Carry On

“Speak up.”

I lift my head. “I’m not bored, sir.”

Our eyes meet.

“Get dressed. Gather your things.…”

I feel every muscle in my body grab. Every joint lock. “No.”

I can’t. I just got here. And this summer was the worst summer yet. I held on because I was coming to Watford at the end of it, but I can’t hold on any longer. I don’t have it in me. My reserves are empty, and the Mage won’t even tell me where he wants me to go—and what about Pe

I’m shaking my head. I hear the Mage take in a sharp breath, and when I look up, there’s a haze of red between us.

Fuck. No.

He steps away from me. “Simon,” he says. His wand is out. “Stay cool!”

I fumble for my own wand and start ru

When I can focus again, the Mage is leaning over me, his hand on my forehead. Something is smoking—I think it’s my sheets. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” he says, but he still looks scared. He pushes my hair up off my forehead with one hand, then brushes his knuckles down my cheek.

“Please don’t make me leave,” I beg.

The Mage looks in my eyes, and through them. I can see him deliberating—then relenting. “I’ll talk to the Coven,” he says. “Perhaps we still have time.…” He purses his lips together. He has a pencil-thin moustache, just above his lips; Baz and Agatha both like to make fun of it. “But it isn’t just your safety we’re concerned with, Simon.…”

He’s still leaning over me. I feel like there’s nothing to breathe between us but smoke.

“I’ll talk to the Coven,” he says. He squeezes my shoulder and stands. “Do you need the nurse?”

“No, sir.”

“You’ll call for me if something changes. Or if you see anything strange—any signs of the Humdrum, or anything … out of the ordinary.”

I nod.

The Mage strides out of the room, his palm resting on the hilt of his sword—that means he’s thinking—and closes the door firmly behind him.

I roll around and make sure that my bed isn’t actually burning, then collapse back into sleep.

8

LUCY

And the fog is so thick.

9

SIMON

Pe

“You can’t just let yourself into my room without knocking,” I say, sitting up and rubbing my eyes. “Even if you do have a magickal key.”

“It’s not a key, and I did knock. You sleep like a corpse.”

I walk past her to the bathroom, and she sniffs, then closes her book. “Simon. Did you go off?”

“Sort of. It’s a long story.”

“Were you attacked?”

“No,” I shut the door to the bathroom and raise my voice: “I’ll tell you later.” Pe

I look in the mirror and try to decide whether to shower. My hair’s matted to my head on one side and standing up on top—I always break into a sweat when I lose control like that. I feel grimy all over. I examine my chin in the mirror, hoping I need a shave, but I don’t; I never really do. I’d grow a moustache just like the Mage’s if I could, and I wouldn’t care at all if Baz took the piss.

I strip off my shirt and give the gold cross around my neck a rub. I’m not religious—it’s a talisman. Been passed down in Agatha’s family for years, a ward against vampires. It was black and tarnished when Dr. Wellbelove gave it to me, but I’ve rubbed it gold. Sometimes I chew on it. (Which is probably a bad thing to do to a mediaeval relic.) I don’t really need to wear it all summer, but once you get used to wearing an anti-vampire necklace, it seems stupid to take it off.

All the other kids in care always think I’m religious. (And they think I smoke a pack a day, because I always sort of smell like smoke.)

I look at the mirror again. Pe

“I’m taking a shower!” I shout.

“Hurry—we’ll miss lunch!” I hear Pe

I turn on the water.

“Simon, did you hear me? Agatha’s back!”

I heard her.

*   *   *

What’s the etiquette for talking to your girlfriend after three months, when the last time you saw her, she was holding hands with your nemesis? (Both hands. Facing each other. Like they were about to break into song.)

Things had got dodgy with Agatha last year even before I saw her with Baz in the Wood. She’d been distant and quiet, and when I was injured in March (someone tampered with my wand), she just rolled her eyes. Like I’d brought it on myself.

Agatha’s the only girl I’ve ever dated. We’ve been together for three years now, since we were 15. But I wanted her long before that. I’ve wanted her since the first time I saw her—walking across the Great Lawn, her long pale hair rippling in the wind. I remember seeing her and thinking that I’d never seen anything so beautiful. And that if you were that beautiful, that graceful, nothing could ever really touch you. It would be like being a lion or a unicorn. Nobody could really touch you, because you wouldn’t even be on the same plane as everyone else.

Even sitting next to Agatha makes you feel sort of untouchable. Exalted. It’s like sitting in the sun.

So imagine how it feels to date her—like you’re carrying that light around with you all the time.

There’s a picture of us together from the last winter solstice. She’s in a long white dress, and her mother plaited mistletoe into her milky gold hair. I’m wearing white, too. I felt naff, but in the photo—well, I look fine. Standing next to Agatha, wearing a suit her father lent me … I actually look like I’m who I’m supposed to be.

*   *   *

The dining hall is half full today. The term starts tomorrow. People are sitting on tables and standing in loose circles, catching up.

Lunch is ham and cheese rolls. Penelope grabs a plate of butter for me, and I smile. I’d eat butter with a spoon if it were acceptable. (I did it anyway, my first year, whenever I was the first one down to breakfast.)

I scan the room for Agatha but don’t see her. She must not be at lunch. I can’t believe she’d be in the dining hall and not sit at our table, even considering everything.

Rhys and Gareth, the boys who live in the room under mine, are sitting at our table already, at the far end.

“All right, Simon?” Rhys says. Gareth is shouting at someone across the hall.

“All right, fellas?” I answer.

Rhys nods at Pe

Sometimes when I’m walking through the dining hall, just saying hello to people, she’ll drag me by my sleeve to hurry me up.

“You have too many friends,” she’ll say.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not possible. And, anyway, I wouldn’t call them all ‘friends.’”

“There are only so many hours in the day, Simon. Two, three people—that’s all any of us have time for.”