There was a sudden ping as the pin fell from the burning candle and hit the glass.
Wearily Marcellus got to his feet, and feeling inside the Great Chimney, he clutched at a rung and swung himself onto an iron ladder that was bolted to the old brick of the inside walls. Then, like a misshapen monkey, the Last Alchemist began the long climb up the inside of the Great Chimney.
It took Marcellus longer than he had expected to reach the top of the Chimney. It was more than an hour later when, exhausted and weak, he pulled himself onto the broad ledge that ran around the top. And there he sat, eyes shut tight, pale and wheezing, trying to catch his breath and hoping that he wasn't too late. Mother would be angry. After a couple of minutes Marcellus made himself open his eyes. He wished he hadn't. The faint light from his candle way down at the foot of the Chimney made him feel dizzy and sick with the thought of how far he had climbed.
He shivered in the dank wind and drew his feet up under his cloak; his cracked old toes felt like blocks of ice. Maybe, thought Marcellus, they were blocks of ice.
It was then that Marcellus heard voices—young voices—echoing through the walls of the Chimney. Creaking like a rusty gate, the Alchemist pulled himself to his feet and shuffled toward what, at first, seemed to be a dark window in the wall of the Chimney. As he approached, it became clear that the window was no ordinary window, but more like a deep pool of the darkest water imaginable. Fumbling, Marcellus Pye took a large gold disc from underneath his tattered robes and touched it against an indentation at the top of the Glass. He peered into the darkness of the first Glass he had ever made and, for a moment, looked surprised. As if in a dream he raised his left hand and then frowned. After a few moments, Marcellus stuck out his tongue, and then he pounced.
With a speed that startled his old bones, Marcellus Pye threw himself toward the Glass and pushed his arms through it, his fingers clawing into empty space. The Alchemist cursed, he had missed. Missed. The boy—what was his name?—had escaped. With one last stretch he pushed farther through the Glass and, to his relief, grabbed hold of the boy's tunic. After that it was easy; he wrapped his fingers around the Apprentice belt—this was where the curved nails came in handy—and pulled.
The boy put up a fight, but that was to be expected. What he had not expected was the sudden appearance of Esmeralda. His old brain was playing cruel tricks on him nowadays. But Marcellus pulled with all his strength, for this was a matter of life or death to him, and suddenly the boy's boots came off in Esmeralda's hands, and Septimus Heap— that was his name—came hurtling through the Glass.
15
The Old Way
Septimus came through fighting. He landed three punches on the Alchemist and numerous kicks that were of little use without his boots, but gave Septimus some satisfaction. He twisted and struggled and at one point he broke free of Marcellus's bony grasp and hurled himself back at the Glass, only to bounce off as though it were a wall of stone.
“Careful, Septimus,” said Marcellus. He grabbed hold of Septimus's tunic and pulled him away. “You'll hurt yourself.”
“Let go of me,” Septimus yelled, frantically twisting and turning.
Marcellus Pye kept his grip on Septimus. “Look, Septimus,” he said. “You'll want to be cautious up here. It's a long way down, you know. You don't want to fall, do you?”
Septimus stopped at the sound of his name. “How do you know who I am?” he asked.
Marcellus Pye smiled—pleased that he remembered now. “We go back a long way, Apprentice,” he said.
Septimus wasn't sure if he liked the sound of that, but the old man's smile calmed him a little. He stood still for a moment and took stock. He was, as far as he could tell, in a dark cave with a very old man. It could be worse, but then again, it could be better. He could have his boots on for a start. And then Septimus's right foot found the edge of the ledge and he realized it could be a whole lot better.
“How high up are we?” Septimus asked, feeling along the edge with his foot, the familiar feeling of vertigo shooting through him.
“I couldn't rightly say, Apprentice. 'Tis a long climb, that I know. 'Tis a long climb down too, so we'd best be going.”
Septimus shook his head and pulled away. “I'm not going anywhere,” he said. “Not with you.”
“Well, that be true, for you won't go anywhere if you don't come with me.”
Marcellus chuckled. “There surely is nowhere else to go up here.”
“I'm going back through the Glass. Back to Jen. I am not going with you.” Septimus pulled away from Marcellus's grasp and threw himself against the Glass again. And again he bounced straight off and staggered back, losing his balance.
“Steady now,” said Marcellus, catching him just before he reached the edge of the ledge. “You will never return through the Glass,” he told Septimus. “I made the Glass. Only I have the Keye.”
Septimus was silent. He was terribly afraid that the disgusting old man was telling the truth. He looked at his Dragon Ring, which was glowing with its usual reassuring yellow light, but it gave him little comfort.
Marcellus Pye shuffled over to the edge of the ledge and eased himself onto the top rung of the ladder. Septimus heard Marcellus moving. He held up his ring to see what the old man was doing, and Marcellus smiled at him, his three long teeth shining yellow with spittle. “Come now, Septimus. Time to see where you'll be spending your Apprenticeship. No need to look so gloomy. There were not many who got the chance to be my Apprentice.”
“Apprentice! I will never be your Apprentice. I am already Apprenticed. To the ExtraOrdinary Wizard. And she'll be here soon to get me back,” said Septimus, sounding more certain than he felt.
“I doubt that very much,” Marcellus replied. “Now, it's time you came down.”
“I'm not going anywhere,” Septimus said.
“Don't be foolish. You'll be cold and hungry after a few days up here and you'll be begging to come down. Either that or you'll fall off and be smashed to pieces. Not nice, believe me. Now, come, won't you?” Marcellus's voice took on a wheedling tone.
“No,” said Septimus flatly. “Never.”
For the second time that morning Marcellus's claw flashed out and grabbed hold of Septimus's tunic and pulled him. The strength of the old man surprised Septimus and caught him off guard. He lost his balance and toppled toward the ledge. “Careful!”