Carry On

The dragon’s trying to swing me loose—and I’m trying to get my sword out of its hide, so that I can stab it again—when I hear Baz calling my name. I look up and see him running along the ramparts.

He must have cast some spell on his voice to make it carry. (I wonder if it’s a Hear ye, hear ye—I’ve never managed that.) “Simon,” he’s shouting, “don’t hurt it!”

Don’t hurt it? Sod that. I go back to yanking on my blade.

“Simon!” Baz cries out again. “Wait! They’re not dark creatures!” He gets to the end of the ramparts, but instead of stopping, he leaps up on top of the wall, then out over the moat—just takes a running jump off the building! And doesn’t fall! He floats out over the moat and lands on the other side. It’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.

The dragon must think so, too, because it stops struggling with me and follows Baz with its head.

Its wings are beating less furiously. It almost lolls in the air, dipping in Baz’s direction and snuffling little puffs of fire.

Baz runs towards us, then stands with his legs apart, his wand in the air.

“Baz!” I yell. “No! You’re flammable!”

“So is everything!” he shouts back at me.

“Baz!”

But he’s already pointing at the dragon and casting a spell:

“Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home, your house is on fire, and your children are gone.”

The first line is a common spell for pests and mice and things like that. But Baz keeps going. He’s trying to cast the whole nursery rhyme. Like he’s Houdini himself.

“Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home, your house is on fire and your children shall burn. All except one, and her name is Nan, and she hid under the porridge pan.”

There’s nothing in our world more powerful than nursery rhymes—the poems that people learn as kids, then get stuck in their brains forever. A powerful mage can turn back an army with “Humpty Dumpty.”

“Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home, your house is on fire, and your children shall burn.”

The dragon isn’t flying away home, but it’s fascinated by Baz. It lands in front of him and cocks its head. One breath of fire now, that’s all it would take to obliterate him.

Baz stands his ground:

“All but one, and that’s little John, and he lies under the grindle stone.”

I slide off the beast’s neck, yanking my sword out with my body weight as I fall.

“Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home, your house is on fire, and your children shall burn.”

I wonder why no one is helping him—then I look around and see every student and teacher in the school standing in the windows or out on the ramparts. All still paying attention, like I told them to. Even Penny has given in. Or maybe she’s as gobsmacked as I am. Baz keeps going.

“All except one, and her name is Aileen, and she hid under a soup tureen.”

The dragon looks back over its shoulder, and I think maybe it’s thinking about hoofing it. But then it stamps, frustrated, and spreads its wings wide.

Baz lifts his voice louder. There’s sweat on his forehead and along his hairline, and his hand is trembling.

I want to help, but chances are, I’d just spoil his spell. I think about taking a whack at the dragon while it’s distracted, but Baz told me to stop. I move slowly until I’m standing behind him.

The dragon shakes its head and starts to turn again. I’m beginning to think it really wants to go. That it wants the spell to work.

“Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home, your house is on fire, and your children shall burn.”

Baz’s whole arm is shaking now.

I put my hand on his shoulder to steady him. And then I do something I’ve never done before—something I probably wouldn’t try with anyone I was scared of hurting.

I push.

I take some of the magic that’s always trying to get out of me, and I just push it into Baz.

His arm straightens like a rod, and his voice hitches louder—“away home!”—midsentence.

The dragon’s wings shudder, and it lurches back.

I push a little more magic. I worry that it’s too much, but Baz doesn’t fall or crumple. His shoulder is rock hard and steady under my palm.

“Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home!” he booms. The dragon’s wings are flapping frantically, and it’s jerking itself back into the air, like a plane taking off backwards.

I stop pushing and close my eyes, letting Baz draw on my magic as he needs it. I don’t want to overdo it and set him off like a grenade in my hand.

When I open my eyes again, the dragon is a red spot on the sky, and there’s applause ringing out from the ramparts.

“As you were!” Baz shouts, pointing his wand at the school. The crowds immediately start to scatter. Then Baz steps away from my hand and faces me.

He’s looking at me like I’m a complete freak. (Which we both already knew was true.) His right brow is arched so high, it looks like it’s broken free of his eye.

“Why did you help me?” I ask.

“Truce,” Baz says, still alarmed. Then he shakes his head, just like the dragon did when it was trying to throw off his spell. “Anyway, I wasn’t helping you.” He brings his hand up to rub the back of his neck. “I was helping the dragon. You would have killed her.”

“It was attacking the school.”

“Not because she wanted to. Dragons don’t attack unless they’re being threatened. And dragons don’t even live in this part of England.”