Marcellus had other ideas. "Sit down, Apprentice," he said sternly. "This is important."

Septimus remained standing. "No, it's not. It's an old tinderbox. That's all. You can't fool me."

Marcellus Pye smiled. "It seems I already have, Apprentice. For this is not what it appears to be."

Septimus sighed. Nothing ever was where Marcellus was concerned.

"Patience, Apprentice, patience. I know this chamber is cramped, I know it is stuffy and foul, but what I am going to show you can only be revealed here. It will not survive outside the Darke for long." Marcellus looked up at Septimus, his expression serious. "Septimus, I cannot-I will not-let you venture defenseless into the Darke. Sit down. Please."

With another sigh, Septimus reluctantly sat down.

"You see," said Marcellus, picking up the tinderbox, "like all Darke Disguises, this is not what it appears to be. As you too must be when you go into the Darke."

"I know. Masks, MindScreens, Bluffs-I've done all that stuff with Marcia."

"Well, of course you have." Marcellus sounded conciliatory. "That is no more than I would expect. But there are some things to which even the ExtraOrdinary Wizard does not have access. That's what we alchemists are-or were-for. We kept in touch with the Darke. We went where Wizards did not dare."

This was no more than Septimus had suspected, given Marcia's warnings about alchemists, but this was the first time he had heard Marcellus admit to it.

Marcellus continued. "As an Alchemie Apprentice it is only right that you too should know how to work with the Darke. It is all very well the Wizards sticking their heads in the sand like one of those birds . . . oh, what are they called?"

Septimus was not sure. "Chickens?" he suggested.

Marcellus chuckled. "Chickens will do nicely. Like chickens, they peck at what is in front of them but they do not understand what it truly is. Sometimes they call it something else, like Other, or Reverse, but that does not change anything. Darke remains Darke whatever you call it. So now, Apprentice, you must decide whether to take your first step into the Darke the Alchemie way-and see what is really inside the tinderbox-or the Wizard way, and see no more than an old flint and some dried-up moss. Which is it to be?"

Septimus thought of Marcia and he knew what she would say. He thought of Beetle and he really wasn't sure what he would say. And then he thought of Alther. Suddenly Septimus had the oddest feeling that Alther was sitting right next to him. He turned and thought he saw a momentary flash of purple, a suggestion of a white beard. Then it was gone, leaving Septimus with the certain knowledge that he would never see Alther again unless he said, "The Alchemie way."

Marcellus smiled with relief. He had been extremely worried at the thought of Septimus venturing into the Darke in the customary just think good thoughts and it will be all right Wizard style. The old Alchemist was also just a little triumphant. He had, for the moment, won his Apprentice back.

"Very wise," Marcellus said. "Now you stop being a chicken and embark on your first conscious step into the Darke. Septimus, you understand that this is only to be taken if you truly wish to do it. Do you?"

Septimus nodded.

"Then say it."

"Say what?"

"That you want to do this. Say 'I do.'"

Septimus hesitated. Marcellus waited.

There was a long pause. Septimus had the heady sensation of being about to step over a threshold that even Marcia had not crossed.

"I do," he said.

As though someone had thrown a switch, all the candles in the chamber went out. The temperature plummeted.

Septimus gasped.

"We must not be afraid of the Darke." Marcellus's voice came through the fumes of extinguished candles. Septimus heard the Alchemist click his fingers. At once the candles burst back into flame, but the chamber remained cold- so cold that Septimus could see clouds of breath misting the air.

Marcellus now had Septimus's full attention. "Apprentice, your first step is to choose a name to use when you are dealing with the Darke. Wizards-if they venture this far-usually reverse their whole name, but they do not realize how dangerous this is. You will never be free of the Darke if you do this, you can always be Found. We Alchemists know better. We take the last three letters from our name and reverse them. I suggest you do that."

"S-U-M," Septimus said.

Marcellus smiled. "Sum: I am. Very good. If you have to use your name, this is what you say. It is close enough to pa.s.s for the truth, but not true enough for you to be Found. Now we get to the reason we are here: Apprentice, do you wish to take on the Darke Disguise?"

Septimus nodded.

"Say it," prompted Marcellus. "I cannot take you through these steps on a mere nod of the head. I must be clear that you wish to proceed."

"I do," said Septimus, his voice trembling a little.

"Very well. Apprentice, place the tinderbox over your heart, like so . . ."

Septimus held the tinderbox over his heart. It sent a stab of cold right through him like a dagger of ice.

Marcellus continued his instructions. "Keep your hand stone still-no more fidgeting. Good. Now repeat these words after me."

And so the old Alchemist began, using Reverse words that Septimus had never heard before, words that he suspected Marcia too had never heard. They chilled him more than the icy press of the tinderbox, more than the freezing air inside the chamber. By the time Septimus had spoken the last words-"I dnammoc siht ot eb: draug sum"-his teeth were chattering with cold.

"Open the box," said Marcellus.

At first Septimus thought the tinderbox was empty. All he could see was the dull gray metal of the insides, and yet when he looked closely he was not sure that it was metal that he was seeing. It looked misty, as though something was there and yet not there. Tentatively, as though something might bite, he put his finger into the box. His finger told him that there was indeed something in the tinderbox-something soft and delicate.

"You have found it." Marcellus looked pleased. "Or rather, it has found you. That is good. Now take it out and put it on."

Feeling as though he was playing a "let's pretend" game with Barney Pot, Septimus pinched his thumb and forefinger together and got hold of something elusive, barely there. It felt like pulling spiderwebs from a jar-spiderwebs that the spider in the jar did not want him to have. Septimus pulled hard, and as he raised his hand high he saw that he was drawing a long stream of gossamer-thin fabric from the tinderbox.

Marcellus Pye's dark eyes shone with excitement in the candlelight. "You've done it . . ." he whispered, sounding very relieved. "You've found the Darke Disguise."

The Darke Disguise reminded Septimus of one of Sarah Heap's floaty scarves, although Sarah favored brighter colors. This was an indeterminate color that Sarah would have condemned as dull; it was also much larger than any scarf that Sarah possessed. Septimus kept on pulling it from the tinderbox, and the Darke Disguise kept on coming, falling in fine, weightless folds across his lap, tumbling down to the floor. Septimus began to wonder how long it actually was.

Marcellus answered his unspoken question. "Its length will be right for whatever you need. Now, Apprentice, a word of advice. I suggest you pull a thread from it now-it is easily done-and keep it with you. It will be as strong as a rope and, in my experience, it can be useful to have something a little Darke that comes easily to hand when one is venturing into these realms."

Not for the first time, Septimus wondered what secrets Marcellus had in his past. But what he said made sense. He pulled a thread from the loose weave and began to wind it into a neat coil.

Marcellus looked on approvingly. "Confidently done. Remember, the Darke power of this exposed thread will begin to evaporate after about twenty-four hours. Do not keep it in your Apprentice belt; you do not want to upset any Charms or Spells. A pocket will do."

Septimus nodded-he'd figured that out for himself.

"Now I suggest you return the Darke Disguise to the tinderbox," said Marcellus. "Any time spent out, even in here, dilutes its power a fraction."

As instructed by Marcellus, Septimus spoke the words "I knaht uoy, esaelp eriter," and the Darke Disguise evaporated into the tinderbox like a wisp of smoke.

Marcellus regarded his Apprentice with satisfaction. "Very good indeed. It obeys you well. Just before you enter the Darke Portal, open the box and instruct it so-'ehtolc Sum.' Now that it Knows you it will stick to you like a second skin. Take care not to wear it away from the Darke, as it will soon dissolve into nothing, which is why I have to show it to you in this chamber. Use it well."

Septimus nodded. "I will," he said.

"And one last thing."

"Yes?"

"The Darke Disguise may corrupt Magyk. Do not take this box into the Wizard Tower."

Septimus was dismayed. "But . . . what about my Dragon Ring?"

"You are wearing the ring. It is part of you, and the Darke Disguise will protect all parts of you." Marcellus smiled. "Do not worry, it will shine as brightly as ever for you, Apprentice, although others will not see it."

Septimus looked at his ring, which was glowing in the gloom of the SafeChamber. He was relieved. He would feel lost without it.

Marcellus issued his last instruction. "When you return with Alther-as I know you will-you must bring the Disguise straight back here to store it. Understand?"

"I understand," said Septimus. "Thank you. Thank you very much, Marcellus." Carefully he put the tinderbox in the deepest, most secret pocket of his Apprentice tunic. "I'll see you later. At the party," he said.

"Party?" asked Marcellus.

"You know-my birthday party. With Jenna. At the Palace."

"Ah, yes. Of course, Apprentice. I forget."

Septimus rose to go. This time Marcellus Pye did not stop him.

Chapter 20.

Cordon

Night had fallen while Septimus had been marooned in the SafeChamber. He stepped out into the cold, crisp air and headed up Snake Slipway, pulling his cloak tight and walking fast to try and rid himself of the chill that seemed to have settled into his bones. At the end of the slipway he took the Rat Run, a well-trodden alley that led straight to the middle of Wizard Way.

The Longest Night was one of Septimus's favorite times. As a boy soldier in the Young Army, Septimus had looked forward to it; even though he had had no idea at the time that the day was also his birthday, it had felt special. He had loved seeing all the candles placed in every window in the Castle. The practice had been frowned on by the Supreme Custodian and his cronies, but it was too ancient a custom to dislodge and it had become a small symbol of resistance. That particular meaning had been lost on the young Septimus-all he knew was that seeing the lights made him feel happy.

But now the Longest Night had a much greater significance for him: it was a symbol of hope and renewal-the anniversary of his rescue from the Young Army by Marcia. Despite the task ahead of him that night, Septimus strode along the Rat Run with the familiar feeling of excitement and happiness running through him. A few cold specks of sleet settled briefly on his upturned face as he smiled at the ancient houses, all with a single, brave candle burning in each window. He breathed in the fresh air, ridding himself of the cloying fumes of the old Alchemist's house and pushed away his feelings of guilt about Marcia and what he knew she would see as disloyalty with Marcellus.

Septimus was determined to do what he felt was right. It was his fourteenth birthday-a day recognized throughout the Castle as the beginning of independence. He was no longer a child. He was his own person and he made his own decisions.

A few streets away, the Drapers Yard Clock began to chime. Septimus counted six and picked up speed. He was late. He'd promised to be with his mother by six.

As Septimus hurried into Wizard Way he found that things were not quite as he had expected. The Way was crowded-as it usually was on the Longest Night-but instead of people wandering along, chatting and pointing out some of the more interesting windows (for the last few years there had been a serious outbreak of compet.i.tive tableaux in many of the shop fronts) everyone was standing quite still, gazing toward the Palace. That was in itself strange enough, but what really worried Septimus was the anxious silence.

"I'm surprised you're not down there too, Apprentice," a voice somewhere near his elbow said. At the word "Apprentice" several heads turned toward Septimus.

He looked around to find Maizie Smalls, who lived up-or was it down?-to her name, standing beside him. She looked worried. "You know, at the Cordon. Around the Palace," she elaborated.

"Cordon? Around the Palace?"

"Yes. I do hope my cat's all right. Binkie hates changes to his routine. He's an old cat now, you see, and-oh . . ."

But Septimus had gone. He was off, heading for the Palace. He made his way through the crowd faster than he'd expected. As soon as anyone saw that it was the ExtraOrdinary Apprentice pushing past or treading on their toes, they stepped back respectfully-apart from Gringe, who stopped him and growled, "Better get a move on, lad. Bit late, aren't you?" But he let him go when Lucy protested, "Leave it, Dad. Can't you see he's in a hurry?"

Septimus looked gratefully at Lucy and pushed on, catching as he went a glance of Nicko talking to Lucy's brother, Rupert. But there was no time to lose saying h.e.l.lo to Nicko; Septimus was desperate to get to the Palace.

By the time he had reached the Palace Gate, Septimus knew that Gringe was right; he was indeed late-too late. Stretching across the Palace lawns, a few yards inside the Gate, was the Cordon: a long line of Wizards, Apprentices and scribes, encircling the Palace, each holding a piece of purple cord that linked them to the next person. From the stillness and the concentration of those forming it, Septimus knew the Cordon was complete. Septimus had never seen a Cordon for real, although the Wizard Tower occasionally held practices in the courtyard and some Apprentices had once-to Gringe's disgust-placed a Cordon around the North Gate gatehouse as a joke. Septimus knew that, ideally, all in the Cordon would have been holding hands, like children in the popular Castle game "Here We Go Around the Wizard Tower," but in order to encircle the longest building in the Castle, each person forming the Cordon needed to use a piece of Magykal Conducting Cord, a length of which all Wizards, Apprentices and indentured scribes always carried with them.

Septimus stood at the front of the subdued crowd watching the Cordon, trying to work out what was going on. Being on the outside of something Magykal was an unfamiliar feeling for Septimus-and he didn't like it at all. But he soon began to realize that he had had a narrow escape. If he had been a few minutes earlier, Marcia would have expected him to take part, and with the Darke Disguise deep in his secret pocket, he would not have dared. The relief of not having to explain that to Marcia almost made up for missing out on a historic piece of Magyk-almost.

Septimus could not resist a closer look. He slipped through the Palace Gate and walked slowly across the gra.s.s. As he drew nearer he saw four figures inside the Cordon making their way rapidly toward the Palace doors. One was, of course, Marcia. The second, Septimus realized with a stab of something that could have been jealousy, was Beetle. Beetle was taking the place that should have been his. And there were two others following behind. One he was pretty sure was Hildegarde and the other was a witch. What was going on?

Septimus had stopped at what he thought would be a safe distance from the Cordon. He realized he must have muttered something, because the sick bay Apprentice, Rose, who was part of the Cordon, turned around. She smiled at Septimus and mouthed, "Shh. It's silent."

"Why?" Septimus mouthed. Rose shrugged and made an I have no idea face.

Septimus felt beside himself with frustration. A thousand questions ran through his mind. What had happened-had Silas done something stupid? Where was Jenna? Where were his parents? Were they safe? And then an awful thought occurred to him: Was this something to do with the whatever-it-was in the attic that Jenna had asked him to look at the previous evening? Was this all his fault?

Septimus set off along the outside of the Cordon. The air was cold, and a spa.r.s.e fall of sleety snow was drifting down, landing on the winter cloaks of the Wizards and scribes, settling briefly on woolly hats and bare heads alike before melting away. Already the hands holding on to the cords (gloves were not permitted, as they broke the Connection) looked red and cold, and some of the younger Apprentices, who in their excitement had rushed out without their cloaks, were shivering.

Keeping watch on the Palace as he went, Septimus tried to think what it was that Jenna had said the night before. There's something bad up there-that was all he could remember her saying. But he knew that he hadn't given her a chance to tell him anything else. He scanned the Palace for clues to what was happening. It looked the same as ever, solid and peaceful in the winter's night-but then something caught his eye. A candle in an upstairs window went out. Septimus stopped behind a line of elderly Wizards wearing an a.s.sortment of colorful scarves and woolly hats and stared up at the Palace windows. Another candle died, and then another. One by one, like dominoes slowly falling, click . . . click . . . click, the candles were being snuffed out. Septimus knew that Jenna had been right-something bad was up there.

"You wouldn't help Jenna because you were so uptight about keeping your stupid head clear for your Darke Week, and now look what's happened," he told himself angrily. "And you went off to some Darke Alchemie chamber when you know Marcia didn't want you to, and so now you've missed taking part on the most amazing Magyk you are ever likely to see. That, dillop brain, is what getting close to the Darke does. It makes you think only of yourself. It takes you away from people you care about. And now you don't have anyone to talk to and it serves you right."

Septimus veered away from the Cordon and its Magykal camaraderie and headed off into the night. He had reached the riverbank and was jogging toward the Palace Landing Stage when the ghost of Alice Nettles suddenly Appeared to him. Since Alther's Banishment, Alice didn't Appear anymore, but she made an exception for Septimus. Alice was the only ghost Septimus knew who always seemed to react to the weather and tonight, even though he knew she could not feel the cold, she looked frozen.

"h.e.l.lo, Alice," he said.

"h.e.l.lo, Septimus," said Alice in a faraway voice. She turned to Septimus and, for the first time ever, the ghost of Alice Nettles reached out to a human being. She put her hands on Septimus's shoulders and said, "Bring my Alther back, Apprentice. Bring him back."

"I'll do my best, Alice," Septimus replied, thinking how cold Alice's touch was.

"You will go tonight?" she asked.

The key to Dungeon Number One-and the beginning of his Darke Week-hung heavy in his pocket. But the Cordon had thrown all of Septimus's plans into confusion. He had absolutely no idea what was going on or what Marcia would be doing at midnight. He hesitated.

Alice looked anxiously at Septimus. "You do not answer, Apprentice."

Septimus saw the stricken look in Alice's eyes and he made a decision. He may have let Jenna down but he was not going to do the same with Alice. He would enter Dungeon Number One whether Marcia was there or not. "Yes, Alice. I will go and get Alther."

A slow smile dawned on Alice's face. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you from the bottom of my heart."