad a break, Marcia. He fell into the Moat last night and—”
“He did what?”
“Fell into the Moat. I really think you should postpone—”
“How come he fell into the Moat, Alther?” Marcia asked suspiciously.
Eager to change the subject, Alther wandered over to Marcia and sat down companionably on the corner of her desk. He knew he would regret it, but he could not resist saying, “Well, perhaps you should have predicted this would happen, Marcia, and scheduled the Prediction Practical for later in the day.”
“That's not funny,” snapped Marcia, checking through the papers. “In fact, you are getting horribly predictable yourself. Predictably childish. You are spending far too much of your time flying around with Septimus and generally showing off when at your age you should know better. I shall send Catchpole down to the Palace to fetch Septimus right now. That will wake him up.”
“I imagine you'll have to wake up Catchpole first, Marcia,” Alther commented.
“Catchpole's on night duty, Alther. He's been awake all night.”
“Funny habit he's got, that Catchpole,” said Alther pensively, “of snoring while he's awake. You'd think he'd find it irritating, wouldn't you?” Marcia did not deign to reply. She got up from her desk, drew her purple robes around her and stormed out, slamming the Library door behind her.
Alther floated through the hatch that led onto the golden Pyramid roof and wandered up to the top of the Pyramid itself. The autumn morning air was cool and a fine drizzle fell. The base of the Wizard Tower had disappeared into a thick white mist. A few roofs of the taller houses were visible as they broke through the white blanket, but most of the Castle was lost to view. Although as a ghost, Alther did not feel the cold, he felt like shivering in the wind that eddied around the top of the Wizard Tower. He drew his faded purple cloak around him and looked down at the hammered-silver platform that surmounted the Pyramid. Alther had always been fascinated by the hieroglyphs inscribed in the platform, but he had never deciphered them, as indeed no one else had. Many hundreds of years ago one ExtraOrdinary Wizard had been brave enough to climb to the top of the Pyramid and taken a rubbing of the hieroglyphs, which now hung in the Library. Every time Alther, as ExtraOrdinary Wizard, had looked at the old gray piece of paper framed on the Library wall, he had felt a horrible sense of vertigo, for it reminded him of the time when, as a young Apprentice, he had been forced to chase his Master, DomDaniel, up to that very place.
But now, as a ghost, Alther was fearless. He experimented with standing on the platform first on one leg and then the other; then he threw himself off, tumbling and turning through the air. As he fell, he tried to imagine what it must have felt like to fall as a human being, as DomDaniel had once done. Just above the mist he leveled out and set off for the Palace.
Catchpole was having a bad dream and it was about to get worse. He hated being on night duty down in the old spell cupboard beside the huge silver doors to the Wizard Tower. It wasn't so much the lingering smells of decaying spells that upset Catchpole; it was the fear of being asked to do something by a more senior Wizard.
Catchpole was only a sub-Wizard and he was not progressing as fast as he had hoped—he had had to retake his Primaries twice and still had not passed—which meant that all Wizards in the Tower were senior to him. After years of being deputy to the fearsome Hunter, Catchpole hated being told what to do, especially when he always seemed to do it wrong. So when Marcia Overstrand strode into the old spell cupboard and demanded to know just what he thought he was doing, sitting there with his eyes closed and looking about as useful as a dead sheep, Catchpole's heart sank. What was she going to ask him to do? And what was she going to say when, as usual, he made a mess of it? Catchpole was incredibly relieved when all Marcia did was tell him to get down to the Palace at once and bring her Apprentice back with him. Well, he could manage that—and it would get him out of the cramped cupboard. What was more, thought Catchpole, as he ran down the marble steps and into the misty Wizard Tower courtyard, it seemed that that upstart Young Army boy who had inveigled his way into becoming the ExtraOrdinary Apprentice was, for once, in the wrong. He would enjoy that, he thought with a smirk.
Catchpole had now reached a large kennel-like structure. It was built of great granite blocks, was the height of a small cottage and was at least twice the length. There was a line of tiny windows just below the eaves to provide much-needed ventilation and for the occupant to look out if he wanted. At the front of the kennel was a hefty wooden ramp leading to a barn door that was made of thick oak planks. The door was firmly closed and had three iron bars holding it in place. Above the door someone had written in neat handwriting, SPIT FYRE. As Catchpole trotted by, something inside the kennel hurled itself against the door. There was a loud splintering sound and the middle iron bar on the door bent a little, but not enough for the door to give way. Catchpole's smirk vanished. He shot off at high speed and did not slow down until he was halfway along Wizard Way and could see the light from the palace torches glimmering through the mist.