Carry On

I close my eyes now and take in as much air as I can:

Feathers. Dust. Lavender.

Water, from the moat.

Plus that slightly acrid smell that Baz says is the merwolves. (Don’t get Baz started on the merwolves; sometimes he leans out our window and spits into the moat, just to spite them.)

If he were here already, I’d hardly smell anything over his posh soap.… I take a deep breath now, trying to catch a hint of cedar.

There’s a rattle at the door, and I jump to my feet, holding my hand over my hip and calling again for the Sword of Mages. That’s three times already today; maybe I should just leave it out. The incantation is the only spell I always get right, perhaps because it’s not like other spells. It’s more of a pledge: “In justice. In courage. In defence of the weak. In the face of the mighty. Through magic and wisdom and good.”

It doesn’t have to appear.

The Sword of Mages is mine, but it belongs to no one. It doesn’t come unless it trusts you.

The hilt materializes in my grip, and I swing the sword up to my shoulder just as Penelope pushes the door open.

I let the sword drop. “You shouldn’t be able to do that,” I say.

She shrugs and falls onto Baz’s bed.

I can feel myself smiling. “You shouldn’t even be able to get past the front door.”

Penelope shrugs again and pushes Baz’s pillow up under her head.

“If Baz finds out you touched his bed,” I say. “He’s going to kill you.”

“Let him try.”

I twist my wrist just so, and the sword disappears.

“You look a fright,” she says.

“Ran into a goblin on the way in.”

“Can’t they just vote on their next king?” Her voice is light, but I can tell she’s sizing me up. The last time she saw me, I was a bundle of spells and rags. The last time I saw Pe

We’d just escaped the Humdrum, fled back to Watford, and burst into the White Chapel in the middle of the end-of-year ceremony—poor Elspeth was accepting an award for eight years of perfect attendance. I was still bleeding (from my pores, no one knew why). Pe

Then Penelope’s mum spelled their whole family away, even Premal. (Probably just to their car, but it was still really dramatic.)

I haven’t talked to Pe

Part of me wants to grab her right now and pat her down head to toe, just to make sure she’s whole—but Pe

My uniform is laid out at the end of my bed, and I start putting it away, piece by piece. New grey trousers. New green-and-purple striped tie …

Penelope sighs loudly behind me. I walk back to my bed and flop down, facing her, trying not to smile from ear to ear.

Her face is twisted into a pout.

“What can possibly have got under your skin already?” I ask.

“Trixie,” she huffs. Trixie’s her roommate. Pe

“What’s she done?”

“Come back.”

“You were expecting otherwise?”

Pe

I giggle. “In Trixie’s defence,” I say, “she is half pixie. And most pixies are a little manic.”

“Oh, and doesn’t she know it. I swear she uses it as an excuse. I can’t survive another year with her. I can’t be trusted not to spell her head into a dandelion and blow.”

I swallow another laugh and try hard not to beam at her. Great snakes, it’s good to see her. “It’s your last year,” I say. “You’ll make it.”

Pe

“What?”

“Hanging out with me.”

I let my grin free. “Hunting the Humdrum?”

“Fuck the Humdrum,” she says.

We both laugh, and I kind of grimace, because the Humdrum looks just like me—an 11-year-old version of me. (If Pe

I shudder.

Pe

“It’s the tracksuit.”

“Change, then.” She already has. She’s wearing her grey pleated uniform skirt and a red jumper. “Go on,” she says, “it’s almost teatime.”

I smile again and jump up off the bed, grabbing a pair of jeans and a purple sweatshirt that says WATFORD LACROSSE. (Agatha plays.)

Pe

I smile. Again. Pe

4

PENELOPE

Too thin. He looks too thin.

And something worse … scraped.

Simon always looks better after a few months of Watford’s roast beef. (And Yorkshire pudding and tea with too much milk. And fatty sausages. And butter-scone sandwiches.) He’s broad-shouldered and broad-nosed, and when he gets too thin, his skin just hangs off his cheekbones.

I’m used to seeing him thin like this, every autumn. But this time, today, it’s worse.

His face looks chapped. His eyes are lined with red, and the skin around them looks rough and patchy. His hands are red, too, and when he clenches his fists, the knuckles go white.

Even his smile is awful. Too big and red for his face.

I can’t look him in the eye. I grab his sleeve when he comes close, and I’m relieved when he keeps walking. If he didn’t, I might not let go. I might grab him and hold him and spell us both as far away from Watford as possible. We could come back after it’s all over. Let the Mage and the Pitches and the Humdrum and everyone else fight the wars they seem to have their hearts set on.

Simon and I could get a flat in Anchorage. Or Casablanca. Or Prague.

I’d read and write. He’d sleep and eat. And we’d both live to see the far end of 19. Maybe even 20.

I’d do it. I’d take him away—if I didn’t believe he was the only one who could make a difference here.

If I stole Simon and kept him safe …

I’m not sure there’d be a World of Mages to come back to.

5

SIMON

We practically have the dining hall to ourselves.

Penelope sits on the table with her feet on a chair. (Because she likes to pretend she doesn’t care.)

There are a few younger kids, first and second years, at the other side of the hall, having tea with their parents. I notice them, children and adults, all trying to get a look at me. The kids’ll get used to me after a few weeks, but this’ll be their parents’ only chance to get an eyeful.

Most magicians know who I am. Most of them knew I was coming before I knew myself; there’s a prophecy about me—a few prophecies, actually—about a superpowerful magician who’ll come along and fix everything.

And one will come to end us.

And one will bring his fall.

Let the greatest power of powers reign,

May it save us all.

The Greatest Mage. The Chosen One. The Power of Powers.

It still feels strange believing that that bloke’s supposed to be me. But I can’t deny it, either. I mean, nobody else has power like mine. I can’t always control it or direct it, but it’s there.