Carry On

“Dead in the air.”

“Well done, Simon.”

“I … I think I killed some other things, too. Ebb found pheasants in the field. And Rhys had a parakeet.…”

The Mage glances at the robin flitting above his shoulder, then squeezes my arm. “You did what you had to. And no one was hurt. Did you see the nurse?”

“I’m fine, sir.” I step closer. “Sir. I was hoping—I mean. Have you made any progress? With the Humdrum? I see the Men coming and going. But I don’t—I could help. Penelope and me. We could help.”

His hand slips from my shoulder, and he rests it on his hip. “There’s nothing to report on that front. No breakthroughs, no attacks. Just the constant widening of the holes. I almost wish the Humdrum would show his face again”—I shudder at the memory of that face; the Mage goes on—“to remind these backwards fools what we’re really up against.”

I look over his shoulder at the truck. The Men have been carrying boxes past us the whole time we’ve been talking.

“Sir, did you get my note?”

He narrows his eyes. “About the missing Pitch boy.”

“About my roommate. He still hasn’t come back.”

The Mage rubs his beard with the back of his leather glove. “You’re right to be concerned, I think. The Old Families are closing ranks, calling their sons home, bolting their gates. They’re readying to make a move against us.”

“Their sons?”

He starts rattling off names—boys I know, but not well. Sixth, seventh, and eighth years.

“But surely,” I say, “the Families know that the Humdrum will finish us if we don’t stand together. He’s more powerful than ever.”

“Perhaps that’s part of their plan,” the Mage says. “I’ve stopped trying to figure these people out. They care more for their own wealth and power than for our world. Sometimes I think they’d sacrifice anything to see me fall.…”

“How can I help, sir?”

“By being careful, Simon.” He puts his hand on my arm again and turns to face me. “I’m leaving again in a few hours. But I was hoping, in the light of this new attack, that I could convince you to heed my words. Leave here, Simon. Let me take you to the haven I spoke of—it’s the farthest I can put you from danger.”

I take a step back. “But it was just flibbertigibbets, sir.”

“This time.”

“No. Sir. I told you … I’m fine here. I’m perfectly safe.”

“You’re never safe!” he says, and he says it so fiercely, it almost seems like a threat. “Safety, stability—it’s an illusion. It’s a false god, Simon. It’s clinging to a sinking raft instead of learning to swim.”

“Then I may as well stay here!” I say. Too loudly. One of the Mage’s Men, Stephen, looks up at me. My voice drops: “If nowhere is safe, I may as well stay here. With my friends. Or I may as well fight—I could help you.”

We lock eyes, and I see his fill with disappointment and pity. “I know you could, Simon. But the situation is very delicate right now.…”

He doesn’t have to finish. I know what he means.

The Mage doesn’t need a bomb.

You don’t send bombs on reco

I nod my head.

Then I turn away from him, walking back towards the heart of the grounds.

I can feel his Men watching me. They’re all just a year or two older than I am. I hate that they think they’re even older—that they feel so important. I hate the dark green breeches they wear, and the gold stars on their sleeves.

“Simon!” the Mage shouts.

I flatten my expression, then turn back.

He’s holding up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. He gives me a rare smile. A small one. “The Humdrum may be more powerful than ever, but you’re more powerful than ever, too. Remember that.”

I nod and watch him walk back to the garage.

I’m late to meet Penelope.

20

PENELOPE

We’re studying out in the hills, even though it’s cold, because Simon doesn’t like to practise where anyone can see him.

He’s got his grey duffle coat on, and a green-on-green striped school scarf, and I should have worn trousers because the wind is blowing right through my grey tights.

It’s nearly Samhain—the Veil will close soon, and Aunt Beryl hasn’t shown a whisker.

“It is what it is!” Simon says, pointing his wand at a small rock sitting on a tree stump. The rock shivers, then collapses into a pile of dust. “I can’t tell if the spell’s working,” he says, “or if I’m just destroying things.”

Every eighth-year student is tasked with creating a new spell by the end of the year—with finding a new twist in the language that’s gained power or an old one that’s been overlooked, and then figuring out how to apply it.

The best new spells are practical and enduring. Catchphrases are usually crap; mundane people get tired of saying them, then move on. (Spells go bad that way, expire just as we get the hang of them.) Songs are dicey for the same reason.

Almost never does a Watford student actually create a spell that takes hold.

But my mother was only a seventh year when she worked out The lady’s not for turning—and it’s still an incredibly useful spell in combat, especially for women. (Which Mum’s a bit ashamed of, I think. To have a spell taught in the Mage’s Offence workshops.)

Simon’s been trying a new phrase every week since the begi

He brushes the rubble off the stump and sits down, shoving his wand in his pocket. “Baz isn’t the only one missing.”

“What do you mean?” I point my wand at some chess pieces I’ve set on the ground. “The game is on!”

The bishop falls over.

I try again. “The game is afoot!”

Nothing happens.

“This phrase has got to be good for something,” I say. “It’s Shakespeare plus Sherlock Holmes.”

“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 begi

“Huh,” Simon says. “Du

“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, Pe

“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.