However, as Septimus went about his morning errands - delivering requested Charms to various Wizards, Finding a lost pair of glasses, helping out with a tricky spell on floor four - he detected a melancholy undertone to all the birthday wishes. The Wizard Tower was notorious for gossip, and it seemed that every Wizard knew that Septimus was about to embark upon his Darke Week - the one week that separates the Ordinary from the ExtraOrdinary Apprenticeship. This was despite the fact that the timing of the Darke Week was meant to be a secret.
And so, along with the many "happy birthday" greetings, there were also fervent wishes for "and many more of them, Apprentice." On his rounds Septimus was offered a varied assortment of gifts, all unwrapped - as was the tradition among Wizards in order to avoid the Placement of creatures, an ancient Darke trick that had once given Marcia some trouble. A pair of purple hand-knitted "lucky" socks, a bag of self-renewing banana chews and three Magykal hairbrushes were among those he accepted, but the vast majority were SafeCharms, all of which he politely refused.
As Septimus took the stairs down to the Wizard Tower Hall on his very last errand, he felt unsettled by the sadness beneath the birthday wishes. It was odd, he thought; it felt as if someone close to him had died or - it occurred to him as he stepped off the stairs - as if he were about to die. Septimus walked slowly across the soft, Magykal floor, reading the messages, which were wishing him not only A VERY HAPPY FOURTEENTH BIRTHDAY, APPRENTICE but also BE SAFE, APPRENTICE. He sighed - even the floor was at it.
Septimus knocked on the door of the duty Wizard's room, which was tucked in beside the huge silver doors that led out from the Wizard Tower. Hildegarde Pigeon, a young woman in pristine Ordinary sub-Wizard robes, opened it. Septimus smiled; he liked Hildegarde.
"Happy birthday!" Hildegarde greeted him.
"Thanks."
"It's a big day, fourteen. And Princess Jenna's birthday too."
"Yes." Septimus felt a bit guilty. He'd forgotten to get her a present.
"We'll be seeing her later, apparently. About midday, Madam Overstrand said. She didn't seem very pleased, though."
"Marcia's not very pleased about anything at the moment," said Septimus, wondering why Jenna hadn't told him about her visit to the Wizard Tower.
Hildegarde sensed that all was not well. "So . . . are you having a good day?"
"Well, yes, I suppose. I've just been up to the DisEnchanting Chamber. Bet you're glad you're not there anymore."
Hildegarde smiled. "Too right," she said. "But it did the job. And it will for Syrah too, don't you worry."
"Hope so," said Septimus. "I've come for my boots."
"Oh, yes. Hang on a mo." Hildegard disappeared into the tiny room and emerged carrying a box with "Terry Tarsal, by appointment" written on it in gold letters. Terry had recently upgraded his image.
Septimus lifted the lid and peered inside. He looked relieved. "Oh good," he said. "He repaired my old ones. Marcia was threatening to get him to make me a new pair in green with purple laces."
"Oh dear." Hildegarde smiled. "Not a good look."
"No. Definitely not."
"There's a letter for you too," Hildegarde handed over a creased and slightly damp envelope.
Septimus looked at it. He couldn't place the writing but it looked oddly familiar. And then he realized why - it was a mixture of his own handwriting and his father's.
"Um, Septimus," Hildegarde broke into his thoughts.
"Yep?"
"I know I shouldn't say this as it's confidential and all that but, well . . . I just wanted to say good luck. And I'll be thinking of you."
"Oh. Well, thank you. Thank you, Hildegarde. That's really nice."
Hildegarde went a little pink and disappeared back into the duty Wizard's room.
Septimus tucked the shoebox under his arm and headed for the silver spiral stairs, letter in hand. Only when he was back in his room on the twenty-first floor of the Wizard Tower with the door firmly closed, did he tear open the envelope and read:
Dear Septimus,I hope you have a very happy fourteenth birthday.I expect you are surprised to get a letter from me, but I wish to apologize for what I did to you. I have no excuse except to say that I do not think I was in my right mind at the time. I believe that my contact with the Darke made me crazy. But I take responsibility for that. On the night of your Apprentice Feast, I deliberately sought out the Darke and that is completely my fault.I hope that one day you will forgive me.I realize that you are well into your Apprenticeship now and will have much knowledge. But even so, I hope you will not mind your oldest brother giving you some advice: Beware of the Darke.With best wishes,Simon (Heap)
Septimus sat down on his bed and let out a low whistle. He felt spooked. Even Simon seemed to know about his Darke Week.
Chapter 5 Runaways
While Septimus sat rereading his letter, the messenger who had delivered it was suffering from an attack of cold feet. Even the two pairs of thick, stripy socks that Lucy Gringe habitually wore in the winter were no help that cold morning as she hung back in the shadows of the North Gate gatehouse, trying to pluck up the courage to announce herself to her mother.
Lucy had arrived at the Gatehouse early. She wanted to speak to her father first, before her mother ventured outside with his early-morning cocoa. Despite her father's gruff exterior, Lucy knew that Gringe would be thrilled to see her. "Dad's an old softy, really," she had told Simon before she had left. "It's Mum who'll be difficult."
But Lucy's plan had gone awry. She had been thrown by the unexpected appearance of a makeshift lean-to shelter along the side of the gatehouse, beside the road leading to the bridge. A sign on the shelter announced it to be CAFe LA GRINGE, from which came the (unfortunately) unforgettable smell of her mother's stew. This was accompanied by the equally unmistakeable sound of her mother cooking - clanging saucepan lids, muttered curses, and ill-tempered thumps and thuds.
Lucy stood in the shadows wondering what to do. Eventually the rank smell of the stew drove her to a decision. She waited until her mother was looking into one of the deep stew pans and then, head held high, Lucy marched right past CAFe LA GRINGE. It worked. Mrs. Gringe, who was wondering if anyone would notice the mouse that had fallen in overnight and suffocated, did not look up.
Gringe, a heavyset man with close-shorn hair and wearing a greasy leather jerkin, was sitting in the gatehouse keeper's lodge. He was keeping out of the chilly wind that blew off the Moat and, more importantly, out of the way of the stew. It was a quiet day. Everyone in the Castle was either at the last day of the Traders' Market - which had stayed later than usual that year - or were busy getting ready for the festivities of the Longest Night, when candles would be lit in every window throughout the Castle. And so, apart from taking toll money from a few bleary Northern Traders first thing that morning, Gringe had had nothing better to do than polish the few coins he had collected - a job he had taken over from Mrs. Gringe, now that she was, as he frequently complained, obsessed with stew.
When Gringe looked up at the newcomer, who he assumed was about to add to his meager pile of coins, he did not at first recognize his daughter. The young woman with big brown eyes and a nervous smile looked far too grown-up to be his little Lucy who, in her absence, had become ever younger in Gringe's fond memory. Even when the young woman said, "Dad!" a little tearfully, Gringe stared at Lucy uncomprehending, until his cold, bored brain at last made the connection. And then he sprang to his feet, enveloped Lucy in a huge hug, lifted her off her feet and yelled, "Lucy! Lucy, Lucy!"
A wave of relief swept over Lucy - it was going to be all right.
An hour later, sitting in the room above the gatehouse with her parents (while the bridge boy looked after the bridge and the stew looked after itself), Lucy had revised this opinion: It was possibly going to be all right, if she was very careful and didn't upset her mother too much.
Mrs. Gringe was in full flood, recounting for the umpteenth time the long list of Lucy's transgressions. "Running off with that awful Heap boy, not a care about me or your father, gone these last two years with never a word . . ."
"I did write to you," Lucy protested. "But you never replied."
"You think I got time to write letters?" asked Mrs. Gringe, insulted.
"But Mum - "