Ptolemy's Gate

them on the floor beside the outermost circle.
    From somewhere not so very distant came a loud explosion. Kitty started nervously, heart pounding in her chest; she looked toward the door. . .
    Concentrate. What did she have to do?
    Mandrake's—no, Nathaniel's summary of the instructions in the Apocrypha had been rapid and hard to digest, but Kitty had grown used to such things during her time with Mr. Button. Her memory was suitably elastic.
    So. . . a conventional pentacle. No candles required. Yep, this one was fine.
    But her body should be protected—and that meant herbs and iron. She emptied out the rosemary, Saint-John's-wort, and sticks of rowan wood, mixed them together, and separated the result into several rough piles, which she placed at intervals within the pentacle. As for the iron, that was more tricky. For a moment she cast her eyes about the room in vain. Perhaps she would have to do without it. . .
    The key. Was it iron? Kitty had no idea. If it was, it might protect her. If not, it would do no harm. She pulled it from the door.
    What else? Yes. . . Nathaniel had said something about breaking the circle, a symbolic act to allow the magician to return to his body. Very well, that could be done. She bent down, and with the key's edge scored a gash in the painted circle. It was useless now for any ordinary summons. But this was not what Kitty planned.
    She stood upright. Finished. No other physical preparations were necessary.
    Except. . . the small matter of her comfort. On the chair behind the desk she discovered a dirty old cushion, much used and battered, and this she placed in the pentacle as a pillow.
    A mirror hung on the wall behind the desk; as she returned from the door, she caught sight of herself in passing. Only then did Kitty pause.
    It had been a while since she had looked at her face; she could not remember the last time. There she was: the thick dark hair, dark eyes (complete with outstanding bags), the quizzical lips, a purple bruise swelling becomingly above one eye. No doubt about it, she was a little shop-worn. But still young, still well.
    And if she succeeded in what she planned? Terrible things had happened to those magicians who had tried to follow Ptolemy's course. Mr. Button had been unspecific in the details, but given dark hints of madness and deformity. As for Ptolemy himself, she knew he had not survived for long after creating his Gate. And Bartimaeus had said his face had—
    With a curse, Kitty turned from the mirror. In truth, whatever risk she ran was immaterial compared with what was going on nearby. She had resolved to try and that was an end to it. There was nothing more she could do. Getting teary would achieve nothing. So.
    So there was nothing left for her but to lie within the pentacle.
    The floor was hard, but the cushion felt pleasant against the back of her head. Herb smells filled her nostrils. She took the key and closed it in her fist. A deep breath—
    An afterthought struck her. She raised her head, looked along her body, and to her annoyance discovered an awkward fact. She was too long for the circle—her feet stuck out over the inner lines. Perhaps it wouldn't matter, but perhaps it would. Kitty rolled onto her side, drew her knees to her chest, and assumed a curled-up position, as if she were in bed. A quick squint along. . . fine, she was nice and tidy now. Nice and ready.
    But ready for what? A sudden burst of skepticism exploded in her. This was nothing but another of her dreams, one of the ridiculous fancies Bartimaeus had derided. It was the height of arrogance to think she could succeed where no one else had in two thousand years or more. What was she thinking? She was no magician.
    But perhaps this was an advantage. Bartimaeus had prompted her to try it, she knew he had. His last words as he left them had echoed his description of Ptolemy: "We do have a bond. . . but for the present there are limits to it." For the present . . . What was that if not an implicit invitation to her and her alone? Ptolemy had known no limits: he had come to the Other Place by rejecting all the established magical conventions—by turning them on their head. And you didn't need more than the basic knowledge of summoning to do what he had done—-the instructions in the Apocrypha were entirely straightforward. The crucial part was calling to the demon at the end. Kitty could do all this. The question was: would it work?
    There was only one way to find out.
    She