The Mage is also the only one who’s allowed to contact me over the summer.
And he always remembers my birthday in June.
No. 7—Magic
Not my magic, necessarily. That’s always with me and, honestly, not something I can take much comfort in.
What I miss, when I’m away from Watford, is just being around magic. Casual, ambient magic. People casting spells in the hallway and during lessons. Somebody sending a plate of sausages down the dinner table like it’s bouncing on wires.
The World of Mages isn’t actually a world. We don’t have cities. Or even neighbourhoods. Magicians have always lived among mundanity. It’s safer that way, according to Penelope’s mum; it keeps us from drifting too far from the rest of the world.
The fairies did that, she says. Got tired of dealing with everybody else, wandered into the woods for a few centuries, then couldn’t find their way back.
The only place magicians live together, unless they’re related, is at Watford. There are a few magickal social clubs and parties, annual gatherings—that sort of thing. But Watford is the only place where we’re together all the time. Which is why everyone’s been pairing off like crazy in the last couple years. If you don’t meet your spouse at Watford, Penny says, you could end up alone—or going on singles tours of Magickal Britain when you’re 32.
I don’t know what Penny’s even worried about; she’s had a boyfriend in America since our fourth year. (He was an exchange student at Watford.) Micah plays baseball, and he has a face so symmetrical, you could summon a demon on it. They video-chat when she’s home, and when she’s at school, he writes to her almost every day.
“Yes,” she tells me, “but he’s American. They don’t think about marriage the way we do. He might dump me for some pretty Normal he meets at Yale. Mum says that’s where our magic is going—bleeding out through ill-considered American marriages.”
Penny quotes her mum as much as I quote Penny.
They’re both being paranoid. Micah’s a solid bloke. He’ll marry Penelope—and then he’ll want to take her home with him. That’s what we should all be worried about.
Anyway …
Magic. I miss magic when I’m away.
When I’m by myself, magic is something personal. My burden, my secret.
But at Watford, magic is just the air that we breathe. It’s what makes me a part of something bigger, not the thing that sets me apart.
No. 8—Ebb and the goats
I started helping out Ebb the goatherd during my second year at Watford. And for a while, hanging out with the goats was pretty much my favourite thing. (Which Baz had a field day with.) Ebb’s the nicest person at Watford. Younger than the teachers. And surprisingly powerful for somebody who decided to spend her life taking care of goats.
“What does being powerful have to do with anything?” Ebb’ll say. “People who’re tall aren’t forced to pay thrashcanball.”
“You mean basketball?” (Living at Watford means Ebb’s a bit out of touch.)
“Same difference. I’m no soldier. Don’t see why I should have to fight for a living just because I can throw a punch.”
The Mage says we’re all soldiers, every one of us with an ounce of magic. That’s what’s dangerous about the old ways, he says—magicians just went about their merry way, doing whatever they felt like doing, treating magic like a toy or an entitlement, not something they had to protect.
Ebb doesn’t use a dog with the goats. Just her staff. I’ve seen her turn the whole herd with a wave of her hand. She’d started teaching me—how to pull the goats back one by one; how to make them all feel at once like they’d gone too far. She even let me help with the birthing one spring.…
I don’t have much time to spend with Ebb anymore.
But I leave her and the goats on my list of things to miss. Just so that I can stop for a minute to think about them.
No. 9—The Wavering Wood
I should take this one off the list.
Fuck the Wavering Wood.
No. 10—Agatha
Maybe I should take Agatha off my list, too.
I’m getting close to Watford now. I’ll be at the station in a few minutes. Someone will have come down from the school to fetch me.…
I used to save Agatha for last. I’d go all summer without thinking about her, then wait until I was almost to Watford before I’d let her back into my head. That way I wouldn’t spend the whole summer convincing myself that she was too good to be true.
But now … I don’t know, maybe Agatha is too good to be true, at least for me.
Last term, just before Penny and I got snatched by the Humdrum, I saw Agatha with Baz in the Wavering Wood. I suppose I’d sensed before that there might be something between them, but I never believed she’d betray me like that—that she’d cross that line.
There was no time to talk to Agatha after I saw her with Baz—I was too busy getting kidnapped, then escaping. And then I couldn’t talk to her over the summer, because I can’t talk to anybody. And now, I don’t know … I don’t know what Agatha is to me.
I’m not even sure whether I’ve missed her.
3
SIMON
When I get to the station, there’s no one to meet me. No one I know, anyway—there’s a bored-looking taxi driver who’s written Snow on a piece of cardboard.
“That’s me,” I say. He looks dubious. I don’t look much like a public school toff, especially when I’m not in uniform. My hair’s too short—I shave it every year at the end of term—and my trainers are cheap, and I don’t look bored enough; I can’t keep my eyes still.