Carry On

The World of Mages isn’t actually a world. We don’t have cities. Or even neighbourhoods. Magicians have always lived among mundanity. It’s safer that way, according to Penelope’s mum; it keeps us from drifting too far from the rest of the world.

The fairies did that, she says. Got tired of dealing with everybody else, wandered into the woods for a few centuries, then couldn’t find their way back.

The only place magicians live together, unless they’re related, is at Watford. There are a few magickal social clubs and parties, a

I don’t know what Pe

“Yes,” she tells me, “but he’s American. They don’t think about marriage the way we do. He might dump me for some pretty Normal he meets at Yale. Mum says that’s where our magic is going—bleeding out through ill-considered American marriages.”

Pe

They’re both being paranoid. Micah’s a solid bloke. He’ll marry Penelope—and then he’ll want to take her home with him. That’s what we should all be worried about.

Anyway …

Magic. I miss magic when I’m away.

When I’m by myself, magic is something personal. My burden, my secret.

But at Watford, magic is just the air that we breathe. It’s what makes me a part of something bigger, not the thing that sets me apart.

No. 8—Ebb and the goats

I started helping out Ebb the goatherd during my second year at Watford. And for a while, hanging out with the goats was pretty much my favourite thing. (Which Baz had a field day with.) Ebb’s the nicest person at Watford. Younger than the teachers. And surprisingly powerful for somebody who decided to spend her life taking care of goats.

“What does being powerful have to do with anything?” Ebb’ll say. “People who’re tall aren’t forced to pay thrashcanball.”

“You mean basketball?” (Living at Watford means Ebb’s a bit out of touch.)

“Same difference. I’m no soldier. Don’t see why I should have to fight for a living just because I can throw a punch.”

The Mage says we’re all soldiers, every one of us with an ounce of magic. That’s what’s dangerous about the old ways, he says—magicians just went about their merry way, doing whatever they felt like doing, treating magic like a toy or an entitlement, not something they had to protect.

Ebb doesn’t use a dog with the goats. Just her staff. I’ve seen her turn the whole herd with a wave of her hand. She’d started teaching me—how to pull the goats back one by one; how to make them all feel at once like they’d gone too far. She even let me help with the birthing one spring.…

I don’t have much time to spend with Ebb anymore.

But I leave her and the goats on my list of things to miss. Just so that I can stop for a minute to think about them.

No. 9—The Wavering Wood

I should take this one off the list.

Fuck the Wavering Wood.

No. 10—Agatha

Maybe I should take Agatha off my list, too.

I’m getting close to Watford now. I’ll be at the station in a few minutes. Someone will have come down from the school to fetch me.…

I used to save Agatha for last. I’d go all summer without thinking about her, then wait until I was almost to Watford before I’d let her back into my head. That way I wouldn’t spend the whole summer convincing myself that she was too good to be true.

But now … I don’t know, maybe Agatha is too good to be true, at least for me.

Last term, just before Pe

There was no time to talk to Agatha after I saw her with Baz—I was too busy getting kidnapped, then escaping. And then I couldn’t talk to her over the summer, because I can’t talk to anybody. And now, I don’t know … I don’t know what Agatha is to me.

I’m not even sure whether I’ve missed her.

3

SIMON

When I get to the station, there’s no one to meet me. No one I know, anyway—there’s a bored-looking taxi driver who’s written Snow on a piece of cardboard.

“That’s me,” I say. He looks dubious. I don’t look much like a public school toff, especially when I’m not in uniform. My hair’s too short—I shave it every year at the end of term—and my trainers are cheap, and I don’t look bored enough; I can’t keep my eyes still.

“That’s me,” I say again. A bit thuggishly. “Do you want to see my ID?”

He sighs and drops the sign. “If you want to get dropped off in the middle of nowhere, mate, I’m not going to argue with you.”

I get in the back of the taxi and sling my bag down on the seat next to me. The driver starts the engine and turns on the radio. I close my eyes; I get sick in the back of cars on good days, and today isn’t a good day—I’m nervous, and all I’ve had to eat is a chocolate bar and a bag of cheese-and-onion crisps.

Almost there now.

This is the last time I’ll be doing this. Coming back to Watford in autumn. I’ll still come back, but not like this, not like I’m coming home.

“Candle in the Wind” comes on the radio, and the driver sings along.

Candle in the wind is a dangerous spell. The boys at school say you can use it to give yourself more, you know, stamina. But if you emphasize the wrong syllable, you’ll end up starting a fire you can’t put out. An actual fire. I’d never try it, even if I had call for it; I’ve never been good with double entendres.

The car hits a pothole, and I lurch forward, catching myself on the seat in front of me.

“Belt up,” the driver snaps.

I do, taking a look around. We’re already out of the city and into the countryside. I swallow and stretch my shoulders back.

The taxi driver goes back to singing, louder now—“never knowing who to turn to”—like he’s really getting into the song. I think about telling him to belt up.

We hit another pothole, and my head nearly bangs against the ceiling. We’re on a dirt road. This isn’t the usual way to Watford.

I glance up at the driver, in the mirror. There’s something wrong—his skin is a deep green, and his lips are red as fresh meat.

Then I look at him, as he is, sitting in front of me. He’s just a cabbie. Gnarled teeth, smashed nose. Singing Elton John.

Then back at the mirror: Green skin. Red lips. Handsome as a pop star. Goblin.

I don’t wait to see what he’s up to. I hold my hand over my hip and start murmuring the incantation for the Sword of Mages. It’s an invisible weapon—more than invisible, really; it’s not even there until you say the magic words.

The goblin hears me casting, and our eyes meet in the mirror. He grins and reaches into his jacket.

If Baz were here, I’m sure he’d make a list of all the spells I could use in this moment. There’s probably something in French that would do nicely. But as soon as my sword appears in my hand, I grit my teeth and slash it across the front seat, taking off the goblin’s turning head—and the headrest, too. Voilà.

He keeps driving for a second; then the steering wheel goes wild. Thank magic there’s no barrier between us—I unbuckle my seat belt and dive over the seat (and the place where the goblin’s head used to be) to grab the wheel. His foot must still be on the gas: We’re already off the road and accelerating.