Carry On - Rainbow Rowell Page 0,6

whole summer convincing myself that she was too good to be true.

But now … I don’t know, maybe Agatha is too good to be true, at least for me.

Last term, just before Penny and I got snatched by the Humdrum, I saw Agatha with Baz in the Wavering Wood. I suppose I’d sensed before that there might be something between them, but I never believed she’d betray me like that—that she’d cross that line.

There was no time to talk to Agatha after I saw her with Baz—I was too busy getting kidnapped, then escaping. And then I couldn’t talk to her over the summer, because I can’t talk to anybody. And now, I don’t know … I don’t know what Agatha is to me.

I’m not even sure whether I’ve missed her.

3

SIMON

When I get to the station, there’s no one to meet me. No one I know, anyway—there’s a bored-looking taxi driver who’s written Snow on a piece of cardboard.

“That’s me,” I say. He looks dubious. I don’t look much like a public school toff, especially when I’m not in uniform. My hair’s too short—I shave it every year at the end of term—and my trainers are cheap, and I don’t look bored enough; I can’t keep my eyes still.

“That’s me,” I say again. A bit thuggishly. “Do you want to see my ID?”

He sighs and drops the sign. “If you want to get dropped off in the middle of nowhere, mate, I’m not going to argue with you.”

I get in the back of the taxi and sling my bag down on the seat next to me. The driver starts the engine and turns on the radio. I close my eyes; I get sick in the back of cars on good days, and today isn’t a good day—I’m nervous, and all I’ve had to eat is a chocolate bar and a bag of cheese-and-onion crisps.

Almost there now.

This is the last time I’ll be doing this. Coming back to Watford in autumn. I’ll still come back, but not like this, not like I’m coming home.

“Candle in the Wind” comes on the radio, and the driver sings along.

Candle in the wind is a dangerous spell. The boys at school say you can use it to give yourself more, you know, stamina. But if you emphasize the wrong syllable, you’ll end up starting a fire you can’t put out. An actual fire. I’d never try it, even if I had call for it; I’ve never been good with double entendres.

The car hits a pothole, and I lurch forward, catching myself on the seat in front of me.

“Belt up,” the driver snaps.

I do, taking a look around. We’re already out of the city and into the countryside. I swallow and stretch my shoulders back.

The taxi driver goes back to singing, louder now—“never knowing who to turn to”—like he’s really getting into the song. I think about telling him to belt up.

We hit another pothole, and my head nearly bangs against the ceiling. We’re on a dirt road. This isn’t the usual way to Watford.

I glance up at the driver, in the mirror. There’s something wrong—his skin is a deep green, and his lips are red as fresh meat.

Then I look at him, as he is, sitting in front of me. He’s just a cabbie. Gnarled teeth, smashed nose. Singing Elton John.

Then back at the mirror: Green skin. Red lips. Handsome as a pop star. Goblin.

I don’t wait to see what he’s up to. I hold my hand over my hip and start murmuring the incantation for the Sword of Mages. It’s an invisible weapon—more than invisible, really; it’s not even there until you say the magic words.

The goblin hears me casting, and our eyes meet in the mirror. He grins and reaches into his jacket.

If Baz were here, I’m sure he’d make a list of all the spells I could use in this moment. There’s probably something in French that would do nicely. But as soon as my sword appears in my hand, I grit my teeth and slash it across the front seat, taking off the goblin’s turning head—and the headrest, too. Voilà.

He keeps driving for a second; then the steering wheel goes wild. Thank magic there’s no barrier between us—I unbuckle my seat belt and dive over the seat (and the place where the goblin’s head used to be) to grab the wheel. His foot must still be on the gas: We’re already off the road and accelerating.

I try to steer us back,