“So she killed herself? Intentionally?”
He closes his eyes, and his head hangs forward over the book. I feel like I should do something to comfort him, but there’s no way to be comforted by your worst enemy.
Except … Hell, I’m not his worst enemy, am I? Hell and horrors.
I’m still standing next to him, and I bump my hand against his shoulder—sort of a comforting bump—and reach for the book. I pick up reading out loud where he left off:
“Her son, 5-year-old Tyrannus Basilton, was shaken, but unharmed. His father, Malcolm Grimm, has taken the boy to the family home in Hampshire to recover.
“The Coven is convened in an emergency meeting as of this writing to discuss the attack on Watford; the escalation of the dark creature problem; and the appointment of an interim headmaster.
“There have been calls to close the school until our struggles with the dark creatures are sorted—and even suggestions that we join the Americans and Scandinavians in mainstreaming our children into Normal schools.
“There are more articles about that,” I say, “about what to do with Watford. I’ve read a few months’ worth. Lots of meetings and debates and editorials. Until the Mage took over in February.”
Baz is staring past me into nothing. His hair is in his eyes, his arms are folded, and he’s holding his own elbows. I try the comforting thing again—actually resting my hand on his shoulder this time. “It’s okay,” I say.
He laughs. A dry bark. “That might be the one thing it isn’t. Okay.”
“No. I mean, it’s okay that you’re not okay. Whatever you’re feeling is okay.”
He stands up, shaking off my hand. “Is that what your friends tell you every time you blow up another chunk of school grounds? Because they’re lying to you. It isn’t okay. And it won’t be. So far, it’s only ever been a sign of more bad things to come. You won’t be okay, will you, Snow?”
I feel a wave of red shoot up my back and shoulders, and I clamp down on it, deliberately walking away from him. “This isn’t about me.”
“I wouldn’t think so,” he snarls, “but I’ve been wrong before. It’s always about you around here.”
I drop the book on my desk and make for the door. I should have known this wouldn’t work. He’s such an unforgivable twat, even when he’s being completely pathetic.
* * *
“I thought you were studying,” Penelope says.
She’s got her laptop out on a dining table and papers spread around her. There’s a pot of tea, but I’m sure it’s gone cold.
I lay my hand on the teapot and cast, “Some like it hot!” I hear the tea bubbling, and a hairline crack shoots down from the lid. “I was helping Baz with something,” I say, “but now I’m done. For good.”
She wrinkles her nose at the cracked teapot as I pour myself a cup. I can tell what she’s thinking—Now, that shouldn’t happen—then she jerks her head up and wrinkles her nose at me. “You were helping Baz with something?”
“Yes. It was a mistake.” I sit and gulp down some tea. It burns my tongue.
“Why were you helping Baz with something?”
“Long story.”
“I have nothing but time, Simon.”
That’s when we hear the first scream. I stand up, knocking the table over and breaking the teapot more conclusively.
Kids are running into the dining hall from the courtyard. They’re all screaming. I catch a first year running past me, practically lifting her by the arm. “What is it?”
“Dragon!” she cries. “The Humdrum sent a dragon!”
My sword is in my hand, and I’m already running for the door. I know Penny’s right behind me.
The courtyard outside is empty, but there are scorch marks on the fountain and a stripe of blackened earth. And I can feel the Humdrum in the air—the empty sucking feeling, the dry itch of him. Most Watford students recognize that feeling by now; it’s as good as a siren.
I keep running through the first and second gates, and a wave of heat hits me in the archway as I’m about to step onto the drawbridge. A wall of hot breath. I hold my arm in front of my face and feel Penny grab the back of my shirt. She reaches her ring hand over my shoulder. “U can’t touch this!”
“What’s that?” I shout at her.
“Barrier spell. It won’t work unless the dragon knows the song.”
“How would the dragon know that song?”
“I’m doing my best, Simon!”
“I can’t even see it!” I shout. “Can you?”
I can’t see it, but I can hear it, I think. Flapping. A river of fire pours onto the Lawn and I look up—it’s diving towards us. It looks like a red T. rex with yellow cat eyes and big rubbery red wings.
Penny’s still casting spells over my shoulder to try to ground it.
“What’ll we do with it on the ground?” I ask.
“Not get bombed with fire!”
I try to remember the last time I fought a dragon, but I was 11 then, and I’m pretty sure I just blew it up. Come closer, I think at the monster, so I can blow you up.
The dragon twists in the air without firing on us, and I think for a minute that one of Penny’s spells is working. Then I see its target—a group of kids, maybe third years, crouching under the yew tree.
Miss Possibelf is with them, and I see her casting spells at the dragon with her walking stick. I run towards the tree, pulling my wand out of my back pocket and shouting as loud as I can at the dragon. “Your attention, please!”
I throw the weight of my magic into it.
The dragons stops mid-zoom to look at me, hanging in the air for a moment like it’s been paused. Then it rears its head back and thrusts forward in my direction.
“Oh, blast,” Penelope says. She’s a few feet away. She reaches out to the school—not the dragon—and yells, “There’s nothing to see here!”
“What are you doing?” I scream, breaking right to lead the dragon away from the buildings.
“Your attention spell worked on everyone!” Penny says. “They’re all coming out to watch! There’s nothing to see here!” she shouts again at the gates. “As you were!”
I glance back and see kids standing on the drawbridge and running to the edge of the ramparts. The dragon is diving again, and I decide to run at it. A ribbon of fire shoots over my head. I drop at the last moment and roll away—its teeth scrape at the ground beside me.
It pulls up, snorting in what I think is frustration, then lunges towards me, snapping its jaws. I swing my sword at its neck, and the blade catches and sticks. The dragon heaves up again, and I go with it, holding on to my sword and using the momentum to swing onto the beast’s head, my knees tucked behind its jaw.
This is better. Now I can just throttle it.
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.”
Penelope runs into me like a freight train. She grabs my hand and puts it on her shoulder. “Show me,” she says. “Turn on the juice.”
I pull my hand back. “What?”
She grabs it again. “I saw what just happened.” She puts my hand on her shoulder. “When did you learn to do that?”
“Stop,” I say, and I try to say it meaningfully, looking around at everyone who can hear us. The Lawn is full of kids, all inspecting the scorch marks and generally acting like people who almost just died but didn’t. “I was just giving him moral support.”
“Excellent work, gentlemen.” Miss Possibelf is standing beside us; I didn’t even see her walk up. “I’ve seldom seen such a strong and nuanced nursery rhyme, Mr. Pitch—and never a situation that so desperately required it.”
Baz bows humbly. Perfectly. His hair falls forward.
“Mr. Snow,” she goes on, turning to me, “perhaps you’ll provide a report for the headmaster upon his return. And you can work on moderation this week in Elocution.”
I dip my head. “Yes, miss.”
“As you were,” she says without any magic.
Penelope puts my hand on her shoulder again. I pull it away.
When I turn back to the castle, I see Agatha, the only one still watching us from the ramparts.
45
SIMON
“You got Visited! And you didn’t tell me!”
Penelope is standing with her hands on her hips, and I’m pretty sure she’d be casting a world of hurt at me if Baz hadn’t taken away her wand.
“You told him?” She swings her hand at Baz. “But you didn’t tell me?”
“It was his mum,” I say.
“Yeah,” she says, “but he wasn’t even here.”
“I was going to tell you, Penny, but then he came back, and everything got complicated.”
“We’re telling you now,” Baz says.
“‘We’?” she says. “Since when are you two a ‘we’?”
“We’re not a ‘we’!” I half shout.
Baz throws his hands up in the air and falls back on his bed. “You people are impossible.”
“And since when,” Penny says to me, “are you a power outlet that other magicians can just plug in to?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve never tried it before.”
“Try it again now,” she says, flopping down on my bed next to me.
“Penny, no, I don’t want to hurt you.”
She puts my hand on her shoulder. “Simon, imagine what we could do with your power and my spells. We could finish the Humdrum off by dinner—and then take on hunger and world peace.”
“Imagine what the Mage will do when he realizes he has a nuclear power generator in his backyard,” Baz croons from his bed.
I swallow and look at the wall. Penny’s hand drops. I have to admit that I’m not eager to tell the Mage—or anybody—what I did today. It’s bad enough that I can’t control my power. I don’t want it pulled completely out of my hands.
Penny’s hand covers mine on the bed. “Was it a special spell?” she asks softly.
“No,” I say. “I just … pushed.”
“Show me.”
Baz raises himself up on one elbow to watch. I lock eyes with Penny.
“I trust you,” she says.
“That doesn’t mean I won’t hurt you.”
Penny shrugs. “Pain is temporary.”
“That doesn’t mean I won’t damage you.”
She shrugs again. “Come on. We have to figure out how this works.”
“We never have to,” I say. “You just always want to.”
She squeezes my hand. “Simo
n.”
I can see she’s made up her mind; she won’t leave me alone until I do this. I try to remember how it felt out on the Lawn. Like I was opening, unwinding—just a little. Just barely letting go …
I give the very smallest push.
“Great snakes!” Penny says, snatching her hand away from me and jumping off the bed. “Fuck a nine-toed troll, Simon.” She’s shaking her hand, and there are tears in her eyes. “Stevie Nicks and Gracie Slick! Fuck!”
I’m on my feet. “Sorry! Penny, I’m sorry, let me see!”
Baz drops back onto his bed, cackling.
Penelope holds out her arm. It looks red and mottled. “I’m so sorry,” I say, gently taking her wrist. “Should we go to the nurse?”
“I don’t think so,” she says. “I think it’s passing.” Her arm is quivering. Baz gets off his bed to take a look.
“Did it feel like I cast a spell on you?” I ask.
“No,” they both say at once.
“It was more like a shock,” Penelope says, then looks up at Baz. “What about for you?”
He gets out his wand. “I don’t know. I was focusing on the dragon.”
“Did it hurt?” she asks him.
“Maybe you didn’t see what you think you saw,” Baz says. “Maybe Snow really was just giving me moral support.”
“Right. And maybe you’re the most gifted mage in five generations.”
“Maybe I am,” he says, tapping his ivory wand against her arm. “Get well soon!”
“How did that feel?” I ask her.
“Better,” she says reluctantly, pulling her arm away from us. She frowns at Baz—“Hot.”
He grins, hitching up that eyebrow again.
“I meant temperature-wise,” she says. “Your magic feels like a grease-burn, Basil.”
Baz waves his wand in a shrug and turns to the chalkboard. “Runs in the family.”
Like I said, everyone’s magic feels different. Penelope’s magic feels thick and makes your mouth taste like sage. I quite like it.
“So…,” she says, following him to the chalkboard. “You got a Visiting. An actual Visiting—Natasha Grimm-Pitch was here.”
Baz glances back over his shoulder. “You sound impressed, Bunce.”