I’m late to meet Penelope.
20
PENELOPE
We’re studying out in the hills, even though it’s cold, because Simon doesn’t like to practise where anyone can see him.
He’s got his grey duffle coat on, and a green-on-green striped school scarf, and I should have worn trousers because the wind is blowing right through my grey tights.
It’s nearly Samhain—the Veil will close soon, and Aunt Beryl hasn’t shown a whisker.
“It is what it is!” Simon says, pointing his wand at a small rock sitting on a tree stump. The rock shivers, then collapses into a pile of dust. “I can’t tell if the spell’s working,” he says, “or if I’m just destroying things.”
Every eighth-year student is tasked with creating a new spell by the end of the year—with finding a new twist in the language that’s gained power or an old one that’s been overlooked, and then figuring out how to apply it.
The best new spells are practical and enduring. Catchphrases are usually crap; mundane people get tired of saying them, then move on. (Spells go bad that way, expire just as we get the hang of them.) Songs are dicey for the same reason.
Almost never does a Watford student actually create a spell that takes hold.
But my mother was only a seventh year when she worked out The lady’s not for turning—and it’s still an incredibly useful spell in combat, especially for women. (Which Mum’s a bit ashamed of, I think. To have a spell taught in the Mage’s Offence workshops.)
Simon’s been trying a new phrase every week since the beginning of term. His heart’s not in it, and I don’t really blame him. Even tried-and-true spells hiccup in his wand. And sometimes when he casts metaphors, they go viciously literal. Like when he cast Hair of the dog on Agatha during sixth year to help her get over a hangover, and instead covered her with dog hair. I think that’s the last time Simon pointed his wand at a person. And the last time Agatha had a drink.
He brushes the rubble off the stump and sits down, shoving his wand in his pocket. “Baz isn’t the only one missing.”
“What do you mean?” I point my wand at some chess pieces I’ve set on the ground. “The game is on!”
The bishop falls over.
I try again. “The game is afoot!”
Nothing happens.
“This phrase has got to be good for something,” I say. “It’s Shakespeare plus Sherlock Holmes.”
“The Mage told me that the Old Families have been pulling their sons out of school,” Simon says. “Two seventh-year boys didn’t come back. And Marcus, Baz’s cousin, is gone. He’s only a sixth year.”
“Which one is Marcus?”
“Fit. Blond streaks in his hair. Midfielder.”
I shrug and stoop to pick up the chess pieces. I’m being fairly literal myself at the moment, because I’ve tried everything else with this phrase. I feel like it could be a good beginning spell—a catalyst.… “Is it just boys who haven’t come back?” I ask.
“Huh,” Simon says. “Dunno. The Mage didn’t say.”
“He’s such a sexist.” I shake my head. “Marcus—is he the one who got trapped in a dumbwaiter our fourth year?”
“Yeah.”
“That one’s joined the other side, eh? Well, I’m shaking in my boots.”
“The Mage thinks the Families are getting ready for some big strike.”
“What does he want us to do about it?”
“He doesn’t,” Simon says.
I slip the chess pieces in my pocket. “What do you mean?”
“Well, he still wants me to leave—”
I must frown, because Simon raises his eyebrows and says, “I know, Penny—I’m not going anywhere. But if I stay here, then he wants me to lie low. He wants us to lie low. He says his Men are working on it, and it’s delicate.”
“Hmm.” I sit next to Simon on the tree stump. I have to admit, I sort of love the idea of lying low—of letting the Mage get up to his mad business without us for once. But I don’t like to be told to lie low. Neither does Simon. “Do you think Baz is with these other boys?” I ask.
“Makes sense, doesn’t it?”
I don’t say anything. I really, really hate to talk to Simon about Baz. It’s like talking to the Mad Hatter about tea. I hate to encourage him.
He knocks some bark off the stump with the back of his heel.
I lean into him, because I’m cold and he’s always warm. And because I like to remind him that I’m not afraid of him.
“It makes sense,” he says.
21
THE MAGE
Books. Artefacts. Enchanted jewellery. Enchanted furniture. Monkeys’ paws, rabbits’ legs, gnomes’ gnoses …
We take it all. Even if I know it’s useless to me.
This exercise has more than one aim. It’s good to remind the Old Families that I’m still running this show.
This school.
This realm.
And there’s not one of them who could do better.
They call me a failure because the Humdrum still drums on, stealing our magic, scrubbing our land clear—but who among them could pose a threat?
Maybe Natasha Grimm-Pitch could have put the Humdrum in his place—but she’s long gone, and none of her friends and relatives have even a fraction of her talent.
I send my Men to take my enemies’ treasures, to raid their libraries. I show them that even a red-faced child in my uniform has more power than they do in this new world. I show them what their names are worth—nothing.