I’ll take her back. Just in time for Christmas.
I’ve been thinking a lot about Christmas lately. I always spend it with the Wellbeloves. I have since I first came to Watford.
I think at first it must have been a philanthropic thing for her dad, Dr. Wellbelove. That’s exactly the sort of thing he’d do—open the house up on Christmas to orphans.
It’s how Agatha and I got to be friends. I’m not sure she ever would have talked to me if she hadn’t been trapped with me in her house every year for two weeks.
It’s not that Agatha’s stuck up—
Well … She is a bit stuck up. I think she likes being prettier than everyone else and having better clothes and being luckier.
I can’t blame her for that.
But also, she’s just not that social. Especially at school. She used to be really involved in dance, before Watford, and she’s still all caught up in horses, and I think she’s closer to her summer Normal friends than anybody here.
Agatha’s not like Penny. She doesn’t naturally care about magickal politics. And she’s not like me, she doesn’t have to care.
I don’t think Agatha cares that much about magic, full stop. The last time we talked about the future, she was thinking about becoming a veterinarian.
Dr. Wellbelove is all about Normal–magickal equality, and how it doesn’t serve mages to think of ourselves as better than Normals. (“I get what Welby’s saying,” Penelope’s mum will say, “but we can do everything the Normals can do, plus magic. How is that not better?”)
Her dad’s never pressured Agatha to choose a magickal career. I think she could probably even date a Normal, if she wanted. (Her mum might mind that; Normals aren’t allowed at the club.)
Anyway, I love being at the Wellbeloves, so long as they’re not throwing a posh dinner or dragging me through event season. Everything in their house is brand new and top of the line. They have a TV that takes up an entire wall, with giant speakers hidden behind paintings of horses, and all their couches are made of leather.
Agatha’s mum’s always out, and her dad’s usually at the clinic. (He’s a Normal doctor, too, but most of his patients are mages. He specializes in acute abNormal ailments.) They’ve got a maid-type person, Helen, who cooks for Agatha and drives her around. But nobody treats Helen like a maid. She dresses in regular clothes, not any uniform, and she’s obsessed with Doctor Who.
They’re all good to me, Helen included. Agatha’s mum gives me nice clothes for Christmas, and her dad talks to me about my future like I’m not going to die in a ball of fire.
I just really like them. And I like Christmas. And I’ve been thinking about how weird it’s going to be to sit around the dinner table, talking to Agatha’s parents, knowing that we’re broke up.
Agatha and I stay in the Magic Words classroom after everyone else leaves.
She’s still biting her lip.
“Agatha…,” I say.
“It’s about Christmas,” she says.
She pushes her hair behind her ears. She has perfectly straight hair that parts in the middle and naturally frames her face. (Penny says it’s a spell. Agatha says it is not. Penny says beauty spells are nothing to be ashamed of.)
“My dad wants you to know that of course you’re still welcome at our house for Christmas,” Agatha says.
“Oh,” I say. “Good.”
“But I think we both know how uncomfortable that would be,” she goes on. She looks very uncomfortable, just saying it. “For both of us.”
“Right,” I say. It would be uncomfortable, I guess.
“It would ruin Christmas,” she says.
I stop myself before I can say, “Would it? Would it really, Agatha? It’s a big house, and I’ll stay in the TV room the whole time.”
“Right,” I say instead.
“So I told him that you were probably going to stay with the Bunces.”
Agatha knows I can’t stay with the Bunces. Penelope’s mum can only take about two or three days of me before she starts treating me like a Great Dane who can’t help knocking things over with its tail.
The Bunces’ house isn’t small, but it’s full of people—and stacks and stacks of stuff. Books, papers, toys, dishes. There’s no way not to be underfoot. You’d have to be incorporeal not to knock anything over.
“Right,” I say to Agatha. “Okay.”
She looks at the floor. “I’m sure my parents will still send gifts.”
“I’ll send them a card.”
“That would be nice,” she says. “Thank you.” She pulls her satchel up over her shoulder and takes a step away from me—then stops and flips her hair out of her face. (It’s just a gesture; her hair is never in her face.) “Simon. It was amazing how you beat that dragon. You saved its life.”
I shrug. “Yeah, well, Baz did it, didn’t he? I would’ve slit its throat if I could have figured out how.”
“My dad says the Humdrum sent it.”
I shrug again.
“Merry Christmas, Simon,” Agatha says. Then she walks past me out the door.
50
SIMON
“You should really just let me stay in your room,” Penelope says. “It would make things easier.”
“No,” Baz and I say at once.
“Where would you sleep,” I ask, “the bathtub?”