I say. “I could go away.”
“No.”
“Compelling argument, Pen.” I spread butter on my third ham and cheese roll. My hands are shaking.
“No. Simon. You can’t just go away. You shouldn’t. Look, if you’re a target, then I’m the most at risk. I spend the most time with you.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean, look at me—I’m fine.”
I look at her.
“I’m fine, Simon. Even Baz is fine, and he’s constantly stuck with you.”
“I feel like you’re glossing over all the times you’ve nearly died just because you were with me. The Humdrum kidnapped me a few months ago, and you got dragged along.”
“Thank Morgana I did.”
She’s looking in my eyes, so I try not look away. Sometimes I’m glad Penny wears glasses; her eye contact is so fierce, it’s good to have a buffer.
“I told the Mage no,” I repeat.
“Good.” she says. “Keep telling him.”
“Nan!” A little girl’s shout tears through our conversation, and I’m already whispering the incantation to summon my blade. Across the hall, the girl—a second or third year—is running towards a shimmery figure at the door.
“Oh…,” Penelope says, awed.
The figure fades in and out, like Princess Leia’s hologram. When the girl reaches it—it looks like an older woman in a white trouser suit—it kneels down and catches her. They huddle together in the archway. Then the figure fades out completely. The girl stands, shaking, and a few of her friends run to her, jumping up and down.
“So cool,” Penelope says. She turns to me and sees my blade. “Great snakes, Simon, put that away.”
I keep it up. “What was that?”
“You don’t know?”
“Penelope.”
“She got a Visiting. Lucky kid.”
“What?” I sheathe the blade. “What kind of visiting?”
“Simon, the Veil is lifting. I know you know about this. We studied it in Magickal History.”
I make a face and sit down again, trying to decide whether I’m done with my lunch.
“‘And on the Twentieth Turn,’” Penny says, “‘when the year wanes, and night and day sit in peace across the table—the Veil will lift. And any who have light to cast may cross it, though they may not tarry. Greet them with joy and with trust, for their mouths, though dead, speak truth.’”
She’s using her quoting voice, so I know it’s from some ancient text or another.
“You’re not helping,” I say.
“The Veil is lifting,” she says again. “Every twenty years, dead people can talk to the living if they have something that really needs to be said.”
“Oh…,” I say, “I guess maybe I have heard of that—I thought it was a myth.”
“One would think, after seven years, you’d stop saying that out loud.”
“Well, how am I supposed to know? There isn’t a book, is there? All the Magickal Things that Are Actually True and All the Ones that Are Bollocks, Just Like You Thought.”
“You’re the only magician who wasn’t raised with magic. You’re the only one who would read a book like that.”
“Father Christmas isn’t real,” I say, “but the Tooth Fairy is. There’s no rhyme or reason to this stuff.”
“Well, the Veil is totally real,” Penny says. “It’s what keeps souls from walking.”
“But it’s lifting now?” I feel like getting my sword out again.
“The autumnal equinox is coming,” she says, “when day and night are the same length. The Veil thins, then lifts—sort of like fog. And people come back to tell us things.”
“All of us?”
“I wish. People only come back if they have something important to say. Something true. It’s like they come back to testify.”
“That sounds … dramatic.”
“My mother says her aunt came back twenty years ago to tell them about a hidden treasure. Mum’s kind of hoping she’ll come back again this time to tell us more.”
“What kind of treasure?”
“Books.”
“Of course.” I decide to finish my sandwich. And Penny’s boiled egg.
“But sometimes,” she says, “it’s scandalous. People come back to reveal affairs. Murders. The theory is, you have a better shot of crossing over if your message serves justice.”
“How can anyone know that?”
“It’s just a theory,” Penny says. “But if Aunt Beryl comes to me, I’m going to ask her as much as I can before she fades out again.”
I look back across the hall. “I wonder what that girl’s granny told her.”
Penny laughs and stacks her dishes. “Probably her secret toffee recipe.”
“So these Visitors … they’re not zombies?” It doesn’t hurt to be sure about these things.
“No, Simon. They’re harmless. Unless you’re afraid of the truth.”
10
THE MAGE
I should make him go. I could.
He’s not a child anymore, but he would still take an order.
I promised to take care