“Marcellus—the last thing that fell onto the roof . . . it wasn’t a brick, was it?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Well, it wasn’t a brick. It was heavy. But . . . kind of soft.”

“Soft?”

“Yes. Soft. And up there at the top, you couldn’t see the drop, could you? You wouldn’t be expecting it, would you? It would just be dark. You’d probably think it was a tunnel. In fact, you’d probably think that was where we had gone . . . got lost maybe. So you’d step in and there would be nothing there. You’d grab hold of the bricks, they’d fall away in your hand and then . . . and then . . .”

Marcellus suddenly got it. “Oh, great Alchemie! No!”

Septimus felt sick. He had hoped Marcellus would have an explanation. “So you think so too?”

“I can’t think of anything else,” said Marcellus, clutching his head with a groan.

They sat in silence. “We have to get back to the Alchemie Quay,” said Septimus after a while. “We have to see what’s happened.”

“If something has happened, then we won’t see anything,” said Marcellus. “It’s a long climb, Apprentice. I suggest we get going. Follow me.” He went to get up, but Septimus stopped him.

“Marcellus, I am going to do a Transport to the Alchemie Quay. I have to know what’s happened—now.”

“A Transport. Yes, of course. I will follow you by more normal methods.”

Marcellus watched Septimus begin his Transport. He saw his Apprentice close his eyes, and watched a strange shimmering purplish light begin to run across him. Marcellus shivered. This was serious Magyk. The thought of moving a human being from one place to another—blood and bone through brick and stone—made Marcellus feel very odd. He was in the presence of something he did not understand. It was right, he thought, that Septimus returned to Marcia as her Apprentice; there was more Magyk to him than he had ever realized. At the thought of Marcia, Marcellus remembered the soft yet heavy thud of something falling and a stab of dread shot through him.

If Marcia was there to return to.

18

TRANSPORTS

Septimus arrived in the middle of Alchemie Quay. As the blanketed feeling of the Transport wore off he was relieved to find he had judged it perfectly. Transports into confined spaces were difficult and dangerous; Septimus was not officially allowed to do them. But—unlike much Magyk, which required a clear head—a Transport was made more accurate by distress. And right then Septimus had that by the bucketful.

He stood still, allowing the last vestiges of Magyk to drift away. Septimus did not want to move. He wanted to stay right where he was and never, ever have to walk over to the right-hand arch and peer down into the depths. But he knew he must do it. He had to know what had happened.

Feeling as if he were wearing lead boots, Septimus walked slowly across the Quay to the right-hand archway. A terrifying feeling of vertigo came over him as he approached the black hole in the middle of the bricks—unlike Marcia, thought Septimus, he knew about the huge drop that lurked behind them.

Septimus inspected the jagged hole in the bricks. There was a large bite out of the bricks at about shoulder height, exactly at the place where he would have expected Marcia to grab hold of them. Very, very carefully, Septimus leaned forward.

“Marcia . . .” he called down into the darkness, tentatively. The sound fell into the blackness and died. “Marcia!” Septimus called more loudly. And then, “Marcia, Marcia, can you hear me?”

There was no response, just a heady sense of the emptiness below his feet. Septimus stepped back from the drop and leaned against the wall to steady himself. Of course there was no reply, he told himself; how could there be? Maybe, he thought, Marcia hasn’t been here at all. Maybe the mortar had suddenly given way and the bricks had fallen on their own. Maybe . . .

It was then that Septimus saw something he really did not want to see: a small jade button lying on the ground beside the Fyre Globe. He bent down to pick it up and cradled it in his hand. He knew what it was—a button from Marcia’s shoes. She had been complaining that Terry Tarsal had not sewn them on properly. A wave of despair washed over him. Recklessly, Septimus leaned into the darkness of the shaft.

“Marcia!” he yelled. “Mar . . . seeee . . . aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” As the sound died away, Septimus stumbled out from the archway and heard a very faint something that made him think his mind was playing cruel tricks.

“Septimus . . .”

He stopped. A shiver ran down his spine. It was Marcia’s voice. It was her ghost calling to him. Septimus stared at the gaping hole in the brickwork, half expecting to see Marcia’s ghost float out of it.