Carry On

by Rainbow Rowell

  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 of him.

  How do you keep a promise like that? To take care of a child, when the child is the greatest power you know …

  And what does it mean to take care of power? Do you use it? Conserve it? Keep it out of the wrong hands?

  I’d thought I could be of more help to Simon, especially by now. Help him come into his power. Help him take hold of it.

  There must be a spell for him.… Magic words that would fortify him. A ritual that would make the power itself manageable. I haven’t found it yet, but that doesn’t mean that it isn’t out there. That it doesn’t exist!

  And if I do find it …

  Is it enough to stabilize his power, if I can’t stabilize the boy?

  This isn’t in the prophecies; there’s nothing about headstrong children.

  I could hide Simon from the Humdrum itself.

  I could hide him from everything he isn’t ready to face.

  I could—I should! I should order him to go away—he’d still do it. He’d still listen to me.

  But what if he didn’t.…

  Simon Snow, would I lose you completely?

  11

  LUCY

  Hear me.

  * * *

  He was the first of his family at Watford, the first with enough power to get past the trials. He came all by himself, all the way from Wales, on the train.

  David.

  We called him Davy. (Well, some of us just called him daft.)

  And he didn’t have any friends—I don’t think he ever had any friends. I don’t even think I was his friend, not at first.

  I was just the only one listening.

  “World of Mages,” he’d say. “What world, I ask you—what world? This isn’t a school; schools educate people—schools lift people up—do you understand me?”

  “I’m getting an education,” I said.

  “You are, aren’t you?” His blue eyes glinted. There was always a fire in his eyes. “You get power. You get the secret password. Because your father had it, and your grandfather. You’re in the club.”

  “So are you, Davy.”

  “Only because I was too powerful for them to deny me.”

  “Right,” I said. “So now you’re in the club.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “I can’t tell if you mean that.…”

  “Lucky me,” he said. “Unlucky everyone else. This place isn’t about sharing knowledge. It’s about keeping knowledge in the hands of the rich.”

  “You mean, the most powerful.”

  “Same difference,” he spat. He always spat. His eyes were always glinting, and his mouth was always spitting.

  “So you don’t want to be here?” I asked.

  “Did you know that the Church used to give services in Latin, because they didn’t trust the congregation with God’s word?”

  “Are you talking about Christianity? I don’t know anything about Christianity.”

  “Why are we here, Lucy? When so many others are refused?”

  “Because we’re the most powerful. It’s important for us to learn how to manage and use our magic.”

  “Is it that important? Wouldn’t it be more important to teach the least powerful? To help them make the most of what they do have? Should we teach only poets to read?”

  “I don’t understand what you want. You’re here, Davy. At Watford.”

  “I’m here. And maybe if I meet the right people—if I bow and scrape before every Pitch and Grimm, they’ll teach me the trickiest spells. They’ll give me a seat at the table. And then I can spend my life as they do, making sure that no one else takes it from me.”

  “That’s not what I’m going to do with my magic.”

  He stopped spitting for a second to squint at me: “What are you going to do, Lucy?”

  “See the world.”

  “The World of Mages?”

  “No, the world.”

  * * *

  I have so much to tell you.

  But time is short. And the Veil is thick.

  And it takes magic to speak, a soul full of it.

  12

  SIMON

  As it happens, I am alone when I see Agatha.

  I’m lying out on the Lawn, thinking about the first time I got here—the grass was so nice that I didn’t think we were allowed to walk on it.

  Agatha’s wearing jeans and a gauzy white shirt, and she comes up the hill towards me slowly blocking the sun, so there’s a halo for just a second around her blond hair.

  She smiles, but I can tell she’s nervous. I wonder if she’s been looking for me. I sit up, and she sits down on the ground next to me.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hello, Simon.”

  “How was your summer?”

  She gives me a look like she can’t believe how lame that question is, but also like she’s kind of relieved to make small talk. “Good,” she says, “quiet.”

  “Did you travel?” I ask.

  “Only for events.”

  Agatha’s a show jumper. Competitively. I think she wants to jump for Great Britain someday. Or maybe ride? I know jack-all about horses. She tried to get me on a horse once, and I chickened out.

  “Simon, you can’t be scared of this horse. You’ve slain dragons.”

  “Well, I’m not afraid to slay it, am I? You want me to ride it.”

  “Any luck?” I ask now.

  “Some,” she says. “Mostly skill.”

  “Ah.” I nod my head. “Right. Sorry.”

  I sort of hate to talk to Agatha about horse stuff—and not because I’m afraid of them. It’s just one more thing I’ll never get right. All that posh crap. Regattas and galas and, I don’t know, polo matches. Agatha’s mum has hats that look like wedding cakes.

  It’s too much. I’ve got enough to deal with, trying to figure out what it means to be a magician—I’ll never pass as to the manner born.

  Maybe Agatha would be better off with Baz after all.…

  If he weren’t evil.

  I must look like I’m fuming, because she clears her throat uncomfortably. “Do you want me to go?”

  “No,” I say. “No. I’m glad to see you.”

  “You haven’t actually looked at me,” she says.

  So I look at her.

  She’s beautiful.

  And I want her. I want everything to be fine.

  “Look, Simon. I know you saw—”

  I cut her off. “I didn’t see anything.”

  “Well, I saw you,” she says. Her voice sharpens: “And Penelope, and—”

  I cut her off again. “No, I mean…” I’m not doing this right. “I did see you. In the Wood. And I saw … him. But it’s all right. I know you wouldn’t—well, I know you wouldn’t, Agatha. And it doesn’t matter, anyway. It was months ago.”

  Her eyes are wide and confused.

  Agatha has lovely brown eyes. Almost golden. And lovely long eyelashes. And the skin around her eyes sparkles like she’s a fairy. (She’s not a fairy. Fairies who can speak with magic are welcome at Watford, if they can find it, but none have ever chosen to attend.)

  “But, Simon, we have to … I mean, shouldn’t we talk about this?”

  “I’d rather just move on,” I say. “It’s not important. And it’s just—Agatha, it’s so good to see you.” I reach for her hand.

  She lets me take it. “It’s good to see you, too, Simon.”

  I smile.

  She almost smiles back.

  13

  AGATHA

  It is good to
see him, it’s always good to see him.

  It’s always such a relief.

  I think about it sometimes, what it will be like the time that he doesn’t come back.

  Someday Simon isn’t going to come back.

  Everyone knows it—I think even the Mage knows it. (Penelope knows, but she doesn’t believe.)

  It’s just … It’s impossible for him to live through this. Too many people want him dead. Too many things worse than people. Dark things. Creatures. Whatever the Insidious Humdrum is. They all want him gone, and he can’t keep surviving; there’ve been too many close calls.

  Nobody’s that strong.

  Nobody’s that lucky.

  Someday he won’t come back, and I’ll be one of the first people they tell. I’ve thought it out because I know that however I react, it won’t be enough.

  Simon’s the Chosen One. And he chose me. And even though I love him—we grew up together, he spends every Christmas at my house, I do love him—it isn’t enough. Whatever I feel isn’t enough; it won’t be enough, when I lose him.

  What if it’s like that time our collie got hit by a car? I cried, but only because I knew I was supposed to, not because I couldn’t help it.…

  I used to think that maybe I was holding back my feelings for Simon as some sort of self-defence. Like, to protect myself from the pain of losing him, the pain of maybe losing everything—because, if Simon goes, what hope do any of us have?

  (What hope do we have? Simon isn’t the solution to our problems; he’s just a stay of execution.)

  But it isn’t that—it isn’t self-defence.

  I just don’t love Simon enough.

  I don’t love him the right way.

  Maybe I don’t have that sort of love in me—maybe I’m defective.

  And if that’s the case, I may as well stand by Simon, shouldn’t I? If that’s where he wants me? If that’s where everyone expects me to be?

  If it’s the only place I can make any difference?

  14

  SIMON

  I spend an hour or so with Agatha, but we don’t say much. I don’t tell her about the Mage.

  (What if Agatha agreed with the Mage? What if she wanted me to go, too? I’d want her to go, if she were in danger at Watford. Hell, she is in danger here. Because of me.)

  When I get back to my room, Penny’s there already, sprawled out with a book on Baz’s bed.

  “So you and Agatha talked?” she asks.

  “We talked.”

  “Did she explain? About Baz?”

  “I told her not to.”

  Penny sets down her book. “You don’t want to know why your girlfriend was snogging your sworn enemy?”

  “I don’t know about ‘sworn,’” I say. “I’ve never taken an oath.”

  “I’m pretty sure Baz has.”

  “Anyway, they weren’t snogging.”

  Penny shakes her head. “If I caught Micah holding hands with Baz, I’d want an explanation.”

  “So would I.”

  “Simon.”

  “Penny. Of course you’d want an explanation. That’s you. You like to demand explanations and then tell everyone why their explanations are crap.”

  “I do not.”

  “You do. But I—look, I just don’t care. It’s behind us. Agatha and I are fine.”

  “I wonder if it’s behind Baz.”

  “Fuck Baz, he’ll do whatever he can to get to me.”

  And he’ll start just as soon as he shows up. Which could be anytime …

  Almost everyone else is here already. Nobody wants to miss the welcome-back picnic on the Great Lawn tonight. It’s always a big to-do. Games. Fireworks. Spectacle magic.

  Maybe Baz will miss the picnic; he’s never missed it before, but it’s a nice thought.

  * * *

  Penny and I meet Agatha out on the Lawn.

  I don’t see Baz, but there are so many people, it’d be easy for him to avoid me if he wanted. (Baz normally makes sure that I see him.)

  The littluns are already playing games and eating cake, some of them wearing their Watford uniforms for the first time. Hats sliding off, ties crooked. There are races and singing. I get a bit choked up during the school song; there’s this line about “those golden years at Watford / those glowing, magickal years”—and it makes me think again about how this is it. Every day I have this year will be the last day like it.

  Last back-to-school picnic.

  Last first day back.

  I make a pig of myself, but Penny and Agatha don’t mind, and the egg and cress sandwiches are to die for. Plus roast chicken. Pork pie. Spice cakes with sour lemon frosting. And jugs of cold milk and raspberry cordial.

  I keep bracing for Baz to show up and ruin everything. I keep looking over my shoulder. (Maybe this is part of his plan—to ruin my night by making me wonder how he’s going to ruin it.) I think Agatha is worried about seeing him, too.

  One thing I’m not worried about is the Humdrum attacking. He sent flying monkeys to attack the picnic at the start of our fourth year, and the Humdrum never tries the same thing twice. (I guess he could send something other than flying monkeys.…)

  After the sun sets, the littluns all head back to their rooms, and the seventh and eighth years stay out on the Lawn. The three of us find a spot, and Penny spells her jacket into a green blanket for us to lie on. Which Agatha says is a waste of magic when there are perfectly good blankets just inside. “Your jacket is going to get grass stains,” she says.

  “It’s already green,” Penelope dismisses her.

  It’s a warm night, and Penelope and Agatha are both good at astronomy. We lie on our backs, and they point out the stars. “I should get my crystal ball and tell your fortunes,” Penelope says, and Agatha and I both groan.

  “I’ll save you the trouble,” I say. “You’re going to see me bathed in blood, but you won’t be able to tell whose it is. And you’ll see Agatha looking beautiful and swathed in light.”

  Penelope pouts, but not for long. The night is too good for pouting. I find Agatha’s hand in the blanket, and when I squeeze, she squeezes back.

  This day, this night, it all feels so right. Magickally right. Like a portent. (I didn’t used to believe in portents—I’m not superstitious. But then we did a unit on them in Magickal Science, and Penny said not believing in portents was like not believing in beans on toast.)

  After an hour or so, someone crosses the Veil, right out onto the Lawn. It’s somebody’s dead sister; she’s come back to tell him that it wasn’t his fault—

  I put my blade away on my own this time, without Penny telling me to.

  “It’s amazing,” she says. “Two Visitings in one day, and the Veil is just beginning to open.…”

  When the ghost leaves, everybody starts hugging each other. (I think the seventh years have been passing around dandelion wine and Bacardi Breezers. But the three of us aren’t class monitors, so it’s not our problem.) Somebody starts singing the school song again, and we join in. Agatha sings, even though she’s self-conscious about her voice.

  I’m happy.

  I’m really happy.

  I’m home.

  * * *

  I wake up a few hours later, and I think Baz must be back.

  I can’t see him—I can’t see anything—but there’s someone in the room with me.

  “Penny?”

  Maybe it’s the Mage again. Or the Humdrum! Or that thing I dreamt I saw by the window last night, which I’m only now remembering …

  I’ve never been attacked in my room before—this would be a first.

  I sit up and turn on the lights without trying. That happens sometimes, with small spells, when I’m stressed. It’s not supposed to. Penny thinks it might be like telepathy, skipping the words to get straight to the goal.

  I still don’t see anything, though I think I hear a rustling sound and a sort of moaning. The windows are both open. I get up and look outside, then close them. I check under the beds
. I risk an “Olly olly oxen free!”—then a “Come out, come out, wherever you are!” that sends all my clothes flying out of the wardrobe. I’ll put them away tomorrow.

  I go back to bed, shivering. It’s cold. And I still don’t feel alone.

  15

  SIMON

  Baz isn’t in our room when I wake up.

  * * *

  I look for him in the dining hall at breakfast, but he’s not there either.

  His name is called during my first lesson—Greek with the Minotaur. (Our teacher’s name is Professor Minos; we call him the Minotaur because he’s half-man, half-bull.)

  He calls out Baz’s name four times. “Tyrannus Pitch? Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch?”

  Agatha and I look around the room, then at each other.

  Baz is supposed to be in Political Science with me, too. Penny makes me take Political Science; she thinks I might end up a leader someday after I beat the Humdrum.

  I’d be happy to spend my days helping Ebb herd goats if I live through the Humdrum, but Political Science is interesting enough, so I take it every year.

  Baz always takes it, too. Probably because he expects to reclaim the throne someday …

  Baz’s family used to run everything before the Mage came to power.

  Magicians don’t have kings and queens, but the Pitches are the nearest thing we have to a royal family—they probably would have crowned themselves at some point if they’d ever expected anyone to challenge their authority.

  Baz’s mum was the headmistress at Watford before the Mage, which made her the most important person in magic. (There’s a hall near the Mage’s office with portraits of previous headmasters; it’s like a Pitch family tree.) It was actually her death that changed everything—that brought the Mage to power.

  When the Humdrum killed Headmistress Pitch by sending vampires into Watford, everyone saw that the World of Mages had to change. We couldn’t just keep on as we were, letting the Humdrum and the dark creatures pick us off one by one.

  We had to get organized.

  We had to think about defence.

  The Mage was elected Mage, head of the Coven, in an emergency session, and he was also made Watford’s interim headmaster. (That’s technically still his title.) He immediately started his reforms.