Septimus felt excited—now
they were getting somewhere. He smiled at Jenna, whose eyes looked suspiciously bright, as they always did when Nicko’s name was mentioned.
Lapsing into his old man’s shuffling gait—which Beetle blamed on the weird shoes—Marcellus went over to the chimney and pressed on a small panel high up on the side. The panel swung open with an apologetic creak. Everyone watched as he took out a ragged collection of brittle, yellowing papers. Carefully, he brought them over to the table and gently laid them down.
Jenna gasped—they were covered in Nicko’s distinctive scrawl.
“Nicko and Snorri left these behind,” Marcellus said. “I put them in the chimney for safekeeping as I was afraid that someone might throw them away, for they appear to be but notes and jottings in an untutored hand. But, as the years went by—and there were many, many years—I forgot about the hiding place. Indeed, Apprentice, I did not remember again until some months after you asked me about your brother.”
“When you said you didn’t remember,” said Septimus.
“’Tis true, I did not. But then things about my old life began to come back to me. And one day when I came up to this room I did remember. Briefly. After that I spent many weeks coming all the way up here only to wonder what it was I wanted. But when you last spoke to me about Nicko, I wrote it down. I carried the note everywhere and then, when I came up here again, I remembered. I even remembered the hiding place—which, to my amazement, I found undisturbed.
Which is why I sent you the message to come here today.”
“Thank you, Marcellus,” said Septimus.
“I owe it to you, Apprentice. I confess I cannot read much of what is in Nicko’s hand, but perhaps you can understand your brother’s writing better than I. It may be that the notes will tell their own story. But I will fill in the gaps as much as I can.”
Jenna cautiously looked at the papers. The ink was faded to a pale sepia color, and the paper was thin and almost as brown as the ink. Even so, Jenna knew it was Nicko’s work. There were doodles of boats, sketches of various sail rigs, numerous games of noughts and crosses, battleships, hangman, plus some she did not recognize and a lot of lists. But somehow instead of making her feel closer to Nicko, seeing his scribbles on such ancient, fragile things made him feel even farther away. Jenna found herself staring at a long, thin piece of paper with tears pricking the backs of her eyelids.
“What does it say, Jen?” asked Septimus.
“He…he’s made a list.”
“Typical Nicko,” said Septimus. “Go on, Jen. Read it out.”
“Oh. Okay. It says:
2 backpacks
2 bedrolls (if can find) or wolfskins from market
Food for two weeks at least. Ask at market for salted stuff.
Dried biscuits & fruit
Tinderbox
Candles
2 water bottles or flagon things
Permit to travel? Ask M.
2 warm cloaks
Boots with fur if possible
Aunt Ells’s lucky socks—remember
2 gold trinkets. For Toll-Man.
Case for Snorri’s compass.”
As Jenna finished reading the list, the paper began to crumble in her fingers. She quickly laid it down on the table. “I…I wonder where he was going,” she said.
“Somewhere cold. You can tell a lot from a list,” said Beetle, who was a big fan of lists himself.
Jenna hated to think of Nicko—five hundred years ago—setting off for somewhere cold. It made her feel terribly bleak and empty. She sat slowly stroking Ullr for comfort. The cat was curled up on her lap, apparently asleep, but Jenna knew better. She could feel a watchfulness in the way Ullr lay very still and slightly tensed, as if ready to pounce.
Septimus looked at Marcellus Pye. He knew his old master well enough to know that Marcellus had something to tell—something important. “You know something, don’t you?” Septimus said. “Tell us. Please, Marcellus.”
Marcellus nodded but said nothing. He sat at the end of the table as if in a daydream, staring at the cluster of candles, watching their flames dance in the eddies that blew through the gaps of the ill-fitting windows. Shaking himself out of his reverie, he looked up. “First,” he said, “some warmth.” Marcellus got up and, striking a flint in the old-fashioned way, he lit the fire that was laid in the grate.
As the flames leaped up around the logs, the Alchemist leaned across the table and began to speak slowly—a habit Septimus remembered from his Alchemie Apprentice days, when Marcellus had wanted his full attention. But that afternoon Marcellus did not lack attention from his audience—all eyes were on him. Accompanied by a distant rumble of thunder—and embarrassingly for Beetle, a much nearer rumble from his stomach—Marcellus Pye began to speak.
16
SNORRI’S MAP
T he Alchemist spoke in a
low and measured voice. “As soon as you had gone through the Great Doors of Time the Glass liquefied,” Marcellus said. “I cannot tell you what a terrible sight that was. My Great Triumph was nothing more than a pool of black stuff on the ground…” He shook his head as if still unable to believe what had happened. “Of course then I did not know that Nicko was your brother and, seeing as he had very nearly strangled me, I did not much care who he was. But some hours later he returned with the girl Snorri and told me how they had Come Through another Glass to rescue you, Apprentice.
I was impressed with his bravery, but when he asked if he and Snorri could Go Through the Glass of Time, all I could do was show them the ghastly black pool. If I had any bad feelings about Nicko, they vanished at that moment. He looked as though he had lost everything in the world—which of course he had. And Snorri too, but she did not react. With her everything was far below the surface, but Nicko…he was like an open book.”
Jenna sat twisting her hair. She found it very hard to hear about Nicko, and could not help but imagine how he must have felt.
Marcellus continued. “I could do nothing for them except offer them a place to stay and help them in any other way I could. And so for some months—I cannot remember how many—they lived here with me. At first they looked much the way you had, Apprentice—haunted and restless. But after some weeks I noticed that this had changed—they gained a purposeful air; they smiled and even laughed sometimes. At first I thought they had adapted to our Time, and maybe even preferred it—for it was a good Time—but one evening they came and told me about Aunt Ells. After that I knew better, and that soon they would be gone.”