Septimus found Simon sitting on a bollard by the water, sheltered from the wind and out of sight of the pie shop. As they both bit into their bacon-and-bean pies they heard the clatter of the shutters of The Harbor and Dock Pie Shop as Maureen closed them for the night.

“I can’t see Merrin coming with us without a fight,” said Septimus.

“He can have a fight if he wants it,” said Simon.

“Better not, though,” said Septimus. “We don’t want the neighbors getting involved.”

“Gerk!” said Simon, his mouth full of bacon.

“Huh?”

“Just choking. At the thought of the lovely neighbors . . . but you’re right. We don’t want a scene. The last thing we want to do is to draw attention to Merrin.” Simon glanced anxiously about. “You never know where . . . they might be,” he whispered.

Septimus felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. “We shouldn’t use any Magyk either. The Transports were risky enough. Magyk attracts Magyk—particularly Darke Magyk.”

“I know,” said Simon a little curtly. He didn’t like his kid brother telling him basic stuff he knew already. “So we have to scare him so much that he’s not going to try anything at all. So that he’s too scared to even speak.”

“Yeah,” said Septimus, handing Simon an apple and marshberry jam pie. “That’s what I thought too.”

Simon bit into his pie and red jam ran down from his mouth. “You thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked.

“I guess so,” replied Septimus.

They sat in silence eating their pies, waiting. In front of them the fishing boats bobbed and clinked in the brisk wind that was blowing in off the sea. The tide was high and the harbor full of boats; all the fishermen knew that the wind was rising and the night was going to be wild. The metal fixings in the boats’ rigging clinked against the masts and the taut ropes thrummed in the wind.

“Not a good night for flying ghosts,” Simon commented, wiping his sticky hands on his robes.

“Nope,” mumbled Septimus, spraying bits of pastry into the wind. He hoped that Alther and his companion were faring well on their flight to the Port. Simon was right—ghosts found gusts of wind very difficult. Alther would complain that it was like being Passed Through by pixies with boots on. How Alther knew what being Passed Through by pixies with boots on was like, Septimus had no idea.

Septimus was stuffing sticky pie wrappers into his pocket when he saw something big and white gliding in above the masts. A moment later a massive albatross swooped down; it skidded onto the Quayside but the ungainly bird did not stop. Its huge webbed feet acted like skis as it shot across the slippery cobbles—heading straight for Septimus and Simon. They leaped up just in time to avoid its beak, which was heading like a dagger straight for their knees.

With a soft crump, the bird’s beak hit the bollard. Septimus winced—that must have hurt. The albatross then performed a most unbirdlike maneuver. It rolled onto its back, put its feet in the air and covered its beak with its wings.

“Transform!” said Septimus.

With a small pop and a flash of yellow light the bird Transformed into a willowy man wearing yellow and what appeared to be a pile of donuts of ever-decreasing size on his head. He lay on his back beside the bollard with both hands clamped over his nose. “Eurrrgh,” he groaned. “By doze. By doze.”

“That, Jim Knee, is what comes from showing off,” said Septimus, sounding uncannily like Marcia. “Where’s Alther?”

A small movement in the air answered his question.

“Here’s Alther,” said the ghost, Appearing. And then, noticing Jim Knee lying on the ground: “What’s he done now?”

“Pit der Pollard,” groaned the jinnee.

“I told you not to be an albatross,” said Alther crossly. “It was asking for trouble with this wind. You need a lot of skill to fly a bird like that. A small gull would have been quite adequate.”

Jim Knee sat up indignantly, leaving one hand on his nose. “I don’t do gulls,” he said. “Nasty creatures. They eat the most disgusting stuff. And given how hungry I am, goodness knows what some mangy gull would have picked up by now. Yuck.” He shuddered and glanced over to the pie shop. “Shame it’s closed,” he said. “I’m starving. Haven’t eaten for six months.”

Septimus felt guilty. He had woken Jim Knee up from his hibernation and not thought about feeding him anything—he really should have bought him a couple of Maureen’s pies. But Septimus had learned not to be too considerate with his jinnee. He had to keep up a tough act, even though it did not come naturally. “You can eat when you’ve done what you came for,” he said gruffly, catching a look of surprise from Simon, who was seeing a tougher side to his little brother.