Carry On (6 page)

I was still trying to get it through my head that magic was
real,
and there he was telling me that something was killing it—eating it, ending it—and that only I could help:

“You're too young to hear this, Simon. Eleven is too young. But it isn't fair to keep any of this from you any longer. The Insidious Humdrum is the greatest threat the World of Mages has ever faced. He's powerful, he's pervasive. Fighting him is like fighting off sleep when you're long past the edge of exhaustion.

“But fight him we must. We want to protect you; I vow to do so with my life. But you must learn, Simon, as soon as possible, how best to protect yourself.

“He is our greatest threat. And you are our greatest hope.”

I was too stunned to respond or to ask any questions. Too young. I just wanted to see the Mage do that trick again, the one where he made a map roll out all by itself.

I spent that first year at Watford telling myself that I was dreaming. And the next year telling myself that I wasn't …

I'd already been attacked by ogres, shattered a circle of standing stones, and grown five inches before I thought to ask the real question:

Why me?

Why did
I
have to fight the Humdrum?

The Mage has answered that question a dozen different ways over the years:

Because I was chosen. Because I was prophesied. Because the Humdrum won't leave me alone.

But none of those are real answers. Penelope has given me the only answer that I know what to do with.…

“Because you can, Simon. And someone has to.”

The Mage is watching something out my window. I think about inviting him to sit down. Then I try to remember whether I've ever
seen
him sit down.

I shift my weight, and the bed creaks. He turns to me, looking troubled.

“Sir?”

“Simon.”

“The Humdrum—did you find him? What have I missed?”

The Mage rubs his chin in the notch between his thumb and forefinger, then jerks his head quickly from side to side. “Nothing. We're no closer to finding him, and other matters have needed my immediate attention.”

“How could anything be more important than the Humdrum?” I blurt out.

“Not more important,” he says. “Just more pressing. It's the Old Families—they're testing me.” He balls his right hand into a fist. “Half of Wales has stopped tithing. The Pitches are paying three members of the Coven to stay away from meetings, so we don't have quorum. And there have been skirmishes up and down the road to London all summer long.”

“Skirmishes?”

“Traps, tussles. Tests—they're all tests, Simon. You know the Old Families would seize the reins if they thought for a moment I was distracted. They'd roll back everything we've accomplished.”

“Do they think they can fight the Humdrum without us?”

“I think they're so shortsighted,” he says, looking over at me, “that they don't care. They just want power, and they want it now.”

“Well, I don't care about them,” I say. “If the Humdrum takes our magic, we won't have anything to scrap over. We should be fighting the Humdrum.”

“And we
will,
” he says, “when the time is right. When we know how to beat him. But until then, my first priority is keeping you safe. Simon…” He folds his arms. “I've been consulting with the other members of the Coven, with those I can trust. We think maybe our efforts to protect you have backfired. Despite the spells and surveillance, the Humdrum seems to have the best luck getting to you when you're here, at Watford. He spirited you away in June without triggering any of our defences.”

It's embarrassing to hear him say this. It feels like
I'm
the one failing, not the Mage or the protection spells. I'm supposed to be the only one who can fight the Humdrum. But I finally got a chance to face him, and the most I could do was run away. I don't think I'd have managed even that without Penelope.

The Mage clenches his jaw. He has one of those chins that flattens out in the middle—with a sharp dimple, like he was nicked by a knife. I'm dead jealous of it. “We've decided,” he says slowly, “that you would be safer somewhere other than Watford.”

I'm not sure what he's getting at. “Sir?”

“The Coven has secured a place for you. And a private tutor. I can't talk about the details now—but I'll take you there myself. We'll leave soon; I need to be back by nightfall.”

“You want me to leave Watford?”

He narrows his eyes. The Mage hates to repeat himself. “Yes. You won't need to pack much. Your boots and your cloak, any artefacts you want to keep—”

“Sir, I can't leave Watford. Our lessons start this week.”

He cocks his head. “Simon. You're not a child. There's nothing more for you to learn at Watford.”

Maybe he's right. I'm a hopeless student; it's not like this year is going to make or break me, but still … “I can't leave Watford. It's my last year.”

The Mage rubs his beard. His eyes narrow to slits.

“I just can't,” I say again. I try to think of why not, but all that comes to me is
no.
I can't leave Watford. I've been waiting all summer to get here. I've been waiting my whole life. I'm always either at Watford or wishing I was at Watford, and next year that will change—it has to—but
not yet.
“No,” I say. “I can't.”

“Simon”—his voice is stern—“this isn't a
suggestion.
Your life is at stake. And the entire World of Mages is depending on you.”

I feel like arguing that point:
Baz
isn't depending on me. None of the magicians who stand with the House of Pitch believe I'm their saviour.…

I grind my teeth so tight, I can practically feel the shape of them. I shake my head.

The Mage frowns down at me like I'm a child who's refusing to listen. “Hasn't it ever occurred to you, Simon, that the Humdrum attacks you only when you're here?”

“Has it just now occurred to you?” I swallow. “Sir,” I add too late.

“I don't understand this!” he says, raising his voice. “You've never questioned my decisions before.”

“You've never asked me to leave Watford before!”

His face is hard. “Simon, we're at war. Do I need to remind you of that?”

“No, sir.”

“And we all make sacrifices at wartime.”

“But we've
always
been at war,” I say. “As long as I've been here. We can't just stop living because we're at war.”

“Can't we?” He's finally lost his temper. He jerks his hand back down to the hilt of his sword. “Look at me, Simon. Have you ever known me to indulge myself with a normal life? Where is my wife? My children? Where's my house in the country with my cosy chair and a fat cocker spaniel to bring me my slippers? When do I go on holiday? When do I take a break? When do I do
anything
other than prepare for the battle ahead? We don't get to ignore our responsibilities because we're bored with them.”

My head drops down like he's shoved it. “I'm not bored,” I mutter.

“Speak up.”

I lift my head. “I'm not bored, sir.”

Our eyes meet.

“Get dressed. Gather your things.…”

I feel every muscle in my body grab. Every joint lock. “No.”

I
can't.
I just got here. And this summer was the worst summer yet. I held on because I was coming to Watford at the end of it, but I can't hold on any longer. I don't have it in me. My reserves are empty, and the Mage won't even tell me where he wants me to go—and what about Penny? And Agatha?

I'm shaking my head. I hear the Mage take in a sharp breath, and when I look up, there's a haze of red between us.

Fuck. No.

He steps away from me. “Simon,” he says. His wand is out.
“Stay cool!”

I fumble for my own wand and start running through spells.
“Keep it together! Suck it up! Steady on! Hold fast!”
But spells take magic, and drawing on my magic right now just draws it to the surface—the red between us thickens. I close my eyes and try to disappear. To think of nothing at all. I fall back on the bed, and my wand bounces onto the floor.

When I can focus again, the Mage is leaning over me, his hand on my forehead. Something is smoking—I think it's my sheets. “I'm sorry,” I whisper. “I didn't mean—”

“I know,” he says, but he still looks scared. He pushes my hair up off my forehead with one hand, then brushes his knuckles down my cheek.

“Please don't make me leave,” I beg.

The Mage looks in my eyes, and through them. I can see him deliberating—then relenting. “I'll talk to the Coven,” he says. “Perhaps we still have time.…” He purses his lips together. He has a pencil-thin moustache, just above his lips; Baz and Agatha both like to make fun of it. “But it isn't just
your
safety we're concerned with, Simon.…”

He's still leaning over me. I feel like there's nothing to breathe between us but smoke.

“I'll talk to the Coven,” he says. He squeezes my shoulder and stands. “Do you need the nurse?”

“No, sir.”

“You'll call for me if something changes. Or if you see anything strange—any signs of the Humdrum, or anything … out of the ordinary.”

I nod.

The Mage strides out of the room, his palm resting on the hilt of his sword—that means he's thinking—and closes the door firmly behind him.

I roll around and make sure that my bed isn't actually burning, then collapse back into sleep.

 

8

LUCY

And the fog is so thick.

 

9

SIMON

Penny's sitting at my desk when I wake up again. She's reading a book as thick as her arm. “It's past noon,” she says. “You've become an absolute sluggard in foster care; I'm writing a letter to
The Telegraph.
”

“You can't just let yourself into my room without knocking,” I say, sitting up and rubbing my eyes. “Even if you do have a magickal key.”

“It's not a key, and I
did
knock. You sleep like a corpse.”

I walk past her to the bathroom, and she sniffs, then closes her book. “Simon. Did you go off?”

“Sort of. It's a long story.”

“Were you
attacked
?”

“No,” I shut the door to the bathroom and raise my voice: “I'll tell you later.” Penny's going to flip her shit when I tell her the Mage wants to send me away.

I look in the mirror and try to decide whether to shower. My hair's matted to my head on one side and standing up on top—I always break into a sweat when I lose control like that. I feel grimy all over. I examine my chin in the mirror, hoping I need a shave, but I don't; I never really do. I'd grow a moustache just like the Mage's if I could, and I wouldn't care at all if Baz took the piss.

I strip off my shirt and give the gold cross around my neck a rub. I'm not religious—it's a talisman. Been passed down in Agatha's family for years, a ward against vampires. It was black and tarnished when Dr. Wellbelove gave it to me, but I've rubbed it gold. Sometimes I chew on it. (Which is probably a bad thing to do to a mediaeval relic.) I don't really need to wear it all summer, but once you get used to wearing an anti-vampire necklace, it seems stupid to take it off.

All the other kids in care always think I'm religious. (And they think I smoke a pack a day, because I always sort of smell like smoke.)

I look at the mirror again. Penny's right. I'm too thin. My ribs stick out. You can see the muscles in my stomach, and not because I'm ripped—because I haven't really eaten for three months. Also I've got moles all over my body, which make me look poxed even when I'm
not
suffering from malnutrition.

“I'm taking a shower!” I shout.

“Hurry—we'll miss lunch!” I hear Penny moving around the room while I climb into the shower; then she's talking to me again from just outside the door: “Agatha's back.”

I turn on the water.

“Simon, did you hear me? Agatha's back!”

I heard her.

*   *   *

What's the etiquette for talking to your girlfriend after three months, when the last time you saw her, she was holding hands with your nemesis? (Both hands. Facing each other. Like they were about to break into song.)

Things had got dodgy with Agatha last year even before I saw her with Baz in the Wood. She'd been distant and quiet, and when I was injured in March (someone tampered with my wand), she just rolled her eyes. Like I'd brought it on myself.

Agatha's the only girl I've ever dated. We've been together for three years now, since we were 15. But I wanted her long before that. I've wanted her since the first time I saw her—walking across the Great Lawn, her long pale hair rippling in the wind. I remember seeing her and thinking that I'd never seen anything so beautiful. And that if you were that beautiful, that graceful, nothing could ever really touch you. It would be like being a lion or a unicorn. Nobody could really touch you, because you wouldn't even be on the
same plane
as everyone else.

Even sitting next to Agatha makes you feel sort of untouchable. Exalted. It's like sitting in the sun.

So imagine how it feels to date her—like you're carrying that light around with you all the time.

There's a picture of us together from the last winter solstice. She's in a long white dress, and her mother plaited mistletoe into her milky gold hair. I'm wearing white, too. I felt naff, but in the photo—well, I look fine. Standing next to Agatha, wearing a suit her father lent me … I actually look like I'm who I'm supposed to be.