But still …
I don’t find what I need. I don’t find any real answers—I still can’t fix him.
The Greatest Mage is our only hope now.
But our greatest mage is fundamentally flawed. Cracked. Broken.
Simon Snow is that mage; I know it.
Nothing like him has ever walked our earth.
But Simon Snow—my Simon—still can’t bear his power. He still can’t control it. He’s the only vessel big enough to hold it, but he is cracked. He is compromised. He is …
Just a boy.
There must be a way—a spell, a charm, a token—that can help him. We are mages! The only magickal creatures who can wield and shape power. Somewhere in our world, there is an answer for Simon. (A ritual. A recipe. A rhyme.)
This isn’t how prophecies work.…
This isn’t how stories unfold.…
Incompletely.
If there’s a crack in Simon, then there’s a way to mend him.
And I will find it.
22
SIMON
I’m failing Greek, I think. And I’m lost in Political Science.
Agatha and I get into a fight about going to her house for half-term break: I don’t want to leave Watford, and I don’t think she actually wants me to go home with her. But she wants me to want to. Or something.
I stop wearing my cross and put it in a box under my bed.…
My neck feels lighter, but my head feels full of stones. It would help if I could sleep, but I can’t, and I don’t really have to—I can just sort of get by, on catnaps and magic.
I keep having to kick Penny out of my room, so she doesn’t catch on to how I’m spending my nights.
“But nobody’s using Baz’s bed,” she argues.
“Nobody’s using your bed,” I say.
“Trixie and Keris push the beds together when I’m not there—there’s probably pixie dust everywhere.”
“Not my problem, Penny.”
“All my problems are your problems, Simon.”
“Why?”
“Because all of your problems are my problems!”
“Go to your room.”
“Simon, please.”
“Go. You’ll get expelled.”
“Only if I get caught.”
“Go.”
When Penny finally leaves, so do I.
I give up on the Catacombs and start haunting the ramparts instead.
I don’t really expect to find Baz up here—where would he hide? But at least I feel like I’ll see him coming.
Plus I like the wind. And the stars. I never get to see stars over the summer; no matter which city I end up in, there are always too many lights.
There’s a watchtower out there with a little nook inside, with a bench and a roof. I watch the Mage’s Men coming and going all night in their military truck. Sometimes I fall asleep.
* * *
“You look tired,” Penny says at breakfast. (Fried eggs. Fried mushrooms. Baked beans and black pudding.) “Also—” She leans over the table. “—there’s a leaf in your hair.”
“Hmmm.” I keep shovelling in my breakfast. There’ll be time for second helpings before lessons, if I hurry.
Penny reaches for my hair again, then glances at Agatha and pulls her hand back. Agatha’s always been jealous of Penny and me, no matter how many times I tell her it’s not like that. (It’s really not like that.)
But Agatha seems to be ignoring us both. Again. Still. We haven’t spent any time alone since our argument. Honestly, it’s been a relief. It’s one fewer person asking me if I’m okay. I put my hand on her leg and squeeze, and she turns to me, smiling with the bottom half of her face.
“Right,” Penny says. “We’re meeting tonight in Simon’s room. After dinner.”
“Meeting about what?” I ask.
“Strategy!” Penny whispers.
Agatha wakes up. “Strategy about what?”
“About everything,” Penelope says. “About the Humdrum. About the Old Families. About what the Mage’s Men are really up to. I’m tired of lying low—don’t you feel like we’re being left out?”
“No,” Agatha says. “I feel like we should be grateful for some peace.”
Penny sighs. “That’s what I thought, too—but I’m worried that we’re being lulled. Intentionally lulled.”
Agatha shakes her head. “You’re worried that someone wants us to be happy and comfortable.”
“Yes!” Penelope says, stabbing the air with her fork.
“Perish the thought,” Agatha says.
“We should be in on the plan,” Penelope says. “Whatever it is. We’ve always been in on the plan—even when we were kids. And we’re adults now. Why is the Mage sidelining us?”
“You think the Mage is lulling us?” Agatha asks. “Or is the Humdrum doing it? Or maybe Baz?” She’s being sarcastic, but Penny either doesn’t notice or pretends not to.
“Yes,” Penny says, and stabs the air again, like she’s making sure that it’s dead. “All of the above!”
I wait for Agatha to argue some more, but she just shakes her head—shakes her cornsilk hair—and scoops some egg onto her toast.
She doesn’t look happy or comfortable. She’s frowning, and her eyes are pinched, and I don’t think she’s wearing makeup.