Septimus closed his eyes. It made no difference as to what he could see, but it sent him back inside his head—deep into another place. He held out his right hand and remembered how he had once opened a similar door far below the Isles of Syren. He remembered how the smooth, cold material of the chamber had felt beneath his hand; he imagined that he was there now, in its bright blue light, and he allowed his hand to guide itself where it wanted to go. Then he pressed his palm down hard, throwing all his weight behind it. He heard a soft swish and Marcellus’s gasp.

“It’s open! Apprentice, you’ve done it. You’ve done it!” Terrified that the door would suddenly close, Marcellus pulled Septimus out of the chamber. As soon as they were safely across the threshold, Marcellus sat down very fast and put his head between his knees.

Septimus collapsed, giddy with relief, on a wobbly metal platform that felt dizzyingly high up. But for once he didn’t care how high he was—he was free. He was not going to finish his life trapped in a box hundreds of feet below the ground. Slowly, he began to take in his surroundings. He could feel a vast arena all around him; it was hot, and suffused with a deep red glow that shone up from below. His overwhelming impression was of a heavy sense of stillness where a quiet and purposeful process was slowly unfolding.

Septimus walked carefully along what felt like a very rickety platform to a line of Fyre Globes placed below a guardrail, and gingerly looked over. His head swam. Far, far below, a huge red circle stared up at him, as bright and intense as a sun. Across the top of the red ran tiny, vibrant flames of blue, licking and jumping up into the air. Septimus felt overawed. So this was the real Fyre. He looked away and saw a perfect green afterimage in front of his eyes. It was then Septimus realized that he was standing on a perforated metal platform as flimsy as a sieve. The bones in his legs felt as if they had turned to water and he retreated back to Marcellus.

“Wow,” he said. “That is so . . . beautiful.”

“It is,” agreed Marcellus.

“And Magykal. So alive and delicate . . .” Septimus was lost for words.

Marcellus smiled. “You understand,” he said. “I thought you would, even though most Wizards don’t understand the Magyk of Fyre.”

Septimus was overwhelmed. “I wish you had shown me before.”

Marcellus was silent for a while. “I should have done. So I cannot tempt you to change your mind and become my Apprentice. Forever?”

Septimus so much wanted to say yes. And yet, the thought of what he would have to give up was too much. “I . . . I really want to.”

“Wonderful!”

“But . . .”

“Ah, a ‘but.’” Marcellus smiled ruefully. “I thought there might be.”

“But I can’t. I have promised Marcia.”

“Oh, well,” Marcellus said sadly.

“But . . .”

“Yes?”

“Will you let me come back here sometimes?” Septimus asked.

“Of course, Apprentice. I want no more secrets—not after next month, anyway. Both you and Marcia will be here when I DeNature the Two-Faced Ring.” Marcellus began to get to his feet, then he swayed and sat back down. He looked very pale.

“Are you all right?” Septimus asked, sitting down beside him.

“I will be in a minute. I just need . . . a little fresh air.”

“Not much of that down here.”

“No . . . but more than in that . . . coffin.”

Septimus shuddered. That had been his thought too. “I wonder what fell on it?”

“Bricks. Sounded like bricks,” said Marcellus.

“But why? Something must have made them fall.”

“Probably Marcia looking for you. It’s late.” Marcellus looked at his timepiece. “One hour past midnight.”

Septimus looked at Marcellus aghast. “Yes. Of course she would look for me. I was due back for the Wizard Warming Supper.”

“Don’t look so concerned, Apprentice. It’s good that she came, surely? Without her we’d still be stuck.”

Septimus now matched Marcellus’s pallor. “Oh, Marcellus. Supposing . . . supposing what you said is really true. Literally true.”

“Huh?”

“That without Marcia we would still be stuck.” Septimus put his head in his hands, trying to get the sound of the last thing that fell onto the chamber’s roof out of his head: heavy, yet soft.

Marcellus’s thoughts were on a different track. “Of course I would prefer that Marcia did not know about the moving chamber, Apprentice, but given the circumstances I—”