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But Beetle knew better. He knew that once Jillie Djinn got an idea into her head that was it—nothing could change it.
As Jenna pulled open the door to the front office, Jillie Djinn’s voice echoed through the empty Manuscriptorium: “You have five minutes to clear your desk, Mr. Beetle.”
After that the Chief Hermetic Scribe said nothing more—for she had just caught sight of the NightUllr padding through the shadows behind Jenna. Jillie Djinn had a horror of wild animals. She remained motionless, marooned on Partridge’s desk until well past midnight, when she finally plucked up the courage to make a run for it to the safety of her upstairs chamber.
Jenna propelled Beetle—who moved as if he were sleep-walking—into the front office and angrily slammed the door.
One look at Beetle told her that he was not going to be doing any desk clearing. Beetle just stood and gazed around the office, taking in all the things he loved: the great stacks of papers and books piled up in the window, his desk, his swivel chair, the sausage sandwich that Foxy had bought him that morning and he had forgotten to finish—even the door to the Wild Book Store. All these things Beetle stared at, knowing that he would never see them again in the same way. Even if he ever dared to venture into the Manuscriptorium—which he didn’t think he would—they would not be the same.
They would belong to another clerk who would be sitting at his desk, eating Foxy’s sausage sandwiches.
“Is there anything you want to take with you?” asked Jenna.
Beetle shook his head.
Jenna looked at Beetle’s desk, which he had tidied and made ready for the end of the day. His Manuscriptorium pen sat in its pot along with other, more workaday pens. “I’ll bring your pen. You don’t want to leave that behind.”
But Beetle didn’t want to take anything to remind him. “Foxy,” he croaked. “Give it to Foxy.”
“Okay.”
Quickly, Jenna wrote a brief note to Foxy, found some Spell-Binding twine and tied the note to Beetle’s Manuscriptorium pen—a beautiful black onyx with an ornate jade green inlay that, if you looked closely, you could see that the complicated swirls spelled out BEETLE
along the length of the pen. Jenna left it on the desk and hoped that Foxy would notice his name, which she had written on the outside of the note in her large, looping handwriting, which her essay tutor complained got bigger every day.
Gently, Jenna took Beetle by the elbow and steered him toward the door. She tugged the handle hard and the door flew open with a pi-ing. Outside the wind whined and spots of cold rain spattered onto the windowpanes. The evening was oppressively dark, almost untouched by the light from the torch flames, some of which had blown out. Eddies of litter and leaves came skittering into the Manuscriptorium and swirled around their feet. Beetle stood motionless on the doorstep until Jenna linked her arm through his and stepped outside, taking him with her.
Behind them the door slammed with a great crash.
23
THE PROJECTION
H igh on their silver
torch posts, the last pair of torches at the end of Wizard Way struggled to stay lit in the wind, their flames thrown about like wet rags in a storm.
“Come on, Beetle, you’ve got to fight this!” Jenna yelled above the howl of the gale as they approached the Great Arch.
“She can’t just dump you like that. You wait—when Marcia hears about this Jillie Djinn won’t stand a chance.”
Beetle did not have the energy to reply. As Jenna propelled him through the Arch and into the Courtyard, all Beetle could think about was how he was going to break the news to his mother, who frequently told anyone who would listen that the proudest day of her life was the day that Beetle passed the Manuscriptorium entrance exam. But something his mother never mentioned was the fact that it was Beetle’s weekly pay—a silver half crown—that paid the rent on their tiny rooms in The Ramblings and bought them a steady supply of potatoes and fish.
The Wizard Tower Courtyard was sheltered from the wind, and the light from the torches in their holders along the walls was steady and bright. Jenna thought the Courtyard looked unusually clean—gone were the nasty surprises, and even the precarious slippery feeling underfoot had disappeared. As she and Beetle approached the great white marble steps that led up to the Wizard Tower, the reason for this sudden attack of hygiene appeared carrying a shovel and a very big bucket.
“Hildegarde!” said Jenna in surprise. “What are you doing here? I thought you were having some time off.”
Hildegarde swept a grimy hand across her forehead, stopped and leaned wearily on her shovel. “I wish,” she said.
Jenna noticed that the sub-Wizard’s blue robes were soaked and splattered with mud—or worse—and her short brown hair had been blown into something resembling a bird’s nest. “I suppose it’s not quite the job you wanted at the Tower,”
said Jenna sympathetically.
“No, it’s not,” replied Hildegarde and then, realizing she had been curt, she said, “But of course I am happy to help out while the Apprentice is unable to look after his dragon and—”
“Why, what’s happened?” Jenna interrupted, suddenly alarmed. “Is Sep ill? Has he had an accident?”
“Oh, it’s nothing to worry about, Princess Jenna. He’s doing his first Projection. It’s tricky stuff; he mustn’t be disturbed until it’s finished. It will be ending soon and then we’ll all find out what it was. He’s obviously very good at it, as no one has guessed what it is, although”—Hildegarde’s voice took on a disapproving tone—“some of the more elderly Wizards have been placing bets.”
“Oh, thank goodness.” Jenna sighed. “For a moment I thought we were too late.”
“Too late? No, I think he has about ten minutes left until the end.”
“The end?”
“Of the Projection. I suggest you try the Great Hall. I have a feeling all is not right in the Old Spells cupboard.”
Hildegarde winked conspiratorially. “But please excuse me, I must put these things away and I will join you there.” She clattered off hurriedly.
Jenna and Beetle climbed the steps up to the massive silver doors that formed the entrance to the Wizard Tower. Jenna muttered the password and the doors silently opened. As they stepped into the Great Hall, the words WELCOME, PRINCESS ran across the floor in flickering, multicolored letters. It did not escape Beetle’s notice that there was no WELCOME, INSPECTION CLERK to greet him—as there had been in the past. Beetle wondered how the Wizard Tower could possibly know. He felt even worse, if that was possible. Somehow it made it official.
There was a buzz of expectation in the Great Hall. A throng of Wizards was milling about, some clutching small pink slips of paper, others chatting or hanging around trying to look as if they just happened to come to the Great Hall for important business. Jenna had never seen so many Wizards in one place. It was a colorful scene: the blue of the Ordinary Wizard robes set against the backdrop of the bright, fleeting pictures that moved over the walls showing fabled moments from the Wizard Tower’s past.
As always, Jenna felt a little overawed by the Wizard Tower. Although as Princess she was always welcome—and was even in possession of the password—the Tower was a strange and intimidating place. It seemed to her as though it were a living being. The pictures on the walls brightened and faded as if the Tower itself were breathing in and out, in and out. Light and dark, light and dark. The heady scent of incense, and the odd smell of Magyk—of old Spells and new, all combined to make Jenna feel unsettled. She wanted to understand everything that went on in the Castle and did not like the fact that she could not quite work out what the Wizards actually did. She had once asked Marcia what she did all day and, although it all seemed to make sense at the time, later she could not remember a word of what Marcia had said. It had even crossed her mind that Marcia had done a Forget
Spell on her, but when she had mentioned it to Septimus he had laughed and told her that he never remembered what Marcia said to him either. But even so, Jenna was beginning to understand the old Castle saying: A Queen and a Wizard shall never agree—what one calls two, the other calls three.
Jenna’s thoughts were interrupted by a sudden bout of shushing among the assembled Wizards. On the far side of the Great Hall, at the point where the silver corkscrew spiral stairs emerged through the high vaulted ceiling, Jenna saw the distinctive purple pointy python shoes of Marcia Overstrand appear. In order to make a more dramatic entrance, Marcia had placed the stairs on the slow nighttime mode. She had learned from bitter experience that spinning round at the relatively fast daytime speed was apt to give rise to some hilarity when a crowd of Wizards was assembled. And so, as though she were descending from the heavens, Marcia elegantly rotated down through the height of the Great Hall until she reached the ground. She jumped off and clapped her hands for silence.
