Carry On

Hiding in a ditch along the side of the road. Simon’s exhausted. And I’m crying. And I’m trying to gather the wings up and push them into his back, so that we can walk into town and catch a train. The wings are falling apart in my hands. Simon’s bleeding.

In my nightmares, I can’t remember the right spell.…

But I remembered it that day. It’s a spell for scared children, for sweeping away practical jokes and flights of fancy. I pressed my hand into Simon’s back and choked out, “Nonsense!”

The wings disintegrated into clumps of dust and gore on his shoulders.

Simon picked someone’s pocket at the train station, so we could buy tickets. We slept on the train, leaning against each other. And when we got back to Watford, it was in the middle of the end-of-year ceremony, and Mum and Dad were there, and they dragged me home.

They almost didn’t let me come back to school this autumn—they tried to talk me into staying in America. Mum and I yelled at each other, and we haven’t really talked properly since.

I told my parents I couldn’t miss my last year. But we all knew that what I really meant was that I wouldn’t let Simon come back without me.

I said I’d walk back to Watford, that I’d find a way to fly.

Now they make me carry a mobile phone.

37

AGATHA

Watford is a quiet place if you’re not dating Simon Snow—and if you’ve spent so many years with Simon Snow that you never bothered making other friends.

I don’t have a roommate. The roommate the Crucible gave me, Philippa, got sick our fifth year and went home.

Simon said Baz did something to her. Dad said she had sudden, traumatic laryngitis—“a tragedy for a magician.”

“That would be a tragedy for anyone,” I said. “Normals talk, too.”

I don’t really miss Philippa. She was dead jealous that Simon liked me. And she laughed at my spellwork. Plus she always painted her nails without opening a window.

I do have friends, real friends, back home, but I’m not allowed to tell them about Watford. I’m not even able to tell them—Dad spelled me mum after he caught me complaining to my best friend, Minty, about my wand.

“I just said it was a hassle carrying it everywhere! I didn’t tell her it was magic!”

“Oh for snakes’ sake, Agatha,” Dad said.

My mother was livid. “You have to do it, Welby.”

So Dad levelled his wand at me: “Ix-nay on the atford-Way!”

It’s a serious spell. Only members of the Coven are allowed to use it. But I suppose it was a serious situation: If you tell Normals about magic, they all have to be tracked down and scoured. And if that’s not possible, you have to move away.

Now Minty (we met in primary school, that’s actually her first name, isn’t it lush?) thinks I go to a super-religious boarding school that doesn’t allow the Internet. Which is all true, as far as I’m concerned.

Magic is a religion.

But there’s no such thing as not believing—or only going through the motions on Easter and Christmas. Your whole life has to revolve around magic all the time. If you’re born with magic, you’re stuck with it, and you’re stuck with other magicians, and you’re stuck with wars that never end because people don’t even know when they started.

I don’t talk like this to my parents.

Or to Simon and Pe

Ix-nay on my ue-feelings-tray.

*   *   *

Baz is walking by himself across the courtyard. We haven’t talked since he’s been back.

We’ve never really talked, I guess. Even that time in the Wood. Simon burst in before we could get anywhere, and then Simon burst out again.

(Just when you think you’re having a scene without Simon, he drops in to remind you that everyone else is a supporting character in his catastrophe.)

As soon as Simon and Pe

Those were his last words to me.

But he does still watch me in the dining hall. It makes Simon mental. This morning, Simon got fed up and slammed his fork down, and when I looked over at Baz, he winked.

I hurry to catch up with him now. The sun is setting, and it’s making his grey skin look almost warm. I know it’s setting my hair on fire.

“Basil,” I say coolly, smiling like his name’s a secret.

He turns his head slightly to see me. “Wellbelove.” He sounds tired.

“We haven’t talked since you’ve been back,” I say.

“Did we talk before that?”

I decide to be bold. “Not as much as I’d like.”

He sighs. “Crowley, Wellbelove, there must be a better way to get your parents’ attention.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says, walking ahead.

“Baz, I thought—I thought you might need someone to talk to.”

“Nope, I’m good.”

“But—”

He stops and sighs, rubbing his eyes. “Look … Agatha. We both know that whatever you and Snow are squabbling about, you’ll soon work it out and be back to your golden destiny. Don’t complicate it.”

“But we’re not—”

Baz has started walking again. He’s limping a little. Maybe that’s why he isn’t playing football. I keep following him.

“Maybe I don’t want a golden destiny,” I say.

“When you figure out how to sidestep destiny, let me know.” He’s walking as fast as he can with his limp, and I decide not to run to keep up with him. That would look appalling.

“Maybe I want something more interesting!” I call out.

“I’m not more interesting!” he shouts back, without turning his head. “I’m just wrong for you. Learn the difference.”

I bite down on my bottom lip and try not to cross my arms like a 6-year-old.

How does he know he’s wrong for me?

Why does everyone else think they know where I belong?

38

BAZ

Snow has been staring at me all day—for weeks now—and I’m just really not up for it. Maybe Aunt Fiona was right; I should have stayed home longer and rested up. I feel like complete shit.

Like I can’t get full, and I can’t get warm—and last night, I had some sort of attack in the Catacombs. It’s so fucking dark down there. And even though I can see in the dark, I felt like I was back in that stupid numpty coffin.

I couldn’t stay underground any longer. I caught six rats, banged their heads on the floor, tied their tails in a knot, then brought them back upstairs and drained them in the courtyard under the stars. May as well have sent an engraved a

I threw the rat carcasses to the merwolves. (They’re worse than rats. I’d drain every one of them if the taste didn’t stay in my mouth for weeks. Gamy and fishy.)

Then I slept like the dead for nine hours, and it still wasn’t enough. I’ve been asleep on my feet since lunch, and I can’t exactly go up to my room to take a nap. Snow would probably sit across from me and watch.

He’s been following me everywhere since I got back. He hasn’t been this persistent since our fifth year—he even followed me to the boys’ toilet yesterday and pretended he just needed to wash his hands.

I don’t have the strength for it.

I feel 15 again, like I’m going to give in if he gets too close—kiss him or bite him. The only reason I got through that year was that I couldn’t decide which of those options would finally put me out of my misery.

Probably Snow himself would put me out of my misery if I tried either one.

Those were my fifth-year fantasies: kisses and blood and Snow ridding the world of me.

I watched the football practice this afternoon, just for an excuse to sit down, then slipped away from the team when everyone else headed for di

Wellbelove catches me in the courtyard and tries to suck me into her maiden-fair drama, but I haven’t got time for the pain. I heard Miss Possibelf say that the Mage is coming back to Watford tomorrow—and I still haven’t snuck up to his office. (Probably because it’s an idiotic idea.) But if I go up there and take something, it will at least get Fiona off my back for a while.