Carry On (8 page)

Hear me.

*   *   *

He was the first of his family at Watford, the first with enough power to get past the trials. He came all by himself, all the way from Wales, on the train.

David.

We called him Davy. (Well, some of us just called him daft.)

And he didn't have any friends—I don't think he ever had any friends. I don't even think
I
was his friend, not at first.

I was just the only one listening.

“World of Mages,” he'd say. “What world, I ask you—
what world?
This isn't a school; schools educate people—
schools lift people up
—do you understand me?”

“
I'm
getting an education,” I said.

“You are, aren't you?” His blue eyes glinted. There was always a fire in his eyes. “You get power. You get the secret password. Because your father had it, and your grandfather. You're in the club.”

“So are you, Davy.”

“Only because I was too powerful for them to deny me.”

“Right,” I said. “So now you're in the club.”

“Lucky me.”

“I can't tell if you mean that.…”

“Lucky me,” he said. “Unlucky everyone else. This place isn't about sharing knowledge. It's about keeping knowledge in the hands of the rich.”

“You mean, the most powerful.”

“Same difference,” he spat. He always spat. His eyes were always glinting, and his mouth was always spitting.

“So you don't want to be here?” I asked.

“Did you know that the Church used to give services in Latin, because they didn't trust the congregation with God's word?”

“Are you talking about Christianity? I don't know anything about Christianity.”

“Why are
we
here, Lucy? When so many others are refused?”

“Because we're the most powerful. It's important for us to learn how to manage and use our magic.”

“Is it that important? Wouldn't it be
more important
to teach the least powerful? To help them make the most of what they
do
have? Should we teach only poets to read?”

“I don't understand what you want. You're
here,
Davy. At Watford.”

“I'm here. And maybe if I meet the right people—if I bow and scrape before every Pitch and Grimm, they'll teach me the trickiest spells. They'll give me a seat at the table. And then I can spend my life as they do, making sure that no one else takes it from me.”

“That's not what I'm going to do with my magic.”

He stopped spitting for a second to squint at me: “What are you going to do, Lucy?”

“See the world.”

“The World of Mages?”

“No,
the world.
”

*   *   *

I have so much to tell you.

But time is short. And the Veil is thick.

And it takes magic to speak, a soul full of it.

 

12

SIMON

As it happens, I
am
alone when I see Agatha.

I'm lying out on the Lawn, thinking about the first time I got here—the grass was so nice that I didn't think we were allowed to walk on it.

Agatha's wearing jeans and a gauzy white shirt, and she comes up the hill towards me slowly blocking the sun, so there's a halo for just a second around her blond hair.

She smiles, but I can tell she's nervous. I wonder if she's been looking for me. I sit up, and she sits down on the ground next to me.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hello, Simon.”

“How was your summer?”

She gives me a look like she can't believe how lame that question is, but also like she's kind of relieved to make small talk. “Good,” she says, “quiet.”

“Did you travel?” I ask.

“Only for events.”

Agatha's a show jumper. Competitively. I think she wants to jump for Great Britain someday. Or maybe ride? I know jack-all about horses. She tried to get me on a horse once, and I chickened out.

“Simon, you can't be scared of this horse. You've slain dragons.”

“Well, I'm not afraid to slay it, am I? You want me to ride it.”

“Any luck?” I ask now.

“Some,” she says. “Mostly skill.”

“Ah.” I nod my head. “Right. Sorry.”

I sort of hate to talk to Agatha about horse stuff—and not because I'm afraid of them. It's just one more thing I'll never get right. All that posh crap. Regattas and galas and, I don't know, polo matches. Agatha's mum has hats that look like wedding cakes.

It's too much. I've got enough to deal with, trying to figure out what it means to be a magician—I'll never pass as to the manner born.

Maybe Agatha would be better off with Baz after all.…

If he weren't evil.

I must look like I'm fuming, because she clears her throat uncomfortably. “Do you want me to go?”

“No,” I say. “No. I'm glad to see you.”

“You haven't actually looked at me,” she says.

So I look at her.

She's beautiful.

And I want her. I want everything to be fine.

“Look, Simon. I know you saw—”

I cut her off. “I didn't see anything.”

“Well, I saw
you,
” she says. Her voice sharpens: “And Penelope, and—”

I cut her off again. “No, I mean…” I'm not doing this right. “I
did
see you. In the Wood. And I saw … him. But it's all right. I know you wouldn't—well, I know you
wouldn't,
Agatha. And it doesn't matter, anyway. It was months ago.”

Her eyes are wide and confused.

Agatha has lovely brown eyes. Almost golden. And lovely long eyelashes. And the skin around her eyes sparkles like she's a fairy. (She's not a fairy. Fairies who can speak with magic are welcome at Watford, if they can find it, but none have ever chosen to attend.)

“But, Simon, we have to … I mean, shouldn't we
talk
about this?”

“I'd rather just move on,” I say. “It's not important. And it's just—Agatha, it's so good to see you.” I reach for her hand.

She lets me take it. “It's good to see you, too, Simon.”

I smile.

She almost smiles back.

 

13

AGATHA

It is good to see him, it's
always
good to see him.

It's always such a relief.

I think about it sometimes, what it will be like the time that he doesn't come back.

Someday Simon isn't going to come back.

Everyone knows it—I think even the Mage knows it. (Penelope knows, but she doesn't believe.)

It's just … It's
impossible
for him to live through this. Too many people want him dead. Too many things worse than people. Dark things. Creatures. Whatever the Insidious Humdrum is. They all want him gone, and he can't keep surviving; there've been too many close calls.

Nobody's that strong.

Nobody's that lucky.

Someday he won't come back, and I'll be one of the first people they tell. I've thought it out because I know that however I react, it won't be enough.

Simon's the Chosen One. And he chose me. And even though I love him—we grew up together, he spends every Christmas at my house, I
do
love him—it isn't enough. Whatever I feel isn't enough; it won't
be
enough, when I lose him.

What if it's like that time our collie got hit by a car? I cried, but only because I knew I was supposed to, not because I couldn't help it.…

I used to think that maybe I was holding back my feelings for Simon as some sort of self-defence. Like, to protect myself from the pain of losing him, the pain of maybe losing everything—because, if Simon goes, what hope do any of us have?

(What hope
do
we have? Simon isn't the solution to our problems; he's just a stay of execution.)

But it isn't that—it isn't self-defence.

I just don't love Simon enough.

I don't love him the right way.

Maybe I don't have that sort of love in me—maybe I'm defective.

And if that's the case, I may as well stand by Simon, shouldn't I? If that's where he wants me? If that's where everyone expects me to be?

If it's the only place I can make any difference?

 

14

SIMON

I spend an hour or so with Agatha, but we don't say much. I don't tell her about the Mage.

(What if Agatha agreed with the Mage? What if she wanted me to go, too? I'd want
her
to go, if she were in danger at Watford. Hell, she
is
in danger here. Because of me.)

When I get back to my room, Penny's there already, sprawled out with a book on Baz's bed.

“So you and Agatha talked?” she asks.

“We talked.”

“Did she explain? About Baz?”

“I told her not to.”

Penny sets down her book. “You don't want to know why your girlfriend was snogging your sworn enemy?”

“I don't know about ‘sworn,'” I say. “I've never taken an oath.”

“I'm pretty sure Baz has.”

“Anyway, they weren't snogging.”

Penny shakes her head. “If I caught Micah holding hands with Baz, I'd want an explanation.”

“So would I.”

“Simon.”

“Penny. Of course you'd want an explanation. That's you. You like to demand explanations and then tell everyone why their explanations are crap.”

“I do not.”

“You
do.
But I—look, I just don't care. It's behind us. Agatha and I are fine.”

“I wonder if it's behind Baz.”

“Fuck Baz, he'll do whatever he can to get to me.”

And he'll start just as soon as he shows up. Which could be anytime …

Almost everyone else is here already. Nobody wants to miss the welcome-back picnic on the Great Lawn tonight. It's always a big to-do. Games. Fireworks. Spectacle magic.

Maybe Baz will miss the picnic; he's never missed it before, but it's a nice thought.

*   *   *

Penny and I meet Agatha out on the Lawn.

I don't see Baz, but there are so many people, it'd be easy for him to avoid me if he wanted. (Baz normally makes
sure
that I see him.)

The littluns are already playing games and eating cake, some of them wearing their Watford uniforms for the first time. Hats sliding off, ties crooked. There are races and singing. I get a bit choked up during the school song; there's this line about
“those golden years at Watford / those glowing, magickal years”
—and it makes me think again about how this is
it.
Every day I have this year will be the last day like it.

Last back-to-school picnic.

Last first day back.

I make a pig of myself, but Penny and Agatha don't mind, and the egg and cress sandwiches are to die for. Plus roast chicken. Pork pie. Spice cakes with sour lemon frosting. And jugs of cold milk and raspberry cordial.

I keep bracing for Baz to show up and ruin everything. I keep looking over my shoulder. (Maybe this is part of his plan—to ruin my night by making me wonder how he's going to ruin it.) I think Agatha is worried about seeing him, too.

One thing I'm
not
worried about is the Humdrum attacking. He sent flying monkeys to attack the picnic at the start of our fourth year, and the Humdrum never tries the same thing twice. (I guess he could send something
other
than flying monkeys.…)

After the sun sets, the littluns all head back to their rooms, and the seventh and eighth years stay out on the Lawn. The three of us find a spot, and Penny spells her jacket into a green blanket for us to lie on. Which Agatha says is a waste of magic when there are perfectly good blankets just inside. “Your jacket is going to get grass stains,” she says.

“It's already green,” Penelope dismisses her.

It's a warm night, and Penelope and Agatha are both good at astronomy. We lie on our backs, and they point out the stars. “I should get my crystal ball and tell your fortunes,” Penelope says, and Agatha and I both groan.

“I'll save you the trouble,” I say. “You're going to see me bathed in blood, but you won't be able to tell whose it is. And you'll see Agatha looking beautiful and swathed in light.”

Penelope pouts, but not for long. The night is too good for pouting. I find Agatha's hand in the blanket, and when I squeeze, she squeezes back.

This day, this night, it all feels so right. Magickally right. Like a portent. (I didn't used to believe in portents—I'm not superstitious. But then we did a unit on them in Magickal Science, and Penny said not believing in portents was like not believing in beans on toast.)

After an hour or so, someone crosses the Veil, right out onto the Lawn. It's somebody's dead sister; she's come back to tell him that it wasn't his fault—

I put my blade away on my own this time, without Penny telling me to.

“It's amazing,” she says. “Two Visitings in one day, and the Veil is just beginning to open.…”

When the ghost leaves, everybody starts hugging each other. (I think the seventh years have been passing around dandelion wine and Bacardi Breezers. But the three of us aren't class monitors, so it's not our problem.) Somebody starts singing the school song again, and we join in. Agatha sings, even though she's self-conscious about her voice.

I'm happy.

I'm
really
happy.

I'm home.

*   *   *

I wake up a few hours later, and I think Baz must be back.