Carry On (13 page)

“The Mage told me that the Old Families have been pulling their sons out of school,” Simon says. “Two seventh-year boys didn't come back. And Marcus, Baz's cousin, is gone. He's only a sixth year.”

“Which one is Marcus?”

“Fit. Blond streaks in his hair. Midfielder.”

I shrug and stoop to pick up the chess pieces. I'm being fairly literal myself at the moment, because I've tried everything else with this phrase. I feel like it could be a good beginning spell—a catalyst.… “Is it just boys who haven't come back?” I ask.

“Huh,” Simon says. “Dunno. The Mage didn't say.”

“He's such a sexist.” I shake my head. “Marcus—is he the one who got trapped in a dumbwaiter our fourth year?”

“Yeah.”

“That one's joined the other side, eh? Well, I'm shaking in my boots.”

“The Mage thinks the Families are getting ready for some big strike.”

“What does he want us to do about it?”

“He doesn't,” Simon says.

I slip the chess pieces in my pocket. “What do you mean?”

“Well, he still wants me to leave—”

I must frown, because Simon raises his eyebrows and says, “I
know,
Penny—I'm not going anywhere. But if I stay here, then he wants me to lie low. He wants
us
to lie low. He says his Men are working on it, and it's delicate.”

“Hmm.” I sit next to Simon on the tree stump. I have to admit, I sort of love the idea of lying low—of letting the Mage get up to his mad business without us for once. But I don't like to be
told
to lie low. Neither does Simon. “Do you think Baz is with these other boys?” I ask.

“Makes sense, doesn't it?”

I don't say anything. I really, really hate to talk to Simon about Baz. It's like talking to the Mad Hatter about tea. I hate to encourage him.

He knocks some bark off the stump with the back of his heel.

I lean into him, because I'm cold and he's always warm. And because I like to remind him that I'm not afraid of him.

“It makes sense,” he says.

 

21

THE MAGE

Books. Artefacts. Enchanted jewellery. Enchanted furniture. Monkeys' paws, rabbits' legs, gnomes' gnoses …

We take it all. Even if I know it's useless to me.

This exercise has more than one aim. It's good to remind the Old Families that I'm still running this show.

This school.

This realm.

And there's not one of them who could do better.

They call me a failure because the Humdrum still drums on, stealing our magic, scrubbing our land clear—but who among them could pose a threat?

Maybe Natasha Grimm-Pitch could have put the Humdrum in his place—but she's long gone, and none of her friends and relatives have even a fraction of her talent.

I send my Men to take my enemies' treasures, to raid their libraries. I show them that even a red-faced child in my uniform has more power than they do in this new world. I show them what their names are worth—nothing.

But still …

I don't find what I need. I don't find any real answers—I still can't
fix
him.

The Greatest Mage is our only hope now.

But our greatest mage is fundamentally flawed. Cracked. Broken.

Simon Snow is that mage; I know it.

Nothing like him has ever walked our earth.

But Simon Snow—my Simon—still can't bear his power. He still can't control it. He's the only vessel big enough to hold it, but he is
cracked.
He is
compromised.
He is …

Just a boy.

There must be a way—a spell, a charm, a token—that can help him. We are mages! The only magickal creatures who can wield and
shape
power. Somewhere in our world, there is an answer for Simon. (A ritual. A recipe. A rhyme.)

This isn't how prophecies work.…

This isn't how stories unfold.…

Incompletely.

If there's a crack in Simon, then there's a way to mend him.

And I will find it.

 

22

SIMON

I'm failing Greek, I think. And I'm lost in Political Science.

Agatha and I get into a fight about going to her house for half-term break: I don't want to leave Watford, and I don't think she actually wants me to go home with her. But she wants me to want to. Or something.

I stop wearing my cross and put it in a box under my bed.…

My neck feels lighter, but my head feels full of stones. It would help if I could
sleep,
but I can't, and I don't really have to—I can just sort of get by, on catnaps and magic.

I keep having to kick Penny out of my room, so she doesn't catch on to how I'm spending my nights.

“But nobody's using Baz's bed,” she argues.

“Nobody's using
your
bed,” I say.

“Trixie and Keris push the beds together when I'm not there—there's probably pixie dust everywhere.”

“Not my problem, Penny.”

“All my problems are your problems, Simon.”

“Why?”

“Because all of
your
problems are my problems!”

“Go to your room.”

“Simon, please.”

“Go. You'll get expelled.”

“Only if I get caught.”

“Go.”

When Penny finally leaves, so do I.

I give up on the Catacombs and start haunting the ramparts instead.

I don't really expect to find Baz up here—where would he hide? But at least I feel like I'll see him coming.

Plus I like the wind. And the stars. I never get to see stars over the summer; no matter which city I end up in, there are always too many lights.

There's a watchtower out there with a little nook inside, with a bench and a roof. I watch the Mage's Men coming and going all night in their military truck. Sometimes I fall asleep.

*   *   *

“You look tired,” Penny says at breakfast. (Fried eggs. Fried mushrooms. Baked beans and black pudding.) “Also—” She leans over the table. “—there's a leaf in your hair.”

“Hmmm.” I keep shovelling in my breakfast. There'll be time for second helpings before lessons, if I hurry.

Penny reaches for my hair again, then glances at Agatha and pulls her hand back. Agatha's always been jealous of Penny and me, no matter how many times I tell her it's not like that. (It's
really
not like that.)

But Agatha seems to be ignoring us both. Again. Still. We haven't spent any time alone since our argument. Honestly, it's been a relief. It's one fewer person asking me if I'm okay. I put my hand on her leg and squeeze, and she turns to me, smiling with the bottom half of her face.

“Right,” Penny says. “We're meeting tonight in Simon's room. After dinner.”

“Meeting about what?” I ask.

“Strategy!” Penny whispers.

Agatha wakes up. “Strategy about what?”

“About everything,” Penelope says. “About the Humdrum. About the Old Families. About what the Mage's Men are really up to. I'm tired of lying low—don't you feel like we're being left out?”

“No,” Agatha says. “I feel like we should be grateful for some peace.”

Penny sighs. “That's what I thought, too—but I'm worried that we're being lulled. Intentionally lulled.”

Agatha shakes her head. “You're worried that someone
wants
us to be happy and comfortable.”

“Yes!” Penelope says, stabbing the air with her fork.

“Perish the thought,” Agatha says.

“We should be in on the plan,” Penelope says. “Whatever it is. We've always been in on the plan—even when we were kids. And we're adults now. Why is the Mage sidelining us?”

“You think the Mage is lulling us?” Agatha asks. “Or is the Humdrum doing it? Or maybe Baz?” She's being sarcastic, but Penny either doesn't notice or pretends not to.

“Yes,”
Penny says, and stabs the air again, like she's making sure that it's dead. “All of the above!”

I wait for Agatha to argue some more, but she just shakes her head—shakes her cornsilk hair—and scoops some egg onto her toast.

She doesn't look happy
or
comfortable. She's frowning, and her eyes are pinched, and I don't think she's wearing makeup.

“You look tired,” I say, feeling bad that I'm just now noticing.

She leans against me for a moment, then sits straight again. “I'm fine, Simon.”

“You both look tired,” Penny declares. “Maybe you have post-traumatic stress disorder. Maybe you're not
used
to this much peace and quiet.”

I squeeze Agatha's leg again, then get up to get us some more eggs and toast and mushrooms.

“Lulled,”
I hear Penny saying.

 

23

PENELOPE

It was a murder of crows getting them both up here, and Agatha's still complaining:

“Penelope, this is a
boys'
house. We'll be
expelled.
”

“Well, the damage is done,” I say, sitting at Simon's desk. “You're as likely to get caught leaving now as leaving later, so you may as well stay.”

“You won't get caught,” Simon says, flopping down on his bed. “Penny sneaks up here all the time.”

Agatha is
not
happy to hear that. (I ignore her; if she's moronic enough to believe that Simon and I have romantic feelings for each other after all these years, I'm not wasting my time talking her out of it.) She deliberately sits as far as she can from both of us, even though that means sitting on Baz's bed.

Then she realizes what she's done, and looks like she wants to stand up again. Her eyes dart around the room, as if Baz himself might walk out of the bathroom. Simon looks just as paranoid.

Honestly.
The pair of them.

“I still don't know why we're having this meeting,” Agatha says.

“To pool our knowledge,” I say, looking around the room for materials. “This would be so much easier if we had a blackboard.…”

I raise my wand and cast a
“See what I mean!”
then start writing in the air—
What We Know:

“Nothing,” Agatha says. “Meeting adjourned.”

I ignore her. “The way I see it, there are three things we always have to worry about.”

1.,
I write,
The Humdrum.
“What do we know about the Humdrum?”

“That he looks like me,” Simon says, trying to go along with me. Agatha doesn't look surprised by this information; Simon must have told her what happened. “And that he wants something from me,” Simon continues. “That he comes after me.”

“And we know that he's been quiet,” I say. “Nothing but flibbertigibbets since June.”

Agatha folds her arms. “But the Humdrum's still out there eating magic, isn't he?”

“Yes,” I acknowledge. “But not as much. I saw my dad on the weekend, and he said the holes are spreading much more slowly than usual.” I add this to my notes in the air.

“We don't know that he eats it,” Simon says. “We don't know
what
the Humdrum does with the magic.”

“Sticking to what we do know…,” I say, and write,
2. The War with the Old Families.

“I wouldn't call it a ‘war,'” Agatha says.

“But there have been skirmishes, yeah?” Simon says. “And duels.”

Agatha huffs. “Well, you can't walk into someone's house and demand to go through their attic without expecting a few duels.”

Simon and I both turn to look at her. “What do you mean?” I ask.

“The Mage,” Agatha says. “I heard Mother talking to a friend from the club. He's been raiding magicians' houses, looking for dark magic.”

This is all news to me. “Has he raided your house?”

“He wouldn't,” Agatha says. “My father's on the Coven.”

“What sort of dark magic?” Simon asks.

“Probably anything that can be used as a weapon,” Agatha says.

“Anything
can
be used as a weapon,” Simon says.

I add to my notes:
Raids, dark magic, duels.

“And we know that the Old Families have kept some of their sons from Watford,” Simon adds.

“Which could just be coincidence,” I say. “We should do some legwork—maybe the missing boys just went to university.”

“Or maybe they're tired of being treated like villains,” Agatha says.

“Or maybe,” Simon says, “they're joining an army.”

I add to my notes:
Pitch allies leaving school.

Simon's getting jumpy. “What about Baz?”

Agatha runs her hand along the mattress.

“We'll get there,” I say. “Let's stay focused on what we know.”

He keeps pushing. “Miss Possibelf thinks he's missing. She said his dad sounded scared.”

I sigh and add a third column:
3. Baz.
But there's nothing to write underneath it.

“I still don't think it's
a war,
” Agatha insists. “It's just politics, just like in the Normal world. The Mage has power, and the Old Families want it back. They'll bitch and moan and cut deals and throw parties—”

“It's not just politics.” Simon leans towards her, pointing. “It's right and wrong.”

Agatha rolls her eyes. “But that's what the other side says, too.”

“Is that what Baz says?” he asks.

I try to cut in.
“Simon.”

“It's not just politics,” he says again. “It's right. And wrong. It's our
lives
. If the Old Families had their way, I wouldn't even be here. They wouldn't have let me into Watford.”