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.)