Carry On (14 page)

“But that wasn't personal, Simon,” Agatha says. “It's because you're a Normal.”

“How am I a Normal?” He throws his hands in the air. “I'm the most powerful magician anyone knows about.”

“You know what I mean,” Agatha says, and she's being sincere, I think. “There's never been a Normal at Watford.”

She's right, but I wonder who she's parroting.

“I was prophesied,” Simon says, and it sounds so pathetically defensive, I try to think of a way to change the subject.

Simon
was
prophesied.

Or someone was. Over and over.

The most powerful magician ever to walk the earth was coming, and he (or she) was supposed to get here just when the World of Mages needed him most.

And Simon
did.

The Humdrum was eating our magic, the Mage and the Old Families were at each other's throats—and then Simon arrived. He came into his power and lit up the magickal firmament like an electrical storm.

Most magicians can remember exactly where they were that day. (I can't. But I was only 11.) My mum was giving a lecture. She said it felt like touching a raw wire and feeling the electricity shake you from the inside. Raw, scalding, scorching magic …

Which is still how Simon's magic feels. I've never told him so, but it's awful. Just standing near him when he goes off is like taking a shock. Your muscles are tired afterwards, and your hair smells like smoke.

Sometimes Simon's power seduces other magicians; they can feel it, and they want to be closer. But anyone who's actually been close to Simon is long past feeling seduced.

Once, he went off while protecting Agatha and me from a clan of worsegers—like badgers, but worse—and Agatha twitched and ticced for a week. She told Simon she had the flu, so he wouldn't feel bad. Agatha's less tolerant of his power than I am; it might be because she has less of her own. It might be that their magic is incompatible.

That can happen sometimes, even when two people are in love. There's an old story, a romantic tragedy, about two lovers whose magic drove each other mad.…

I don't think Simon and Agatha are in love.

But it isn't my job to tell them so. (And also I've already tried.)

Anyway, Mum says that when the Mage brought Simon back to Watford, it was like he was calling bluff on the whole World of Mages.
Here's that saviour you've been talking about for a thousand years.

Even the people who didn't believe it couldn't say so out loud. And nobody could deny Simon's power.

They
did
try to keep him out of Watford. The Mage had to make Simon his heir to get him into school—and to have him entered into the Book of Magic.

There are still a lot of people who don't accept Simon, even among the Mage's allies.
“It takes more than magic to make a mage,”
is what Baz has always said.

It sounds like classist nonsense, but in a way, it's true:

The unicorns have magic. The vampires have some. Dragons, numpties, ne'er-do-wolves—they all have magic.

But you're not a magician unless you can
control
magic, unless you can speak its language. And Simon … Well. Simon.

He gets up now and walks over to the window, opening it wide and sitting on the ledge. His wand is in his way, so he pulls it out of his back pocket and tosses it on his bed.

No. 4,
I write in the air,
The Mage.

“So we know the Mage's Men are raiding…,” I say. “And, Simon, didn't you say they were unloading things back in the stables? We could sniff around back there.”

He ignores me, staring out the window.

“Agatha,” I say, “what else have you heard at home?”

“I don't know,” she says, frowning and fiddling with her skirt. “Father's had lots of emergency Coven meetings. Mother says they can't meet at our house anymore. She thinks our Normal neighbours are getting suspicious.”

“All right,” I say, “maybe we should move on to questions now—what
don't
we know?”

I start a new column in the air, but Agatha stands up and starts walking out. “I really need to study.”

I try to stop her—“Agatha, wait, you'll get caught if you leave by yourself!”—but she's already closing the door.

Simon exhales loudly and runs his hands through his hair, making it stand up in curly bronze chunks. “I'm going for a walk,” he says, marching towards the door, leaving his wand on his bed.

Part of me wishes he were following her, but I don't think he is.

I sigh, then sit down on his bed and look at our meagre lists. Before I leave, I blow my words out the window with a
“Clear the air!”

 

24

AGATHA

I don't know what I'm hoping for.

That he'll see me standing at the wall, my hair whipping in the wind and my dress billowing out around me …

And that, what?

That it will mean something to him?

That he'll see me up here, waiting for him on the ramparts, and really
see
me for the first time—
There's the answer,
he'll think. And he'll unfasten my ribbons and tie them around his arm, or his thigh. And, Morgana, what would that even mean?

Something.

Something
new.

I know that Basil, I don't know …
thinks
about me. Or at least thought about me. That he used to watch me. Especially when I was with Simon.

I know that he hated what Simon and I have. And wanted it. That he'd do anything to get between us.

Baz was always there, cutting in at every dance. Teasing me away from Simon, then just teasing me. Disappearing. Sneaking away.

I played along sometimes—maybe I should be grateful that Baz never called my bluff.

Because maybe it wasn't a bluff. Maybe I
would
walk away with Baz. I followed him into the Wood that day; I still don't know what I was thinking.

I mean, I
know
who Baz is. I know what he is.

I can't break up with Simon for a Tory vampire—my parents would disown me. And I don't even know what that would entail. Would I have to be evil? Slip poison into people's drinks? Cast dark spells? Or would it just be sitting next to a different boy at a different table … Being beautiful on another side of the room.

I'd be gold to his black. Both of us pale as snow.

Maybe I wouldn't have to be evil—but Baz wouldn't expect me to be good, always so
good.

And maybe I'd live forever.

I walk the ramparts at night in a white dress and a knee-length woven cloak. The weather's turning. I feel the roses in my cheeks.

Maybe he'll see me up here before I see him.

Maybe he'll want me.

And I'll know what I want, too.

 

25

LUCY

I keep trying.

I keep calling.

I know this is your place.

 

26

SIMON

At first, when I see her standing along the ramparts, I think she's a ghost. A Visiting.

She's pale and wearing a flowy white dress, and her white hair is unbound and flying around her head.… But everybody else has come through the Veil wearing whatever it is they died in—not stereotypical ghost clothes.

I don't recognize the white lady on the ramparts as Agatha until she startles and turns to me. She must have heard me summon my blade. I immediately stow it when I see that it's her.

“Oh,” I say. “Hey. I thought you were studying.”

I don't feel angry with her anymore. Now that we're standing out in the cool air, and I've had time to clear my head.

“I
was
studying,” she says. “Then I felt like taking a walk.”

“Me, too.” I'm lying again.

I swear I don't normally lie and keep secrets from my friends like this. It's just—I can't tell them I'm out here looking for Baz. I mean, I never want to talk to Agatha about Baz, for obvious reasons, and Penelope just doesn't want to hear it.

After our fifth year, Penny decided I wasn't allowed to talk about Baz, unless he presents
a clear and present danger—

“You can't just whinge about him every time he gets on your nerves, Simon. That would mean nonstop whinging.”

“Why can't I?” I asked. “You complain about your roommate.”

“Not constantly.”

“Constantly enough.”

“How about this—you can talk to me about Baz when he presents a clear and present danger. And, beyond that: up to but no more than ten per cent of our total conversation.”

“I'm not going to do maths every time I talk to you about Baz.”

“Then err on the side of not whinging about him constantly.”

She still has no patience for it, even though I was completely right about Baz that year—he
was
up to something. Even beyond his usual skulking around, being a vampire.

That spring, Baz tried to steal my voice. That's the worst thing you can do to a magician—maybe worse than murder; a magician can't do magic without words. (Not usually, anyway.)

It happened out on the Lawn: I'd spotted Baz sneaking out over the drawbridge at dusk, and went after him. I followed him as far as the main gates, and then he stopped and turned to me, all casual, with his hands in his pockets—like he'd known I was behind him the whole time.

I was just about to start something with him when Philippa ran up behind me, calling, “Hiya, Simon!” in her squeaky little voice. But as soon as she said my name, she couldn't stop. She squeaked monstrously, like a lifetime of words were being ripped from her.

I know Baz did it.

I know he did
something
.

I saw it in his eyes when Philippa went mute.

Philippa got sent away. The Mage told me that she'd get her voice back, that it wasn't permanent, but she never came back to Watford.

I wonder if Baz still feels guilty. I wonder if he ever did.

Now he's gone, too.

When I notice Agatha again, she's trembling. I unbutton my grey duffle coat, sliding the horn buttons through the cord loops. “Here,” I say, sliding it off.

“No,” she says. “I'm fine.”

I hold it out to her anyway.

“No, it's okay. No—
Simon.
Keep your coat.”

My arms drop. It doesn't seem right to put the coat back on, so I fold it over one arm.

I don't know what else to say.

This is already the most time that Agatha and I have been alone since the start of the term. I haven't even kissed her since we've been back. I should probably kiss her.…

I reach out and take her hand—but I must move too quickly, because she seems surprised. Her hand jerks open, and something falls out. I kneel, picking it up before it blows away.

It's a handkerchief.

I know that it's Baz's handkerchief before I even see his initials embroidered in the corner, next to the Pitch coat of arms (flames, the moon, three falcons).

I know it's his because he's the only person I've ever met who carries old-fashioned handkerchiefs. He dropped one on my bed, sarcastically, when we were in first year, the first time he made me cry.

Agatha tries to pull the linen from my hand, but I don't let go. I snap it away from her.

“What is this?” I ask, holding it up. (We both know what it is.) “Are you—are you
waiting
for him? Are you meeting him here? Is he coming?”

Her eyes are wide and glossy. “No. Of course not.”

“How can you say ‘of course not' when you're up here, obviously thinking about him, holding his handkerchief?”

She folds her arms. “You don't know what I'm thinking about.”

“You're right, I don't, Agatha.
I really don't.
Is this where you come every night? When you tell us you're studying?”

“Simon…”

“Answer me!”
It comes out an order. It comes out drenched in magic, which shouldn't even be possible—because those aren't magic words, that isn't a spell. The spell for forcing honesty is
The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth
—but I've never used it; it's an advanced spell, and a restricted one. Still, I see the compulsion in Agatha's face. “No,” I say, pushing magic into my voice.
“You don't have to!”

Her face falls from compulsion to disgust. She backs away from me.

“I didn't mean to do that,” I say. “
Agatha.
I didn't. But you—” I throw my arms up. “—what are you doing here?”

“What if I
am
waiting for Baz?” she spits out, like she knows it will shock me stupid. It does.

“Why would you?”

She turns to the stone wall. “I don't know, Simon.”

“
Are
you waiting for him?”

The wind is in her hair, making it lash out behind her. “No,” she says. “Not waiting. I've no reason to believe he's coming.”

“But you want him to.”

She shrugs.

“What's wrong with you, Agatha?” I'm trying to control my temper now. “He's a monster. An actual monster.”

“We're all monsters,” she says.

She means that
I
am.

I try to tamp down the anger coiling up my legs. “Did you cheat on me? With Baz? Are you with
him
now?”

“No.”

“Do you want to be?”

She sighs, and leans forward on the rough stones. “I don't know.”

“Don't you want to say anything else to me? Like, ‘I'm sorry'? Don't you want to fix this?”

She looks back at me, over her shoulder. “Fix what, Simon—our relationship?” She turns to face me again. “What is our relationship? Is it just me being there when you need a date to the ball? And crying for joy every time you come back from the dead? Because I'll still do that for you. I can still do all that. Even if we're not together.”