Carry On

Maybe Agatha would be better off with Baz after all.…

If he weren’t evil.

I must look like I’m fuming, because she clears her throat uncomfortably. “Do you want me to go?”

“No,” I say. “No. I’m glad to see you.”

“You haven’t actually looked at me,” she says.

So I look at her.

She’s beautiful.

And I want her. I want everything to be fine.

“Look, Simon. I know you saw—”

I cut her off. “I didn’t see anything.”

“Well, I saw you,” she says. Her voice sharpens: “And Penelope, and—”

I cut her off again. “No, I mean…” I’m not doing this right. “I did see you. In the Wood. And I saw … him. But it’s all right. I know you wouldn’t—well, I know you wouldn’t, Agatha. And it doesn’t matter, anyway. It was months ago.”

Her eyes are wide and confused.

Agatha has lovely brown eyes. Almost golden. And lovely long eyelashes. And the skin around her eyes sparkles like she’s a fairy. (She’s not a fairy. Fairies who can speak with magic are welcome at Watford, if they can find it, but none have ever chosen to attend.)

“But, Simon, we have to … I mean, shouldn’t we talk about this?”

“I’d rather just move on,” I say. “It’s not important. And it’s just—Agatha, it’s so good to see you.” I reach for her hand.

She lets me take it. “It’s good to see you, too, Simon.”

I smile.

She almost smiles back.

13

AGATHA

It is good to see him, it’s always good to see him.

It’s always such a relief.

I think about it sometimes, what it will be like the time that he doesn’t come back.

Someday Simon isn’t going to come back.

Everyone knows it—I think even the Mage knows it. (Penelope knows, but she doesn’t believe.)

It’s just … It’s impossible for him to live through this. Too many people want him dead. Too many things worse than people. Dark things. Creatures. Whatever the Insidious Humdrum is. They all want him gone, and he can’t keep surviving; there’ve been too many close calls.

Nobody’s that strong.

Nobody’s that lucky.

Someday he won’t come back, and I’ll be one of the first people they tell. I’ve thought it out because I know that however I react, it won’t be enough.

Simon’s the Chosen One. And he chose me. And even though I love him—we grew up together, he spends every Christmas at my house, I do love him—it isn’t enough. Whatever I feel isn’t enough; it won’t be enough, when I lose him.

What if it’s like that time our collie got hit by a car? I cried, but only because I knew I was supposed to, not because I couldn’t help it.…

I used to think that maybe I was holding back my feelings for Simon as some sort of self-defence. Like, to protect myself from the pain of losing him, the pain of maybe losing everything—because, if Simon goes, what hope do any of us have?

(What hope do we have? Simon isn’t the solution to our problems; he’s just a stay of execution.)

But it isn’t that—it isn’t self-defence.

I just don’t love Simon enough.

I don’t love him the right way.

Maybe I don’t have that sort of love in me—maybe I’m defective.

And if that’s the case, I may as well stand by Simon, shouldn’t I? If that’s where he wants me? If that’s where everyone expects me to be?

If it’s the only place I can make any difference?

14

SIMON

I spend an hour or so with Agatha, but we don’t say much. I don’t tell her about the Mage.

(What if Agatha agreed with the Mage? What if she wanted me to go, too? I’d want her to go, if she were in danger at Watford. Hell, she is in danger here. Because of me.)

When I get back to my room, Pe

“So you and Agatha talked?” she asks.

“We talked.”

“Did she explain? About Baz?”

“I told her not to.”

Pe

“I don’t know about ‘sworn,’” I say. “I’ve never taken an oath.”

“I’m pretty sure Baz has.”

“Anyway, they weren’t snogging.”

Pe

“So would I.”

“Simon.”

“Pe

“I do not.”

“You do. But I—look, I just don’t care. It’s behind us. Agatha and I are fine.”

“I wonder if it’s behind Baz.”

“Fuck Baz, he’ll do whatever he can to get to me.”

And he’ll start just as soon as he shows up. Which could be anytime …

Almost everyone else is here already. Nobody wants to miss the welcome-back picnic on the Great Lawn tonight. It’s always a big to-do. Games. Fireworks. Spectacle magic.

Maybe Baz will miss the picnic; he’s never missed it before, but it’s a nice thought.

*   *   *

Pe

I don’t see Baz, but there are so many people, it’d be easy for him to avoid me if he wanted. (Baz normally makes sure that I see him.)

The littluns are already playing games and eating cake, some of them wearing their Watford uniforms for the first time. Hats sliding off, ties crooked. There are races and singing. I get a bit choked up during the school song; there’s this line about “those golden years at Watford / those glowing, magickal years”—and it makes me think again about how this is it. Every day I have this year will be the last day like it.

Last back-to-school picnic.

Last first day back.

I make a pig of myself, but Pe

I keep bracing for Baz to show up and ruin everything. I keep looking over my shoulder. (Maybe this is part of his plan—to ruin my night by making me wonder how he’s going to ruin it.) I think Agatha is worried about seeing him, too.

One thing I’m not worried about is the Humdrum attacking. He sent flying monkeys to attack the picnic at the start of our fourth year, and the Humdrum never tries the same thing twice. (I guess he could send something other than flying monkeys.…)

After the sun sets, the littluns all head back to their rooms, and the seventh and eighth years stay out on the Lawn. The three of us find a spot, and Pe

“It’s already green,” Penelope dismisses her.

It’s a warm night, and Penelope and Agatha are both good at astronomy. We lie on our backs, and they point out the stars. “I should get my crystal ball and tell your fortunes,” Penelope says, and Agatha and I both groan.

“I’ll save you the trouble,” I say. “You’re going to see me bathed in blood, but you won’t be able to tell whose it is. And you’ll see Agatha looking beautiful and swathed in light.”

Penelope pouts, but not for long. The night is too good for pouting. I find Agatha’s hand in the blanket, and when I squeeze, she squeezes back.

This day, this night, it all feels so right. Magickally right. Like a portent. (I didn’t used to believe in portents—I’m not superstitious. But then we did a unit on them in Magickal Science, and Pe

After an hour or so, someone crosses the Veil, right out onto the Lawn. It’s somebody’s dead sister; she’s come back to tell him that it wasn’t his fault—