stay here. With my friends. Or I may as well fight—I could help you.”
We lock eyes, and I see his fill with disappointment and pity. “I know you could, Simon. But the situation is very delicate right now.…”
He doesn’t have to finish. I know what he means.
The Mage doesn’t need a bomb.
You don’t send bombs on reconnaissance missions or invite them to strategy meetings. You wait until you’ve run out of options, then you drop them.
I nod my head.
Then I turn away from him, walking back towards the heart of the grounds.
I can feel his Men watching me. They’re all just a year or two older than I am. I hate that they think they’re even older—that they feel so important. I hate the dark green breeches they wear, and the gold stars on their sleeves.
“Simon!” the Mage shouts.
I flatten my expression, then turn back.
He’s holding up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. He gives me a rare smile. A small one. “The Humdrum may be more powerful than ever, but you’re more powerful than ever, too. Remember that.”
I nod and watch him walk back to the garage.
I’m late to meet Penelope.
20
PENELOPE
We’re studying out in the hills, even though it’s cold, because Simon doesn’t like to practise where anyone can see him.
He’s got his grey duffle coat on, and a green-on-green striped school scarf, and I should have worn trousers because the wind is blowing right through my grey tights.
It’s nearly Samhain—the Veil will close soon, and Aunt Beryl hasn’t shown a whisker.
“It is what it is!” Simon says, pointing his wand at a small rock sitting on a tree stump. The rock shivers, then collapses into a pile of dust. “I can’t tell if the spell’s working,” he says, “or if I’m just destroying things.”
Every eighth-year student is tasked with creating a new spell by the end of the year—with finding a new twist in the language that’s gained power or an old one that’s been overlooked, and then figuring out how to apply it.
The best new spells are practical and enduring. Catchphrases are usually crap; mundane people get tired of saying them, then move on. (Spells go bad that way, expire just as we get the hang of them.) Songs are dicey for the same reason.
Almost never does a Watford student actually create a spell that takes hold.
But my mother was only a seventh year when she worked out The lady’s not for turning—and it’s still an incredibly useful spell in combat, especially for women. (Which Mum’s a bit ashamed of, I think. To have a spell taught in the Mage’s Offence workshops.)
Simon’s been trying a new phrase every week since the beginning of term. His heart’s not in it, and I don’t really blame him. Even tried-and-true spells hiccup in his wand. And sometimes when he casts metaphors, they go viciously literal. Like when he cast Hair of the dog on Agatha during sixth year to help her get over a hangover, and instead covered her with dog hair. I think that’s the last time Simon pointed his wand at a person. And the last time Agatha had a drink.
He brushes the rubble off the stump and sits down, shoving his wand in his pocket. “Baz isn’t the only one missing.”
“What do you mean?” I point my wand at some chess pieces I’ve set on the ground. “The game is on!”
The bishop falls over.
I try again. “The game is afoot!”
Nothing happens.
“This phrase has got to be good for something,” I say. “It’s Shakespeare plus Sherlock Holmes.”
“The Mage told me that the Old Families have been pulling their sons out of school,” Simon says. “Two seventh-year boys didn’t come back. And Marcus, Baz’s cousin, is gone. He’s only a sixth year.”
“Which one is Marcus?”
“Fit. Blond streaks in his hair. Midfielder.”
I shrug and stoop to pick up the chess pieces. I’m being fairly literal myself at the moment, because I’ve tried everything else with this phrase. I feel like it could be a good beginning spell—a catalyst.… “Is it just boys who haven’t come back?” I ask.
“Huh,” Simon says. “Dunno. The Mage didn’t say.”
“He’s such a sexist.” I shake my head. “Marcus—is he the one who got trapped in a dumbwaiter our fourth year?”
“Yeah.”
“That one’s joined the other side, eh? Well, I’m shaking in my boots.”
“The Mage thinks the Families are getting ready for some big strike.”