Carry On

“You’re not helping,” I say.

“The Veil is lifting,” she says again. “Every twenty years, dead people can talk to the living if they have something that really needs to be said.”

“Oh…,” I say, “I guess maybe I have heard of that—I thought it was a myth.”

“One would think, after seven years, you’d stop saying that out loud.”

“Well, how am I supposed to know? There isn’t a book, is there? All the Magickal Things that Are Actually True and All the Ones that Are Bollocks, Just Like You Thought.”

“You’re the only magician who wasn’t raised with magic. You’re the only one who would read a book like that.”

“Father Christmas isn’t real,” I say, “but the Tooth Fairy is. There’s no rhyme or reason to this stuff.”

“Well, the Veil is totally real,” Pe

“But it’s lifting now?” I feel like getting my sword out again.

“The autumnal equinox is coming,” she says, “when day and night are the same length. The Veil thins, then lifts—sort of like fog. And people come back to tell us things.”

“All of us?”

“I wish. People only come back if they have something important to say. Something true. It’s like they come back to testify.”

“That sounds … dramatic.”

“My mother says her aunt came back twenty years ago to tell them about a hidden treasure. Mum’s kind of hoping she’ll come back again this time to tell us more.”

“What kind of treasure?”

“Books.”

“Of course.” I decide to finish my sandwich. And Pe

“But sometimes,” she says, “it’s scandalous. People come back to reveal affairs. Murders. The theory is, you have a better shot of crossing over if your message serves justice.”

“How can anyone know that?”

“It’s just a theory,” Pe

I look back across the hall. “I wonder what that girl’s gra

Pe

“So these Visitors … they’re not zombies?” It doesn’t hurt to be sure about these things.

“No, Simon. They’re harmless. Unless you’re afraid of the truth.”

10

THE MAGE

I should make him go. I could.

He’s not a child anymore, but he would still take an order.

I promised to take care of him.

How do you keep a promise like that? To take care of a child, when the child is the greatest power you know …

And what does it mean to take care of power? Do you use it? Conserve it? Keep it out of the wrong hands?

I’d thought I could be of more help to Simon, especially by now. Help him come into his power. Help him take hold of it.

There must be a spell for him.… Magic words that would fortify him. A ritual that would make the power itself manageable. I haven’t found it yet, but that doesn’t mean that it isn’t out there. That it doesn’t exist!

And if I do find it …

Is it enough to stabilize his power, if I can’t stabilize the boy?

This isn’t in the prophecies; there’s nothing about headstrong children.

I could hide Simon from the Humdrum itself.

I could hide him from everything he isn’t ready to face.

I could—I should! I should order him to go away—he’d still do it. He’d still listen to me.

But what if he didn’t.…

Simon Snow, would I lose you completely?

11

LUCY

Hear me.

*   *   *

He was the first of his family at Watford, the first with enough power to get past the trials. He came all by himself, all the way from Wales, on the train.

David.

We called him Davy. (Well, some of us just called him daft.)

And he didn’t have any friends—I don’t think he ever had any friends. I don’t even think I was his friend, not at first.

I was just the only one listening.

“World of Mages,” he’d say. “What world, I ask you—what world? This isn’t a school; schools educate people—schools lift people up—do you understand me?”

“I’m getting an education,” I said.

“You are, aren’t you?” His blue eyes glinted. There was always a fire in his eyes. “You get power. You get the secret password. Because your father had it, and your grandfather. You’re in the club.”

“So are you, Davy.”

“Only because I was too powerful for them to deny me.”

“Right,” I said. “So now you’re in the club.”

“Lucky me.”

“I can’t tell if you mean that.…”

“Lucky me,” he said. “Unlucky everyone else. This place isn’t about sharing knowledge. It’s about keeping knowledge in the hands of the rich.”

“You mean, the most powerful.”

“Same difference,” he spat. He always spat. His eyes were always glinting, and his mouth was always spitting.

“So you don’t want to be here?” I asked.

“Did you know that the Church used to give services in Latin, because they didn’t trust the congregation with God’s word?”

“Are you talking about Christianity? I don’t know anything about Christianity.”

“Why are we here, Lucy? When so many others are refused?”

“Because we’re the most powerful. It’s important for us to learn how to manage and use our magic.”

“Is it that important? Wouldn’t it be more important to teach the least powerful? To help them make the most of what they do have? Should we teach only poets to read?”

“I don’t understand what you want. You’re here, Davy. At Watford.”

“I’m here. And maybe if I meet the right people—if I bow and scrape before every Pitch and Grimm, they’ll teach me the trickiest spells. They’ll give me a seat at the table. And then I can spend my life as they do, making sure that no one else takes it from me.”

“That’s not what I’m going to do with my magic.”

He stopped spitting for a second to squint at me: “What are you going to do, Lucy?”

“See the world.”

“The World of Mages?”

“No, the world.”

*   *   *

I have so much to tell you.

But time is short. And the Veil is thick.

And it takes magic to speak, a soul full of it.

12

SIMON

As it happens, I am alone when I see Agatha.

I’m lying out on the Lawn, thinking about the first time I got here—the grass was so nice that I didn’t think we were allowed to walk on it.

Agatha’s wearing jeans and a gauzy white shirt, and she comes up the hill towards me slowly blocking the sun, so there’s a halo for just a second around her blond hair.

She smiles, but I can tell she’s nervous. I wonder if she’s been looking for me. I sit up, and she sits down on the ground next to me.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hello, Simon.”

“How was your summer?”

She gives me a look like she can’t believe how lame that question is, but also like she’s kind of relieved to make small talk. “Good,” she says, “quiet.”

“Did you travel?” I ask.

“Only for events.”

Agatha’s a show jumper. Competitively. I think she wants to jump for Great Britain someday. Or maybe ride? I know jack-all about horses. She tried to get me on a horse once, and I chickened out.

“Simon, you can’t be scared of this horse. You’ve slain dragons.”

“Well, I’m not afraid to slay it, am I? You want me to ride it.”

“Any luck?” I ask now.

“Some,” she says. “Mostly skill.”

“Ah.” I nod my head. “Right. Sorry.”

I sort of hate to talk to Agatha about horse stuff—and not because I’m afraid of them. It’s just one more thing I’ll never get right. All that posh crap. Regattas and galas and, I don’t know, polo matches. Agatha’s mum has hats that look like wedding cakes.

It’s too much. I’ve got enough to deal with, trying to figure out what it means to be a magician—I’ll never pass as to the ma