Carry On

by Rainbow Rowell

  Baz plays for our school. Of course. The tosser.

  He’s the same on the field as he is everywhere else. Strong. Graceful. Fucking ruthless.

  No. 4—My school uniform

  I put this on the list when I was 11. You have to understand, when I got my first uniform, it was the first time I’d ever had clothes that fit me properly, the first time I’d ever worn a blazer and tie. I felt tall all of a sudden, and posh. Until Baz walked into our room, much taller than me—and posher than everyone.

  There are eight years at Watford. First and second years wear striped blazers—two shades of purple and two shades of green—with dark grey trousers, green jumpers, and red ties.

  You have to wear a boater on the grounds up until your sixth year—which is really just a test to see if your Stay put is strong enough to keep a hat on. (Penny always spelled mine on for me. If I did it myself, I’d end up sleeping in the damn thing.)

  There’s a brand-new uniform waiting for me every autumn when I get to our room. It’ll be laid out on my bed, clean and pressed and perfectly fitted, no matter how I’ve changed or grown.

  The upper years—that’s me now—wear green blazers with white piping. Plus red jumpers if we want them. Capes are optional, too; I’ve never worn one, they make me feel like a tit, but Penny likes them. Says she feels like Stevie Nicks.

  I like the uniform. I like knowing what I’m going to wear every day. I don’t know what I’ll wear next year, when I’m done with Watford.…

  I thought I might join the Mage’s Men. They’ve got their own uniforms—sort of Robin Hood meets MI6. But the Mage says that’s not my path.

  That’s how he talks to me. “It’s not your path, Simon. Your destiny lies elsewhere.”

  He wants me to stand apart from everyone else. Separate training. Special lessons. I don’t think he’d even let me go to school at Watford if he weren’t the headmaster there—and if he didn’t think it was the safest place for me.

  If I asked the Mage what I should wear after Watford, he’d probably kit me out like a superhero.…

  I’m not asking anybody what I should wear when I leave. I’m 18. I’ll dress myself.

  Or Penny will help.

  No. 5—My room

  I should say “our room,” but I don’t miss the sharing-with-Baz part of it.

  You get your room and your roommate assignment at Watford as a first year, and then you never move. You never have to pack up your things or take down your posters.

  Sharing a room with someone who wants to kill me, who’s wanted to kill me since we were 11, has been … Well, it’s been rubbish, hasn’t it?

  But maybe the Crucible felt bad about casting Baz and me together (not literally; I don’t think the Crucible’s sentient) because we’ve got the best room at Watford.

  We live in Mummers House, on the edge of school grounds. It’s a four-and-a-half-storey building, stone, and our room is at the very top, in a sort of turret that looks out over the moat. The turret’s too small for more than one room, but it’s bigger than the other student rooms. And it used to be staff accommodation, so we have our own en suite.

  Baz is actually a fairly decent person to share a bathroom with. He’s in there all morning, but he’s clean; and he doesn’t like me to touch his stuff, so he keeps it all out of the way. Penelope says our bathroom smells like cedar and bergamot, and that’s got to be Baz because it definitely isn’t me.

  I’d tell you how Penny manages to get into our room—girls are banned from the boys’ houses and vice versa—but I still don’t know. I think it might be her ring. I saw her use it once to unseal a cave, so anything’s possible.

  No. 6—The Mage

  I put the Mage on this list when I was 11, too. And there’ve been plenty of times when I thought I should take him off.

  Like in our sixth year, when he practically ignored me. Every time I tried to talk to him, he told me he was in the middle of something important.

  He still tells me that sometimes. I get it. He’s the headmaster. And he’s more than that—he’s the head of the Coven, so technically, he’s in charge of the whole World of Mages. And it’s not like he’s my dad. He’s not my anything.…

  But he’s the closest thing I’ve got to anything.

  The Mage is the one who first came to me in the Normal world and explained to me (or tried to explain to me) who I am. He still looks out for me, sometimes when I don’t even realize it. And when he does have time for me, to really talk to me, that’s when I feel the most grounded. I fight better when he’s around. I think better. It’s like, when he’s there, I almost buy into what he’s always told me—that I’m the most powerful magician the World of Mages has ever known.

  And that all that power is a good thing, or at least that it will be someday. That I’ll get my shit together eventually and solve more problems than I cause.

  The Mage is also the only one who’s allowed to contact me over the summer.

  And he always remembers my birthday in June.

  No. 7—Magic

  Not my magic, necessarily. That’s always with me and, honestly, not something I can take much comfort in.

  What I miss, when I’m away from Watford, is just being around magic. Casual, ambient magic. People casting spells in the hallway and during lessons. Somebody sending a plate of sausages down the dinner table like it’s bouncing on wires.

  The World of Mages isn’t actually a world. We don’t have cities. Or even neighbourhoods. Magicians have always lived among mundanity. It’s safer that way, according to Penelope’s mum; it keeps us from drifting too far from the rest of the world.

  The fairies did that, she says. Got tired of dealing with everybody else, wandered into the woods for a few centuries, then couldn’t find their way back.

  The only place magicians live together, unless they’re related, is at Watford. There are a few magickal social clubs and parties, annual gatherings—that sort of thing. But Watford is the only place where we’re together all the time. Which is why everyone’s been pairing off like crazy in the last couple years. If you don’t meet your spouse at Watford, Penny says, you could end up alone—or going on singles tours of Magickal Britain when you’re 32.

  I don’t know what Penny’s even worried about; she’s had a boyfriend in America since our fourth year. (He was an exchange student at Watford.) Micah plays baseball, and he has a face so symmetrical, you could summon a demon on it. They video-chat when she’s home, and when she’s at school, he writes to her almost every day.

  “Yes,” she tells me, “but he’s American. They don’t think about marriage the way we do. He might dump me for some pretty Normal he meets at Yale. Mum says that’s where our magic is going—bleeding out through ill-considered American marriages.”

  Penny quotes her mum as much as I quote Penny.

  They’re both being paranoid. Micah’s a solid bloke. He’ll marry Penelope—and then he’ll want to take her home with him. That’s what we should all be worried about.

  Anyway …

  Magic. I miss magic when I’m away.

  When I’m by myself, magic is something personal. My burden, my secret.

  But at Watford, magic is just the air that we breathe. It’s what makes me a part of something bigger, not the thing that sets me apart.

  No. 8—Ebb and the goats

  I started helping out Ebb the goatherd during my second year at Watford. And for a while, hanging out with the goats was pretty much my favourite thing. (Which Baz had a field day with.) Ebb’s the nicest person at Watford. Younger than the teachers. And surprisingly powerful for somebody who decided to spend her life taking care of goats.

  “What does being powerful have to do with anything?” Ebb’ll say. “People who’re tall aren’t forced to pay thrashcanball.”

  “You mean basketball?” (Living at Watford means Ebb’s a bit out of touch.)

  “Same difference. I’m no soldier. Don’t see why I should have to fight for a living jus
t because I can throw a punch.”

  The Mage says we’re all soldiers, every one of us with an ounce of magic. That’s what’s dangerous about the old ways, he says—magicians just went about their merry way, doing whatever they felt like doing, treating magic like a toy or an entitlement, not something they had to protect.

  Ebb doesn’t use a dog with the goats. Just her staff. I’ve seen her turn the whole herd with a wave of her hand. She’d started teaching me—how to pull the goats back one by one; how to make them all feel at once like they’d gone too far. She even let me help with the birthing one spring.…

  I don’t have much time to spend with Ebb anymore.

  But I leave her and the goats on my list of things to miss. Just so that I can stop for a minute to think about them.

  No. 9—The Wavering Wood

  I should take this one off the list.

  Fuck the Wavering Wood.

  No. 10—Agatha

  Maybe I should take Agatha off my list, too.

  I’m getting close to Watford now. I’ll be at the station in a few minutes. Someone will have come down from the school to fetch me.…

  I used to save Agatha for last. I’d go all summer without thinking about her, then wait until I was almost to Watford before I’d let her back into my head. That way I wouldn’t spend the 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, but I don’t actually know how to drive. I jerk the wheel to the left, and the side of the taxi slams into a wooden fence. The airbag goes off in my face, and I go flying backwards, the car still smashing into something, probably more fence. I never thought I’d die like this.…

  The taxi comes to a stop before I come up with a way to save myself.

  I’m half on the floor, and I’ve hit my head on the window, then the seat. When I eventually tell Penny about all this, I’m skipping the part where I took off my safety belt.

  I stretch my arm up over my head and pull the door handle. The door opens, and I fall out of the taxi onto my back in the grass. It looks like we’ve gone though the fence and spun out into a field. The engine is still running. I climb to my feet, groaning, then reach into the driver’s window and turn it off.

  It’s a spectacle in there. Blood all over the airbag. And the body. And me.

  I go through the goblin’s jacket, but don’t find anything besides a packet of gum and a carpet knife. This doesn’t feel like the Humdrum’s work—there’s no itchy sign of him in the air. I take a deep breath to make sure.

  Probably just another revenge run, then. The goblins have been after me ever since I helped the Coven drive them out of Essex. (They were gobbling up drunk people in club bathrooms, and the Mage was worried about losing regional slang.) I think the goblin who successfully offs me gets to be king.

  This one won’t be getting a crown. My blade’s stuck in the seat next to him, so I yank it out and let it disappear back into my hip. Then I remember my bag and grab that, too, wiping blood on my grey trackie bottoms before I open the bag to fish out my wand. I can’t just leave this mess here, and I don’t think it’s worth saving anything for evidence.

  I hold my wand over the taxi and feel my magic scramble up to my skin. “Work with me here,” I whisper. “Out, out, damned spot!”

  I’ve seen Penelope use that spell to get rid of unspeakable things. But all it does for me is clean some blood off my trousers. I guess that’s something.

  The magic is building up in my arm—so thick, my fingers are shaking. “Come on,” I say, pointing. “Take it away!”

  Sparks fly out of my wand and fingertips.

  “Fuck me, come on…” I shake out my wrist and point again. I notice the goblin’s head lying in the grass near my feet, back to its true green again. Goblins are handsome devils. (But most devils are fairly fit.) “I suppose you ate the cabbie,” I say, kicking the head back towards the car. My arm feels
like it’s burning.

  “Into thin air!” I shout.

  I feel a hot rush from the ground to my fingertips, and the taxi disappears. And the head disappears. And the fence disappears. And the road …

  * * *

  An hour later, sweaty and still covered in dried goblin blood and that dust that comes out of airbags, I finally see the school buildings up ahead of me. (It was only a patch of that dirt road that disappeared, and it wasn’t much of a road to start with. I just had to make my way back to the main road, then follow it here.)

  All the Normals think Watford is an ultraexclusive boarding school. Which I guess it is. The grounds are coated in glamours. Ebb told me once that we keep casting new spells on the school as we develop them. So there’s layer upon layer of protection. If you’re a Normal, all the magic burns your eyes.

  I walk up to the tall iron gate—THE WATFORD SCHOOL is spelled out on the top—and rest my hand on the bars to let them feel my magic.

  That used to be all it took. The gates would swing open for anyone who was a magician. There’s even an inscription about it on the crossbar—MAGIC SEPARATES US FROM THE WORLD; LET NOTHING SEPARATE US FROM EACH OTHER.

  “It’s a nice thought,” the Mage said when he appealed to the Coven for stiffer defences, “but let’s not take security orders from a six-hundred-year-old gate. I don’t expect people who come to my house to obey whatever’s cross-stitched on the throw pillows.”

  I was at that Coven meeting, with Penelope and Agatha. (The Mage had wanted us there to show what was at stake. “The children! The future of our world!”) I didn’t listen to the whole debate. My mind wandered off, thinking about where the Mage really lived and whether I’d ever be invited there. It was hard to picture him with a house, let alone throw pillows. He has rooms at Watford, but he’s gone for weeks at a time. When I was younger, I thought the Mage lived in the woods when he was away, eating nuts and berries and sleeping in badger dens.

  Security at the Watford gate and along the outer wall has got stiffer every year.

  One of the Mage’s Men—Penelope’s brother, Premal—is stationed just inside today. He’s probably pissed off about the assignment. The rest of the Mage’s team’ll be up in his office, planning the next offensive, and Premal’s down here, checking in first years. He steps in front of me.