Carry On

“Where is he?” she asks. “Where is my son?”

“I don’t know,” I answer.

“Did you hurt him?”

“No.”

“You can’t lie to the dead.”

“I don’t want to.”

She looks over at his empty bed, and her sadness is so potent that in that moment, I’d do anything to get him back for her. (I’d do anything to bring him back.)

“The Veil is closing. It will be twenty years before I can see my son again.” She turns back to me and pushes forward. She’s starting to fade. They all fade; Penelope says they can’t stay long, two minutes tops.

“You’ll have to do.”

“Do what?” She’s so cold, I can’t stand having her this close to me.

She reaches out and takes my shoulders—her hands like ice, her breath a painful chill on my face.

“Tell my son,” she says fiercely. “Tell him that my killer walks—Nicodemus knows. Tell Basilton to find Nico and bring me peace. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I say. “Find Nico.…”

“Nicodemus. Tell him.”

“I will,” I say. “I’ll tell him.”

Her face falls. “My son,” she says, cold tears gathering in her eyes. “Give him this.” She leans forward and presses a kiss into my temple. No one has ever kissed me there. No one has ever kissed me anywhere but on my mouth.

“My son,” she says, and it sounds like a whisper, but I think it’s a shout—I think she’s just fading now.

I lie in bed, trembling, after she’s gone. The room is so cold. I should build a fire, but I don’t want to open my eyes.

*   *   *

I must fall sleep, because the cold wakes me again, a fresh wave of it, deep in the night. It hangs like a cloud of chill over my bed, then seeps into me, touching me, cradling me.

“My son, my son,” I hear.

There’s no figure this time, just this everywhere cold. And the voice is higher and thi

“My son, my son. My rosebud boy. I never would have left you. He told me we were stars.”

“I’ll tell him,” I say. I shout it—“I’ll tell him!”

I just want her to go away.

“Simon, Simon … my rosebud boy.”

I close my eyes and pull up my blankets. But the cold is on me, it’s in me. “I’ll tell him!”

If Baz ever comes back, I will.

28

SIMON

I can’t wait to get out of my room in the morning. I run out the door with my tie hanging around my neck and my jumper thrown over my shoulder.

I have no plans to come back. Ever. There’s no room for me in there with all the ghosts. Let Baz’s mum hang out with his empty bed; I’m tired of staring at it.

I have to tell Pe

Pe

“We need to talk,” I say, dropping into a chair across from her.

“Good,” she says. “I thought you were going to make me beat it out of you.”

“You know already? How do you know?”

“Well, I know something happened. Agatha’s sitting alone, and she won’t even look at me.”

“Agatha?” I look up. Agatha’s sitting by herself on the other side of the dining hall, reading a book while she eats her cereal.

“So?” Pe

“No,” I say. “No … we broke up.”

Pe

“I don’t know. I think she’s in love with Baz.” That reminds me. I’m wearing the same trousers as yesterday. I reach into the pocket and feel his handkerchief.

“Oh,” Penelope says. “I guess I can see that. I mean—”

I push my face forward. “You can see that? How can you see that? My girlfriend falling in love with my sworn enemy? My girlfriend, who’s good, falling in love with my enemy, who’s completely evil?”

“Well, your relationship has had better … years, Simon. You and Agatha both seemed like you were just going through the motions.”

“And ‘the motions’ include cheating on me with Baz?”

“Did she cheat on you?”

“I don’t know.”

Pe

“Dead?”

“You know what I mean,” Pe

Was Baz dead? Wouldn’t his mother know if he were? Wouldn’t she have seen him behind the Veil? Maybe death is a big place. (It would have to be.) Maybe she’s been looking for Baz here because she hasn’t seen him yet on the other side.

I jab at my eggs a few times, then drop my fork.

In all of this, I’ve never seriously considered that Baz might be dead. Hiding, yes—plotting. Maybe even kidnapped or hurting, but … not dead.

He promised to make my life miserable.

When the doors to the dining hall fly open, it’s almost like I’m making it happen, like I’ve summoned it. Cold air pours into the room. It’s bright outside, in the courtyard, and at first, all we can see is the outline of a person.

This has happened so many times since school started that no one is scared now, not even the littluns.

When the figure steps forward, I recognize him at once.

Tall. Black hair swept back from his forehead. Lips curled up in a sneer … I know that face as well as my own.

Baz.

I stand up too quickly, knocking my chair over. Across the room, a mug falls to the floor and shatters—I glance over and see that Agatha is standing, too.

Baz steps towards us.

Baz.

BOOK TWO

29

BAZ

It’s u

I wanted it this way. I wanted to be the only person who got to break the news that I’m back.

Snow is the first to react—leaps to his feet, sends furniture flying. It’s work not to roll my eyes. (It’s a bit of work not to stare at him. He’s thin. And drawn. Normally, he’d be back to clobbering weight by now.)

Dev and Niall, bless them, act like I’ve arrived eight minutes late to breakfast, instead of eight weeks. Dev nudges Niall, and Niall gives me a bored once-over, then moves the teapot away from my spot, which they’ve left empty. Good men.

I walk over to the serving table and make up a plate. I pretend I’m not ferociously hungry. (I feel like I’ll always be hungry now.)

Snow is still standing. His meddling sidekick is yanking on his sleeve, trying to get him to sit down. He should listen to her. Wait, what’s this?… Where’s Wellbelove in this pretty tableau?

I scan the room without turning my head. There she is, sitting on the other side of the room—trouble in paradise?—staring at me. They’re all staring at me. But I can tell Wellbelove expects something extra from me, so I give it to her. A long, cool look. Let her make what she wants of that; she will anyway.

I settle down at the table, and Dev pours me a cup of tea.

“Baz,” he says, smirking.

“Gentlemen,” I say. “What have I missed?”

30

BAZ

Snow stands again when I walk into our Greek classroom. I take my seat without looking his way. “Enough, Snow, I’m not the Queen.”

He doesn’t reply—he must still be working up to a bluster.

Snow blusters like no one else. But! I! I mean! Um! It’s just! It’s no wonder he can never spit out a spell.