Septimus said nothing. There was an air about Lucy that reminded him of his great-aunt Zelda, and Septimus had learned that if he wanted Aunt Zelda to tell him something, he had to be patient, for Aunt Zelda was as stubborn as Lucy Gringe appeared to be. So Septimus waited patiently, sensing that something was on Lucy's mind.
“Simon and I nearly got married,” Lucy suddenly blurted out.
“I know,” said Septimus. “Dad told me.”
“No one wanted us to get married,” said Lucy. “I don't know why. It's just so unfair.”
Septimus could not think of anything to say. “And now everybody hates Simon and he can never come back home, and that's so unfair too.”
“Well, he did kidnap Jenna,” Septimus pointed out. “And then he tried to kill me and Nicko and Jenna, and he almost destroyed the Dragon Boat. Not to mention Marcia—he practically finished her off with that Placement, and then he—”
“All right, all right,” snapped Lucy. “There's no need to be so picky about everything.”
There was another awkward silence and Septimus decided that there was no point trying to get Lucy to tell him anything more. He let go of the boat and pushed it out into the Moat.
“If you do see Simon,” he said, “you can tell him from me he's not welcome here.”
Lucy stuck her tongue out at Septimus, then she took up the paddles and started turning them. It looked strange to Septimus, for these were summer boats used for fun, and to see Lucy out in one on a misty, dank autumn night seemed odd. “Safe journey,” he told her, “wherever you're going.”
Lucy looked back. “I don't know where Simon is,” she said, “but he wrote me a note and I'm going to find him. So there.”
Septimus watched Lucy paddle off in her pink paddleboat until she rounded the bend and disappeared from view. He stood on the Slipway for a while, listening to the clunky sound of the paddles turning as Lucy made her determined way toward the river.
It was when he at last turned to go home that Septimus saw it—fire under the water.
8
Fire Under the Water
It made no sense—how can fire burn underwater? The water was dark and the flame flickered in the underwater currents as a candle does in the breeze. As Septimus watched, it moved steadily away from the Slipway, keeping close to the foot of the Castle wall.
Indeed, it seemed to him that the flame was held by someone walking along the bottom of the Moat. The Moat was about twenty feet deep and the light was, Septimus figured, about fourteen feet below him.
Entranced by the idea of a flame burning underwater, Septimus knelt down on the cold stone of the Slipway and stared into the depths of the Moat.
Slowly and surely, the flame was walking away from him. Septimus felt oddly upset, as though he was losing something precious. He leaned forward to take one last look.
Behind him the ghost of Queen Etheldredda stepped out of the shadows, a thin smile on her lips. So intent was Septimus on seeing what was under the water, he would not have noticed the ghost even if she had chosen to Appear to him—which she most definitely did not. He stepped right to the edge of the Slipway and leaned out.
If he just got a little closer to the water he would be able to see—
Etheldredda gave Septimus a vicious shove.
There was a loud splash and suddenly Septimus was in the water, tumbling to the bottom of the Moat, gasping with shock from the cold. The tide had turned and an icy current was running in from the river; it was swift and strong, and although Septimus was a good swimmer, it quickly dragged him away from the Slipway and out into the center of the Moat.
Septimus surfaced at last, shivering uncontrollably. He was beginning to lose the strength from his arms and legs, and there was more to struggle against than just the swift current. Now he could feel a strong undertow beneath his feet, as though someone had suddenly pulled a plug and the water around him was swirling down the drain.
A moment later, Septimus's head disappeared below the inky waters for a second time. The undertow took him down fast, and within seconds his feet touched the bottom of the Moat. Struggling to keep his eyes open in the murky water and with his lungs feeling as if they were about to burst, Septimus kicked himself up from the muddy bed and swam straight into a thick patch of sticky Moat weed. In moments, the tendrils of the weed were wrapped around him, and Septimus felt his remaining strength drain away. A dark mist fell in front of his eyes, and Septimus began to lose consciousness; yet, as he did so, he had the strangest sensation of an ice-cold grip on his arm, pulling him up ... up ... up through a dark tunnel toward a bright light.
“Ouch, Sep—that hurt!” Jenna's voice reached Septimus from the other end of the tunnel. Coughing, spluttering, Septimus gulped frantically for breath.
“Oh, stop making such a fuss, boy,” an irritable ghostly voice snapped. “Here, Granddaughter, take him now, for I have no wish to be Passed Through yet again—it is most unpleasant. No manners, young Apprentices nowadays.”
“Sep, Sep, you're okay now,” Jenna's voice whispered in his ear, and Septimus felt as if she was guiding him through the darkness and—at last—into the light.
“Aaaah!” Septimus suddenly sat bolt upright and took the deepest breath he had ever taken in his life. And then he took another, and another, and another.
“Sep, Sep, are you okay?” Jenna thumped him on the back. "Can you breathe now?
Can you?"
“Aah ... aah ... aah...” Septimus grabbed a few more lungfuls.
“It's okay, Sep. You're safe here.”
“Ah...” Septimus focused his eyes and looked around. He was sitting on the floor of a small sitting room at the back of the Palace. It was a cozy room; a fire was burning in the grate and a mass of thick candles burned brightly on the mantel, their wax dripping steadily onto the hearth. The room had once been a favorite of Queen Etheldredda's, who would sit there every afternoon and take a small glass of mead and read morality tales. It was now Sarah Heap's sitting room, where she too sat in the afternoon, except she would drink herb tea and read romantic novels lent to her by her good friend Sally Mullin. Queen Etheldredda did not approve of Sarah Heap's taste in furnishings and she most definitely did not approve of romantic novels. As for the general clutter and untidiness that pervaded the sitting room, Queen Etheldredda considered it a disgrace, but there was little she could do about it yet, for ghosts must put up with the bad habits of the living.
Queen Etheldredda wore her usual disapproving expression as she looked at the sodden Septimus. He sat in a puddle of muddy Moat water, steaming beside the fire and giving off a dank Moat-water smell. The ghost sat on the only chair that remained in the room from her time as Queen; it was an uncomfortable wooden chair with a straight back that Sarah had been meaning to throw out. Silas had left the remains of a bacon sandwich on it a few days earlier, and Queen Etheldredda was now perched precariously on top of it.
“I trust you have learned your lesson, young man,” Queen Etheldredda said, fixing Septimus with a severe stare.
Septimus coughed up some tendrils of slimy Moat weed and spat them out on the rug.
“Punctuality is a virtue,” pronounced Queen Etheldredda. "Lateness is a vice.
Farewell." Still remaining in the sitting position, Queen Etheldredda rose a few feet up from the chair. She glanced at the bacon sandwich with a look of horror, and then floated away through the ceiling. Her feet, clad in richly embroidered, extremely pointy shoes, hovered above Jenna and Septimus for two or three moments until, slowly, they faded away.
“Do you think she's gone now?” Jenna whispered to Septimus after a safe interval had passed. Septimus stood up to get a better look at the ceiling, but the floor came up to meet him with a crash and he found himself lying on Sarah Heap's favorite rag rug. Jenna looked concerned. “You'd better stay here tonight. I'll send a Message Rat over to tell Marcia.”
Septimus groaned. Marcia. He had forgotten about Marcia until now. “Perhaps you'd better not wake her up, Jen. Anyway you'll be lucky to get a Message Rat. Best tell her in the morning,” he said, thinking that it was not beyond Marcia to come over to the Palace right there and then and demand to know just what Septimus thought he was doing. It wasn't, Septimus thought, a question that he could easily answer right then.
“You feeling okay, Sep?” asked Jenna.