Carry On
Page 32“You look tired,” I say, feeling bad that I’m just now noticing.
She leans against me for a moment, then sits straight again. “I’m fine, Simon.”
“You both look tired,” Penny declares. “Maybe you have post-traumatic stress disorder. Maybe you’re not used to this much peace and quiet.”
I squeeze Agatha’s leg again, then get up to get us some more eggs and toast and mushrooms.
“Lulled,” I hear Penny saying.
23
PENELOPE
It was a murder of crows getting them both up here, and Agatha’s still complaining:
“Penelope, this is a boys’ house. We’ll be expelled.”
“Well, the damage is done,” I say, sitting at Simon’s desk. “You’re as likely to get caught leaving now as leaving later, so you may as well stay.”
“You won’t get caught,” Simon says, flopping down on his bed. “Penny sneaks up here all the time.”
Agatha is not happy to hear that. (I ignore her; if she’s moronic enough to believe that Simon and I have romantic feelings for each other after all these years, I’m not wasting my time talking her out of it.) She deliberately sits as far as she can from both of us, even though that means sitting on Baz’s bed.
Then she realizes what she’s done, and looks like she wants to stand up again. Her eyes dart around the room, as if Baz himself might walk out of the bathroom. Simon looks just as paranoid.
Honestly. The pair of them.
“To pool our knowledge,” I say, looking around the room for materials. “This would be so much easier if we had a blackboard.…”
I raise my wand and cast a “See what I mean!” then start writing in the air—What We Know:
“Nothing,” Agatha says. “Meeting adjourned.”
I ignore her. “The way I see it, there are three things we always have to worry about.”
1., I write, The Humdrum. “What do we know about the Humdrum?”
“That he looks like me,” Simon says, trying to go along with me. Agatha doesn’t look surprised by this information; Simon must have told her what happened. “And that he wants something from me,” Simon continues. “That he comes after me.”
“And we know that he’s been quiet,” I say. “Nothing but flibbertigibbets since June.”
Agatha folds her arms. “But the Humdrum’s still out there eating magic, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” I acknowledge. “But not as much. I saw my dad on the weekend, and he said the holes are spreading much more slowly than usual.” I add this to my notes in the air.
“We don’t know that he eats it,” Simon says. “We don’t know what the Humdrum does with the magic.”
“Sticking to what we do know…,” I say, and write, 2. The War with the Old Families.
“I wouldn’t call it a ‘war,’” Agatha says.
“But there have been skirmishes, yeah?” Simon says. “And duels.”
Simon and I both turn to look at her. “What do you mean?” I ask.
“The Mage,” Agatha says. “I heard Mother talking to a friend from the club. He’s been raiding magicians’ houses, looking for dark magic.”
This is all news to me. “Has he raided your house?”
“He wouldn’t,” Agatha says. “My father’s on the Coven.”
“What sort of dark magic?” Simon asks.
“Probably anything that can be used as a weapon,” Agatha says.
“Anything can be used as a weapon,” Simon says.
I add to my notes: Raids, dark magic, duels.
“And we know that the Old Families have kept some of their sons from Watford,” Simon adds.
“Which could just be coincidence,” I say. “We should do some legwork—maybe the missing boys just went to university.”
“Or maybe they’re tired of being treated like villains,” Agatha says.
“Or maybe,” Simon says, “they’re joining an army.”
I add to my notes: Pitch allies leaving school.
Agatha runs her hand along the mattress.
“We’ll get there,” I say. “Let’s stay focused on what we know.”
He keeps pushing. “Miss Possibelf thinks he’s missing. She said his dad sounded scared.”
I sigh and add a third column: 3. Baz. But there’s nothing to write underneath it.
“I still don’t think it’s a war,” Agatha insists. “It’s just politics, just like in the Normal world. The Mage has power, and the Old Families want it back. They’ll bitch and moan and cut deals and throw parties—”
“It’s not just politics.” Simon leans towards her, pointing. “It’s right and wrong.”
Agatha rolls her eyes. “But that’s what the other side says, too.”
“Is that what Baz says?” he asks.
I try to cut in. “Simon.”
“It’s not just politics,” he says again. “It’s right. And wrong. It’s our lives. If the Old Families had their way, I wouldn’t even be here. They wouldn’t have let me into Watford.”