by Angie Sage
“A load of old junk and empty rooms,” Beetle replied dismissively, careful to still speak the truth.
“That all?”
Beetle sensed he was winning. He avoided a direct answer and snapped, “Merrin, what are you talking about?”
Merrin’s confidence suddenly left him. His shoulders sagged. “Nothing ever goes right,” he moaned. He looked up at Beetle as if expecting sympathy. “It’s ’cause I’m not well,” he said. “I could do it if I didn’t have this horrible cold.”
“Do what?”
“None of your business,” said Merrin gloomily.
Beetle reckoned it was time to make a move. He turned to leave, hoping that he’d done enough to convince Merrin that his Darke Domaine had failed. “Right. I’ll be off then,” he said. “I’ll tell the Heaps where to find you.” He began to walk slowly to the door.
“No! Hey, wait!” Merrin called out.
Beetle stopped. He felt immensely relieved but did not want to show it. “Why?” he demanded.
“Please, Beetle, please don’t tell them. I’ve got nowhere else to go. I feel awful and no one even cares.” Merrin inspected the sheet for a space where he hadn’t blown his nose and blew noisily into it.
“And whose fault is that?”
“Oh, I expect it’s my fault,” said Merrin. “It always is my fault. It’s just not fair.” He twisted the Two-Faced Ring anxiously.
A sudden spatter of sleet drummed on the window. Merrin looked up pathetically. “Beetle. It . . . it’s cold outside. It’s wet and it’s nearly dark. I’ve nowhere to go. Please don’t tell.”
Beetle hurried on with his plan. “Look, Merrin, Sarah Heap is really nice. She won’t throw you out, not in the state you’re in.” Beetle reckoned he was telling the truth here. “She’ll take care of you until you’re better.”
“Will she?”
“Of course she will. Sarah Heap will take care of anything. Even you.”
Merrin had run out of dry sheet. He blew his nose on his blanket.
Beetle pressed on. “So why don’t you come downstairs with me to where it’s nice and warm?”
“All right then,” said Merrin. He coughed and fell back against his stained pillow. “Oh . . . I think I’m too weak to get up.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve only got a cold,” said Beetle scathingly.
“I’ve got . . . flu. Probably pneu . . . pneumonia in fact.”
Beetle wondered if Merrin might, for once, be telling the truth. He did actually look ill. His eyes were bright and feverish and he seemed to be having trouble breathing.
“I’ll come with you . . . I’ll give myself up, I will,” wheezed Merrin. “But you’ll have to help me. Please.”
Reluctantly Beetle went over to the bed. It smelled of dirty, damp clothes, sweat and sickness.
“Thank you, Beetle,” Merrin murmured, gazing oddly over his shoulder into the distance. The hairs on the back of Beetle’s neck began to prickle uncomfortably and the temperature in the chilly little room dropped a few degrees lower. Merrin held out his snotty hand and as Beetle leaned forward, steeling himself to take it, Merrin sat bolt upright and grabbed hold of Beetle’s arm. Tight as a vice Merrin’s bony fingers encircled his forearm. The ring on Merrin’s thumb pressed into his flesh and began to burn into it. Beetle gasped.
“Never, ever call me stupid,” Merrin hissed, looking intently over Beetle’s shoulder. “I am not stupid—you are.”
Beetle felt chilled. He knew that something very nasty was standing behind him and he dared not turn around. Beetle did not reply. His throat had suddenly gone dry.
Behind Beetle was a mass of Things, which had sensed Merrin losing his grip on the Darke Domaine. Merrin had acquired them in the Badlands some eighteen months previously, when he had taken possession of the Two-Faced Ring. Once the ring reached its full power, Merrin had Summoned the Things to the Palace because he had what he called “plans.”
Merrin’s confidence had returned. “You are in my Darke Domaine and you know it,” he crowed. “And I know you know it.”
Beetle swayed. Merrin’s ring was sending stabs of pain shooting up his arm and into his head. He felt sick and very, very dizzy. He tried to pull away but Merrin held him fast. With his free hand Merrin pulled a small, dog-eared book from under the bedcovers and waved it triumphantly at Beetle. “See this? I’ve read all of this and I can do stuff you can’t even dream of,” he hissed into Beetle’s ear. “You wait, office boy. I am going to show them all in this smelly little Castle and that stuck-up Manuscriptorium that they should have been nice to me. They’re going to regret it big time. This is my Palace now, not the stupid Princess’s. Soon the Castle will be mine and I am going to have everything I want. Everything!” Merrin was spitting with excitement. Beetle longed to wipe the spittle off his cheek but he could not move. Merrin had a grip like a vice. “And that stupid Septimus Heap, he’ll be sorry he stole my name. I’ll get him, you’ll see. I’m going to be the only Septimus Heap around here. It will be my Wizard Tower, my Manuscriptorium and I’ll have a ten-times better dragon than that moth-eaten Spit Fyre he prances around on. You’ll see!”
“In your dreams,” Beetle retorted, sounding more confident than he felt. Merrin’s rant spooked him. There was such a crazy kind of power behind it that Beetle almost believed him.
Merrin did not bother to reply. With one hand keeping an iron grasp on Beetle and the other clutching his open book, Merrin began to chant the words on the page in a low, monotonous voice. A Darke mist began to envelope Beetle. As Merrin came toward the end of the chant, the terrible words reached down to Beetle as if he were at the bottom of a deep, dark pit. His heart raced and he could hardly breathe from the fear that came over him. His vision closed in so that all he could see was a tunnel with Merrin at the end of it, waving his book and opening his huge red mouth to say . . .
But Beetle never heard what Merrin said. With his last conscious effort he reached out and snatched the book from Merrin’s grasp.
“BeGone!” yelled Merrin. And then, “Oi! Give it back!”
But Beetle didn’t give it back. Beetle was gone.
Chapter 12
Boomerang
Beetle was somewhere dark and uncomfortable—very uncomfortable. He was crushed into a tiny space, his knees folded up to his chest and his arms twisted up around his head. He tried to move, but he was wedged so tightly that he felt as though he were in a vice. He fought down panic. What had Merrin done to him?
Beetle’s discomfort was quickly turning into something much more nasty. Pins and needles were running down his legs and already he couldn’t feel his feet. His hands buzzed and tingled. His left hand was closed tightly around the book he had snatched from Merrin and was wedged in the same corner that his head was stuck in. His elbows and knees were jammed up against something hard and they hurt—really hurt. But the worst thing was the overwhelming feeling, growing stronger every passing moment, that if he didn’t stretch out right now he would go crazy.
Beetle took a few deep breaths and tried to quell his panic. He opened his eyes wide and stared into the dark, but although some light did seem to be filtering through from somewhere, he could not make sense of anything. The small amount of light helped Beetle get some control over his panic and he discovered that he could wiggle—just a little—the fingers of his right hand. Painfully he stretched them out and tapped, then scratched, the confining walls, trying to discover what they were made of. A splinter under his fingernail gave him the answer—wood. A great stab of fear shot through him—he was in his own coffin. Beetle heard a wild, despairing cry like that of an animal caught in a trap and a chill ran down his spine. It took him a few seconds to realize that the cry came from him.
Beneath the sound of his heart thudding in his ears, Beetle was becoming aware of noises filtering through from somewhere outside the coffin. It was an indistinct, muffled murmuring. In his dark prison, Beetle’s imagination flipped into overdrive. He�
�d read that Things murmured. Particularly when they were hungry—or was it angry? Beetle tried to remember. Did Things get hungry? Did they even eat? If they did, would they eat him? Maybe they were just angry. But angry wasn’t good either. In fact, it was probably worse. But what did it matter? Right now he’d give anything to get out of the coffin, to be able to stretch out his arms and legs and to uncurl his spine. In fact, he’d happily face a thousand Things in exchange for just being able to stretch out to his full height once more.
Beetle groaned out loud. The murmuring grew louder and drowned out the thumping of his heart, and then one of the sides of the coffin began to shake. Beetle closed his eyes. He knew that, any minute now, a Thing would wrench off the side of his coffin and that would be it. If he was lucky he’d get a few seconds to uncurl himself, to straighten his twisted arms and legs—but only if he was lucky. And after that? After that it would be the end of O. Beetle Beetle. Beetle thought of his mother and suppressed a sob. Mum, oh Mum. She would never know what had happened to him. But maybe . . . maybe that was for the best . . . With the sound of murmuring growing more agitated, Beetle braced himself for the worst.
Suddenly the side of the coffin was ripped away. Light flooded in. Beetle fell out of the Manuscriptorium Pending Cupboard. He landed with a painful thud on the floor. Someone screamed.
“Crumbs, it’s you,” gasped Foxy.
Beetle lay on his back, dazed. He felt like a piece of Jell-O that had been tipped out of its mold before it was properly set. Tentatively he opened his eyes and found himself looking straight up Foxy’s nose—which was not Foxy’s best aspect.
“Wargh?” he croaked feebly in reply.
A crowd of scribes had gathered around Beetle.
“Hey, Beetle, you all right?” asked a girl with short brown hair and a concerned expression. She kneeled down and helped him sit up.
Beetle nodded slowly. “Yeah. Thanks, Romilly. I’m fine. Now. But I thought I was about to be . . . um, not fine.” He shook his head, trying to get rid of all the terrifying thoughts that had crowded in on him during the last few minutes.
Suddenly a horribly familiar voice rang out. “What—atchoo—is going on here, Mr. Fox?”
Foxy leaped to his feet. “Nothing, Miss Djinn,” he gasped. “Just a small, um, accident with something in the Pending Cupboard. A boomerang Charm. It . . . came back. Unexpectedly.”
The short, rotund figure of the Chief Hermetic Scribe, swathed in her navy blue silk robes, stood at the entrance to the Hermetic Chamber on the other side of the Manuscriptorium. Luckily, due to her cost-cutting measures, the lights were very dim and she could not clearly see what was happening in the shadows beside the cupboard.
Jillie Djinn sneezed again. “It seems you cannot keep control of even a simple Charm, Mr. Fox,” she snapped. “If there is another incident—atchoo atchoo—like this—atchoooo—I shall be forced to reconsider your recent appointment.”
“I . . . I . . .” Foxy stammered.
Jillie Djinn blew her nose loudly and with great attention to detail. It was not a pretty sight. “Why, pray, was the Charm not given to me for stocktaking?” she demanded.
Romilly could see that Foxy was struggling with an answer. “It’s only just come back, Miss Djinn,” she said.
“Miss Badger, I asked the Charm Scribe, not you,” said Jillie Djinn. “And it is from the Charm Scribe that I require an answer.”
“It’s only just come back, Miss Djinn,” Foxy repeated.
Jillie Djinn was not pleased. “Atchoo! Well, now that it is back, I require it for stocktaking. Immediately, Mr. Fox.”
In a panic, Foxy hissed at Beetle. “Give it here, Beet. Quick. Before she comes over to get it.”
At last Beetle understood what had happened. He put his still trembling hand into the top left pocket of his Admiral’s jacket, pulled out the tiny curved piece of polished wood and handed it to Foxy. “Thanks, Foxo,” he muttered.
The desks in the Manuscriptorium stood tall and dark under their dim lights, like winter trees at sunset. Quickly Foxy loped through them to the far side of the Manuscriptorium and gave his Chief Scribe the tiny Boomerang. Jillie Djinn took it and looked at Foxy suspiciously.
“What are all the scribes doing away from their desks?” she asked.
“Um. Well, we had a bit of trouble,” said Foxy. “But it’s all right now.”
“What kind of—atchoo—trouble?”
“Hmm . . .” Thinking on his feet was not Foxy’s strong point.
“Well, Mr. Fox, if you can’t explain I shall have to go and see for myself. Oh, for goodness’ sake, get out of my way, will you?” Foxy was hovering in front of Jillie Djinn as though guarding an invisible goal, but unfortunately his talents did not lie in the goalkeeping arena either. The Chief Hermetic Scribe elbowed him out of the way and headed off through the closely packed lines of desks.
The scribes, who had gathered protectively around Beetle, watched the ball of navy blue silk trundle toward them. They bunched themselves into a tight-knit group and prepared for her attack.
“What is going on?” Jillie Djinn demanded. “Why are you not working?”
“There’s been an accident.” Romilly’s voice came from the back of the group.
“An accident?”
“Something fell out of the cupboard unexpectedly,” said Romilly.
“Accidents usually are unexpected,” Jillie Djinn observed tartly. “Enter full details along with the exact time of the incident in the accident log immediately— atchoo atchoo—and bring it to me to sign.”
“Yes, Miss Djinn. I’ll just go to the physik room for a bandage first. I won’t be long.”
“Very well, Miss Badger.” Jillie Djinn sniffed irritably. She knew something was not quite right. She tried to peer over the heads of the scribes but to her annoyance she found that the tallest scribes—corralled by the quick-thinking Barnaby Ewe, whose head always banged the doorframe—were clustering around her.
“Excuse me, Miss Djinn,” said one of them, a gangly young man with wispy brown hair. “While Miss Badger is in the physik room I wonder if you could check my calculations? I’m not sure if I’ve correctly worked out the average number of seconds that people have been late for their first appointments over the last seven weeks. I think I may have got a decimal point in the wrong place.”
Jillie Djinn sighed. “Mr. Partridge, will you never understand the decimal point?”
“I’m sure I very nearly do understand, Miss Djinn. If you could only run over it once more for me, I know all will be clear.”
Partridge knew that Jillie Djinn never could resist explaining the decimal point. And so, while Partridge stifled numerous yawns and Jillie Djinn began a tortuous explanation, accompanied by much nose blowing, Romilly Badger smuggled Beetle into the physik room.
The physik room was small and dingy, with a tiny slit of a window that looked out onto the Manuscriptorium backyard. Squashed into the room were a lumpy bed, two chairs and a table with a large red box on it. Romilly sat Beetle down on the edge of the bed and draped a blanket over his shoulders—Beetle was shivering with shock. Foxy came in, quietly closed the door behind him and stayed leaning against it.
“You look terrible,” he told Beetle.
Beetle managed a smile. “Thanks, Foxo.”
“Sorry, Beet. I thought it’d bring you back to the last place you had been safe—didn’t think it would come back to the last place it had been. Stupid thing.”
“Don’t apologize, Foxo. That cupboard’s a hundred times better than where I probably was headed. Just wish I’d figured it out earlier, that’s all. I wouldn’t have made such a racket.” Beetle grinned sheepishly. He couldn’t quite remember what he’d said. He had a feeling he’d yelled out “Mum”—or even worse, “Mummy”—but he hoped that maybe it had only been inside his head.
“Nah, you were okay,” said Foxy with a smile. He turned to Romilly. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Where did you cut yourse
lf?”
“I’m fine, Foxy,” said Romilly patiently. “I didn’t cut myself. The bandage was an excuse to get Beetle out of the way.”
“Oh, I see. That’s really clever.”
Beetle and Foxy watched Romilly open the red box, take out a large bandage and wrap it around her thumb.
Foxy looked puzzled. “But I thought . . .”
“Corroboration,” said Romilly mysteriously. “Okay, Beetle. I’ll go and check if the coast is clear, then we can get you out without you-know-who seeing anything.”
Foxy held the door open for Romilly, then he quietly closed it and resumed his position leaning against it. “She’s clever,” he said admiringly.
Beetle nodded. He still felt very odd, although he suspected that it was as much being back in his old place of work—a place that he had once loved—as anything Merrin had done.
“We still miss you,” said Foxy suddenly.
“Yeah. Me too . . .” mumbled Beetle.
“It’s horrible here now,” said Foxy. “It’s not been the same since you went. Actually, I’m thinking of leaving. And so are Partridge and Romilly.”
“Leaving?” Beetle was shocked.
“Yeah.” Foxy grinned. “D’you think Larry might want three more assistants?”
“I wish,” said Beetle.
Neither said anything for a moment, and then Foxy spoke. “So, ah, what were you doing, Beet—I mean, why did you need a SafeCharm? And why did it bring you back? Things must have been really scary.”
“They were. You know that Merrin Meredith kid who’s been hanging around here?”
“Him!” spat Foxy.
“Well, he did a BeGone.”
“On you?”
“Yeah.”
“No wonder you look so rough,” said Foxy.
“Yeah. But that’s not the worst of it. He’s holed up in the Palace attic—”
“You’re kidding!”
“—and I think he’s started a Darke Domaine.”
Foxy stared at Beetle in disbelief. “No! No. How?”
