Carry On

“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 ru

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 Pe

“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, Pe

“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 Pe

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,” Pe

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

Pe

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,” Pe

“Meeting about what?” I ask.

“Strategy!” Pe

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.”

Pe

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 Pe

“Yes,” Pe

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,” Pe

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

“Lulled,” I hear Pe

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. “Pe

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.