Carry On

  “I live with a vampire!” I argue.

  “Unconfirmed.”

  “Are you saying you don’t think Baz is a vampire?”

  “I know he’s a vampire,” she says. “But it’s still unconfirmed. We’ve never actually seen him drink blood.”

  I’m sitting on the window ledge and leaning out a bit over the moat, holding on to the latch of the swung-open pane. I scoff: “We’ve seen him covered in blood. We’ve found piles of shrivelled-up rats with fang marks down in the Catacombs.… I’ve told you that his cheeks get really full when he has a nightmare? Like his mouth is filling up with extra teeth?”

  “Circumstantial evidence,” Penny says. “And I still don’t know why you’d creep up on a vampire who has night terrors.”

  “I live with him! I have to keep my wits about me.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Baz’ll never hurt you in your room.”

  She’s right. He can’t. Our rooms are spelled against betrayal—the Roommate’s Anathema. If Baz does anything to physically hurt me inside our room, he’ll be cast out of the school. Agatha’s dad, Dr. Wellbelove, says it happened once when he was in school. Some kid punched his roommate, then got sucked out through a window and landed outside the school gate. It wouldn’t open for him again ever.

  You get warnings when you’re young: For the first two years, if you try to hit or hurt your roommate, your hands go stiff and cold. I threw a book at Baz once in our first year, and it took three days for my hand to thaw out.

  Baz has never violated the Anathema. Not even when we were kids.

  “Who knows what he’s capable of in his sleep,” I say.

  “You do,” Penny says, “as much as you watch him.”

  “I live with a dark creature—I’m right to be paranoid!”

  “I’d trade my pixie for your vampire any day of the week. There’s no anathema to keep someone from being lethally irritating.”

  Penny and I go back to the dining hall to get dinner—baked sweet potatoes and sausages and hard white rolls—then bring it all back to my room. We never get to hang out like this when Baz is around. He’d turn Penny in.

  It feels like a party. Just the two of us, nothing to do. No one to hide from or fight. Penelope says it’ll be like this someday when we get a flat together.… But that’s not going to happen. She’s going to go to America as soon as the war is over. Maybe even before that.

  And I’ll get a place with Agatha.

  Agatha and I will work through whatever this is; we always do. We make sense together. We’ll probably get married after school—that’s when Agatha’s parents got married. I know she wants a place in the country.… I can’t afford anything like that, but she has money, and she’ll find a job that makes her happy. And her dad’ll help me find work if I ask him.

  It’s nice to think about that: living long enough to have to figure out what to do with myself.

  As soon as Penelope’s done with her dinner, she brushes off her hands. “Right,” she says.

  I groan. “Not yet.”

  “What do you mean, ‘not yet’?”

  “I mean, not yet with the strategizing. We just got here. I’m still settling in.”

  She looks around the room. “What’s to settle, Simon? You already unpacked your two pairs of trackie bottoms.”

  “I’m enjoying the peace and quiet.” I reach for her plate and start to finish off her sausages.

  “There’s no peace,” she says. “Just quiet. It makes me nervous. We need a plan.”

  “There is peace. Baz isn’t here yet, and look”—I wave her fork around—“there’s nothing attacking us.”

  “Says the man who just thrashed a goblin. Simon,” she says, “just because we’ve been checked out for two months doesn’t mean the war took a break.”

  I groan again. “You sound like the Mage,” I say with my mouth full.

  “I still can’t believe he ignored you all summer.”

  “He’s probably too busy with ‘the war.’”

  Penny sighs and folds her hands. She’s waiting for me to be reasonable.

  I’m going to make her wait.

  The war.

  There’s no point talking about the war. It’ll get here soon enough. It isn’t even one war: It’s two or three of them—the civil war that’s brewing, the hostilities with the dark creatures that have always been there, the whatever it is with the Humdrum—and it will all find its way to my door eventually.…

  “Right,” Penny repeats. And I must look miserable, because next she says, “I guess the war will still be there tomorrow.”

  I clean her plate, and Penny makes herself comfortable on Baz’s bed, and I don’t even nag her about it. I lie back on my own bed, listening to her talk about aeroplanes and American supermarkets and Micah’s big family.

  She falls asleep in the middle of telling me about a song she’s heard, a song she thinks will be a spell someday, though I can’t think of any use for “Call me maybe.”

  “Penelope?” She doesn’t answer. I lean off my bed and swing my pillow at her legs—that’s how close the beds are; Baz wouldn’t even have to get out of his to kill me. Or vice versa, I guess. “Penny.”

  “What?” she says into Baz’s pillow.

  “You have to go back to your room.”

  “Don’t want to.”

  “You have to. The Mage’ll suspend you if you get caught in here.”

  “Let him. I could use the free time.”

  I get out of bed and stand over her. Her dark hair is spread out over the pillowcase, and her glasses are smashed into her cheek. Her skirt has hiked up, and her bare thigh looks plump and smooth.

  I pinch her. She jumps up.

  “Come on,” I say, “I’ll walk you.”

  Penny straightens her glasses and untwists her shirt. “No. I don’t want you to see how I get past the wards.”

  “Because that’s not something you’d want to share with your best friend?”

  “Because it’s fun watching you try to figure it out.”

  I open my door and peek down the staircase. I don’t see or hear anyone. “Fine,” I say, holding the door open. “Good-night.”

  Penny walks past me. “Good-night, Simon. See you tomorrow.”

  I grin. I can’t help it—it’s so good to be back. “See you tomorrow.”

  As soon as I’m alone, I change into my school pyjamas—Baz brings his from home, but I like the school ones. I don’t sleep in pyjamas when I’m at the juvenile centres, I never have. It makes me feel, I don’t know—vulnerable. I change and crawl into bed, sighing.

  These nights at Watford, before Baz gets here, are the only nights in my life when I actually sleep.

  * * *

  I don’t know what time it is when I wake up. The room is dark, and there’s a shaft of moonlight slicing across my bed.

  I think I see a woman standing by the window, and at first I think it’s Penny. Then the figure shifts, and I think it’s Baz.

  Then I decide I’m dreaming and fall back into sleep.

  6

  LUCY

  I have so much I want to tell you.

  But time is short.

  And my voice doesn’t carry.

  7

  SIMON

  The sun is just rising when I hear my door creak open. I pull the blankets up over my head. “Go away,” I say, expecting Penny to start talking at me anyway. She’s good at immediately making me forget how much I missed her over the summer.

  Someone clears his throat.

  I open my eyes and see the Mage standing just inside the door, looking amused—at least on the surface. There’s something darker underneath.

  “Sir.” I sit up. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize, Simon. You must not have heard me knock.”

  “No … Let me just, I’ll just, um … get dressed.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself,” he says, walking to the window, giving Baz’s bed a wide berth—even the Mage is afraid of
vampires. Though he wouldn’t use the word “afraid.” He’d say something like “cautious” or “prudent.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to welcome you back yesterday,” he says. “How was your journey?”

  I push the covers off and sit at the edge of my bed. I’m still in my pyjamas, but at least I’m sitting up. “Fine,” I say. “I mean, I suppose … not exactly fine. My taxi driver was a goblin.”

  “Another goblin?” He turns from the window to me, hands clasped behind his back. “Persistent, aren’t they. Was it alone?”

  “Yes, sir. Tried to scarper off with me.”

  He shakes his head. “They never think to come in pairs. What spell did you use?”

  “Used my blade, sir.” I bite at my lip.

  “Fine,” he says.

  “And Into thin air to clean it up.”

  The Mage raises his eyebrow. “Excellent, Simon.” He looks down at my pyjamas and bare feet, then seems to study my face. “What about this summer? Anything to report? Anything unusual?”

  “I would have contacted you, sir.” (I can contact him, if I need to. I have his mobile number. Also, I could send a bird.)

  The Mage nods. “Good.” He looks at me for a few more seconds, then turns back to the window, like he’s observed everything about me that he needs to. The sunlight catches in his thick brown hair, and for a minute, he looks even more like a swashbuckler than usual.

  He’s in uniform: dark green canvas leggings, tall leather boots, a green tunic with straps and small pockets—with a sword hanging in a woven scabbard from his tooled belt. Unlike mine, his blade is fully visible.

  Penny’s mum, Professor Bunce, says that previous mages wore a ceremonial cowl and cape. And that other headmasters wore robes and mortarboards. The Mage, she says, has created his own uniform. She calls it a costume.

  I think Professor Bunce must hate the Mage more than anyone who isn’t actually his enemy. The only time I ever hear Penny’s dad talk out loud is when her mum gets going on the Mage; he’ll put his hand on her arm and say, “Now, Mitali…” And then she’ll say, “I apologize, Simon, I know the Mage is your foster father.…”

  But he isn’t, not really. The Mage has never presented himself to me that way. As family. He’s always treated me as an ally—even when I was a little kid. The very first time he brought me to Watford, he sat me down in his office and told me everything. About the Insidious Humdrum. About the missing magic. About the holes in the atmosphere like dead spots.

  I was still trying to get it through my head that magic was real, and there he was telling me that something was killing it—eating it, ending it—and that only I could help:

  “You’re too young to hear this, Simon. Eleven is too young. But it isn’t fair to keep any of this from you any longer. The Insidious Humdrum is the greatest threat the World of Mages has ever faced. He’s powerful, he’s pervasive. Fighting him is like fighting off sleep when you’re long past the edge of exhaustion.

  “But fight him we must. We want to protect you; I vow to do so with my life. But you must learn, Simon, as soon as possible, how best to protect yourself.

  “He is our greatest threat. And you are our greatest hope.”

  I was too stunned to respond or to ask any questions. Too young. I just wanted to see the Mage do that trick again, the one where he made a map roll out all by itself.

  I spent that first year at Watford telling myself that I was dreaming. And the next year telling myself that I wasn’t …

  I’d already been attacked by ogres, shattered a circle of standing stones, and grown five inches before I thought to ask the real question:

  Why me?

  Why did I have to fight the Humdrum?

  The Mage has answered that question a dozen different ways over the years:

  Because I was chosen. Because I was prophesied. Because the Humdrum won’t leave me alone.

  But none of those are real answers. Penelope has given me the only answer that I know what to do with.…

  “Because you can, Simon. And someone has to.”

  The Mage is watching something out my window. I think about inviting him to sit down. Then I try to remember whether I’ve ever seen him sit down.

  I shift my weight, and the bed creaks. He turns to me, looking troubled.

  “Sir?”

  “Simon.”

  “The Humdrum—did you find him? What have I missed?”

  The Mage rubs his chin in the notch between his thumb and forefinger, then jerks his head quickly from side to side. “Nothing. We’re no closer to finding him, and other matters have needed my immediate attention.”

  “How could anything be more important than the Humdrum?” I blurt out.

  “Not more important,” he says. “Just more pressing. It’s the Old Families—they’re testing me.” He balls his right hand into a fist. “Half of Wales has stopped tithing. The Pitches are paying three members of the Coven to stay away from meetings, so we don’t have quorum. And there have been skirmishes up and down the road to London all summer long.”

  “Skirmishes?”

  “Traps, tussles. Tests—they’re all tests, Simon. You know the Old Families would seize the reins if they thought for a moment I was distracted. They’d roll back everything we’ve accomplished.”

  “Do they think they can fight the Humdrum without us?”

  “I think they’re so shortsighted,” he says, looking over at me, “that they don’t care. They just want power, and they want it now.”

  “Well, I don’t care about them,” I say. “If the Humdrum takes our magic, we won’t have anything to scrap over. We should be fighting the Humdrum.”

  “And we will,” he says, “when the time is right. When we know how to beat him. But until then, my first priority is keeping you safe. Simon…” He folds his arms. “I’ve been consulting with the other members of the Coven, with those I can trust. We think maybe our efforts to protect you have backfired. Despite the spells and surveillance, the Humdrum seems to have the best luck getting to you when you’re here, at Watford. He spirited you away in June without triggering any of our defences.”

  It’s embarrassing to hear him say this. It feels like I’m the one failing, not the Mage or the protection spells. I’m supposed to be the only one who can fight the Humdrum. But I finally got a chance to face him, and the most I could do was run away. I don’t think I’d have managed even that without Penelope.

  The Mage clenches his jaw. He has one of those chins that flattens out in the middle—with a sharp dimple, like he was nicked by a knife. I’m dead jealous of it. “We’ve decided,” he says slowly, “that you would be safer somewhere other than Watford.”

  I’m not sure what he’s getting at. “Sir?”

  “The Coven has secured a place for you. And a private tutor. I can’t talk about the details now—but I’ll take you there myself. We’ll leave soon; I need to be back by nightfall.”

  “You want me to leave Watford?”

  He narrows his eyes. The Mage hates to repeat himself. “Yes. You won’t need to pack much. Your boots and your cloak, any artefacts you want to keep—”

  “Sir, I can’t leave Watford. Our lessons start this week.”

  He cocks his head. “Simon. You’re not a child. There’s nothing more for you to learn at Watford.”

  Maybe he’s right. I’m a hopeless student; it’s not like this year is going to make or break me, but still … “I can’t leave Watford. It’s my last year.”

  The Mage rubs his beard. His eyes narrow to slits.

  “I just can’t,” I say again. I try to think of why not, but all that comes to me is no. I can’t leave Watford. I’ve been waiting all summer to get here. I’ve been waiting my whole life. I’m always either at Watford or wishing I was at Watford, and next year that will change—it has to—but not yet. “No,” I say. “I can’t.”

  “Simon”—his voice is stern—“this isn’t a suggestion. Your life is at stake. And the enti
re World of Mages is depending on you.”

  I feel like arguing that point: Baz isn’t depending on me. None of the magicians who stand with the House of Pitch believe I’m their saviour.…

  I grind my teeth so tight, I can practically feel the shape of them. I shake my head.

  The Mage frowns down at me like I’m a child who’s refusing to listen. “Hasn’t it ever occurred to you, Simon, that the Humdrum attacks you only when you’re here?”

  “Has it just now occurred to you?” I swallow. “Sir,” I add too late.

  “I don’t understand this!” he says, raising his voice. “You’ve never questioned my decisions before.”

  “You’ve never asked me to leave Watford before!”

  His face is hard. “Simon, we’re at war. Do I need to remind you of that?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And we all make sacrifices at wartime.”

  “But we’ve always been at war,” I say. “As long as I’ve been here. We can’t just stop living because we’re at war.”

  “Can’t we?” He’s finally lost his temper. He jerks his hand back down to the hilt of his sword. “Look at me, Simon. Have you ever known me to indulge myself with a normal life? Where is my wife? My children? Where’s my house in the country with my cosy chair and a fat cocker spaniel to bring me my slippers? When do I go on holiday? When do I take a break? When do I do anything other than prepare for the battle ahead? We don’t get to ignore our responsibilities because we’re bored with them.”

  My head drops down like he’s shoved it. “I’m not bored,” I mutter.

  “Speak up.”

  I lift my head. “I’m not bored, sir.”

  Our eyes meet.

  “Get dressed. Gather your things.…”

  I feel every muscle in my body grab. Every joint lock. “No.”

  I can’t. I just got here. And this summer was the worst summer yet. I held on because I was coming to Watford at the end of it, but I can’t hold on any longer. I don’t have it in me. My reserves are empty, and the Mage won’t even tell me where he wants me to go—and what about Penny? And Agatha?

  I’m shaking my head. I hear the Mage take in a sharp breath, and when I look up, there’s a haze of red between us.