Carry On

by Rainbow Rowell

  Maybe Natasha Grimm-Pitch could have put the Humdrum in his place—but she’s long gone, and none of her friends and relatives have even a fraction of her talent.

  I send my Men to take my enemies’ treasures, to raid their libraries. I show them that even a red-faced child in my uniform has more power than they do in this new world. I show them what their names are worth—nothing.

  But still …

  I don’t find what I need. I don’t find any real answers—I still can’t fix him.

  The Greatest Mage is our only hope now.

  But our greatest mage is fundamentally flawed. Cracked. Broken.

  Simon Snow is that mage; I know it.

  Nothing like him has ever walked our earth.

  But Simon Snow—my Simon—still can’t bear his power. He still can’t control it. He’s the only vessel big enough to hold it, but he is cracked. He is compromised. He is …

  Just a boy.

  There must be a way—a spell, a charm, a token—that can help him. We are mages! The only magickal creatures who can wield and shape power. Somewhere in our world, there is an answer for Simon. (A ritual. A recipe. A rhyme.)

  This isn’t how prophecies work.…

  This isn’t how stories unfold.…

  Incompletely.

  If there’s a crack in Simon, then there’s a way to mend him.

  And I will find it.

  22

  SIMON

  I’m failing Greek, I think. And I’m lost in Political Science.

  Agatha and I get into a fight about going to her house for half-term break: I don’t want to leave Watford, and I don’t think she actually wants me to go home with her. But she wants me to want to. Or something.

  I stop wearing my cross and put it in a box under my bed.…

  My neck feels lighter, but my head feels full of stones. It would help if I could sleep, but I can’t, and I don’t really have to—I can just sort of get by, on catnaps and magic.

  I keep having to kick Penny out of my room, so she doesn’t catch on to how I’m spending my nights.

  “But nobody’s using Baz’s bed,” she argues.

  “Nobody’s using your bed,” I say.

  “Trixie and Keris push the beds together when I’m not there—there’s probably pixie dust everywhere.”

  “Not my problem, Penny.”

  “All my problems are your problems, Simon.”

  “Why?”

  “Because all of your problems are my problems!”

  “Go to your room.”

  “Simon, please.”

  “Go. You’ll get expelled.”

  “Only if I get caught.”

  “Go.”

  When Penny finally leaves, so do I.

  I give up on the Catacombs and start haunting the ramparts instead.

  I don’t really expect to find Baz up here—where would he hide? But at least I feel like I’ll see him coming.

  Plus I like the wind. And the stars. I never get to see stars over the summer; no matter which city I end up in, there are always too many lights.

  There’s a watchtower out there with a little nook inside, with a bench and a roof. I watch the Mage’s Men coming and going all night in their military truck. Sometimes I fall asleep.

  * * *

  “You look tired,” Penny says at breakfast. (Fried eggs. Fried mushrooms. Baked beans and black pudding.) “Also—” She leans over the table. “—there’s a leaf in your hair.”

  “Hmmm.” I keep shovelling in my breakfast. There’ll be time for second helpings before lessons, if I hurry.

  Penny reaches for my hair again, then glances at Agatha and pulls her hand back. Agatha’s always been jealous of Penny and me, no matter how many times I tell her it’s not like that. (It’s really not like that.)

  But Agatha seems to be ignoring us both. Again. Still. We haven’t spent any time alone since our argument. Honestly, it’s been a relief. It’s one fewer person asking me if I’m okay. I put my hand on her leg and squeeze, and she turns to me, smiling with the bottom half of her face.

  “Right,” Penny says. “We’re meeting tonight in Simon’s room. After dinner.”

  “Meeting about what?” I ask.

  “Strategy!” Penny whispers.

  Agatha wakes up. “Strategy about what?”

  “About everything,” Penelope says. “About the Humdrum. About the Old Families. About what the Mage’s Men are really up to. I’m tired of lying low—don’t you feel like we’re being left out?”

  “No,” Agatha says. “I feel like we should be grateful for some peace.”

  Penny sighs. “That’s what I thought, too—but I’m worried that we’re being lulled. Intentionally lulled.”

  Agatha shakes her head. “You’re worried that someone wants us to be happy and comfortable.”

  “Yes!” Penelope says, stabbing the air with her fork.

  “Perish the thought,” Agatha says.

  “We should be in on the plan,” Penelope says. “Whatever it is. We’ve always been in on the plan—even when we were kids. And we’re adults now. Why is the Mage sidelining us?”

  “You think the Mage is lulling us?” Agatha asks. “Or is the Humdrum doing it? Or maybe Baz?” She’s being sarcastic, but Penny either doesn’t notice or pretends not to.

  “Yes,” Penny says, and stabs the air again, like she’s making sure that it’s dead. “All of the above!”

  I wait for Agatha to argue some more, but she just shakes her head—shakes her cornsilk hair—and scoops some egg onto her toast.

  She doesn’t look happy or comfortable. She’s frowning, and her eyes are pinched, and I don’t think she’s wearing makeup.

  “You look tired,” I say, feeling bad that I’m just now noticing.

  She leans against me for a moment, then sits straight again. “I’m fine, Simon.”

  “You both look tired,” Penny declares. “Maybe you have post-traumatic stress disorder. Maybe you’re not used to this much peace and quiet.”

  I squeeze Agatha’s leg again, then get up to get us some more eggs and toast and mushrooms.

  “Lulled,” I hear Penny saying.

  23

  PENELOPE

  It was a murder of crows getting them both up here, and Agatha’s still complaining:

  “Penelope, this is a boys’ house. We’ll be expelled.”

  “Well, the damage is done,” I say, sitting at Simon’s desk. “You’re as likely to get caught leaving now as leaving later, so you may as well stay.”

  “You won’t get caught,” Simon says, flopping down on his bed. “Penny sneaks up here all the time.”

  Agatha is not happy to hear that. (I ignore her; if she’s moronic enough to believe that Simon and I have romantic feelings for each other after all these years, I’m not wasting my time talking her out of it.) She deliberately sits as far as she can from both of us, even though that means sitting on Baz’s bed.

  Then she realizes what she’s done, and looks like she wants to stand up again. Her eyes dart around the room, as if Baz himself might walk out of the bathroom. Simon looks just as paranoid.

  Honestly. The pair of them.

  “I still don’t know why we’re having this meeting,” Agatha says.

  “To pool our knowledge,” I say, looking around the room for materials. “This would be so much easier if we had a blackboard.…”

  I raise my wand and cast a “See what I mean!” then start writing in the air—What We Know:

  “Nothing,” Agatha says. “Meeting adjourned.”

  I ignore her. “The way I see it, there are three things we always have to worry about.”

  1., I write, The Humdrum. “What do we know about the Humdrum?”

  “That he looks like me,” Simon says, trying to go along with me. Agatha doesn’t look surprised by this information; Simon must have told her what happened. “And that he wants something from me,” Simon continues. “That he comes after me.”

&nb
sp; “And we know that he’s been quiet,” I say. “Nothing but flibbertigibbets since June.”

  Agatha folds her arms. “But the Humdrum’s still out there eating magic, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” I acknowledge. “But not as much. I saw my dad on the weekend, and he said the holes are spreading much more slowly than usual.” I add this to my notes in the air.

  “We don’t know that he eats it,” Simon says. “We don’t know what the Humdrum does with the magic.”

  “Sticking to what we do know…,” I say, and write, 2. The War with the Old Families.

  “I wouldn’t call it a ‘war,’” Agatha says.

  “But there have been skirmishes, yeah?” Simon says. “And duels.”

  Agatha huffs. “Well, you can’t walk into someone’s house and demand to go through their attic without expecting a few duels.”

  Simon and I both turn to look at her. “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “The Mage,” Agatha says. “I heard Mother talking to a friend from the club. He’s been raiding magicians’ houses, looking for dark magic.”

  This is all news to me. “Has he raided your house?”

  “He wouldn’t,” Agatha says. “My father’s on the Coven.”

  “What sort of dark magic?” Simon asks.

  “Probably anything that can be used as a weapon,” Agatha says.

  “Anything can be used as a weapon,” Simon says.

  I add to my notes: Raids, dark magic, duels.

  “And we know that the Old Families have kept some of their sons from Watford,” Simon adds.

  “Which could just be coincidence,” I say. “We should do some legwork—maybe the missing boys just went to university.”

  “Or maybe they’re tired of being treated like villains,” Agatha says.

  “Or maybe,” Simon says, “they’re joining an army.”

  I add to my notes: Pitch allies leaving school.

  Simon’s getting jumpy. “What about Baz?”

  Agatha runs her hand along the mattress.

  “We’ll get there,” I say. “Let’s stay focused on what we know.”

  He keeps pushing. “Miss Possibelf thinks he’s missing. She said his dad sounded scared.”

  I sigh and add a third column: 3. Baz. But there’s nothing to write underneath it.

  “I still don’t think it’s a war,” Agatha insists. “It’s just politics, just like in the Normal world. The Mage has power, and the Old Families want it back. They’ll bitch and moan and cut deals and throw parties—”

  “It’s not just politics.” Simon leans towards her, pointing. “It’s right and wrong.”

  Agatha rolls her eyes. “But that’s what the other side says, too.”

  “Is that what Baz says?” he asks.

  I try to cut in. “Simon.”

  “It’s not just politics,” he says again. “It’s right. And wrong. It’s our lives. If the Old Families had their way, I wouldn’t even be here. They wouldn’t have let me into Watford.”

  “But that wasn’t personal, Simon,” Agatha says. “It’s because you’re a Normal.”

  “How am I a Normal?” He throws his hands in the air. “I’m the most powerful magician anyone knows about.”

  “You know what I mean,” Agatha says, and she’s being sincere, I think. “There’s never been a Normal at Watford.”

  She’s right, but I wonder who she’s parroting.

  “I was prophesied,” Simon says, and it sounds so pathetically defensive, I try to think of a way to change the subject.

  Simon was prophesied.

  Or someone was. Over and over.

  The most powerful magician ever to walk the earth was coming, and he (or she) was supposed to get here just when the World of Mages needed him most.

  And Simon did.

  The Humdrum was eating our magic, the Mage and the Old Families were at each other’s throats—and then Simon arrived. He came into his power and lit up the magickal firmament like an electrical storm.

  Most magicians can remember exactly where they were that day. (I can’t. But I was only 11.) My mum was giving a lecture. She said it felt like touching a raw wire and feeling the electricity shake you from the inside. Raw, scalding, scorching magic …

  Which is still how Simon’s magic feels. I’ve never told him so, but it’s awful. Just standing near him when he goes off is like taking a shock. Your muscles are tired afterwards, and your hair smells like smoke.

  Sometimes Simon’s power seduces other magicians; they can feel it, and they want to be closer. But anyone who’s actually been close to Simon is long past feeling seduced.

  Once, he went off while protecting Agatha and me from a clan of worsegers—like badgers, but worse—and Agatha twitched and ticced for a week. She told Simon she had the flu, so he wouldn’t feel bad. Agatha’s less tolerant of his power than I am; it might be because she has less of her own. It might be that their magic is incompatible.

  That can happen sometimes, even when two people are in love. There’s an old story, a romantic tragedy, about two lovers whose magic drove each other mad.…

  I don’t think Simon and Agatha are in love.

  But it isn’t my job to tell them so. (And also I’ve already tried.)

  Anyway, Mum says that when the Mage brought Simon back to Watford, it was like he was calling bluff on the whole World of Mages. Here’s that saviour you’ve been talking about for a thousand years.

  Even the people who didn’t believe it couldn’t say so out loud. And nobody could deny Simon’s power.

  They did try to keep him out of Watford. The Mage had to make Simon his heir to get him into school—and to have him entered into the Book of Magic.

  There are still a lot of people who don’t accept Simon, even among the Mage’s allies. “It takes more than magic to make a mage,” is what Baz has always said.

  It sounds like classist nonsense, but in a way, it’s true:

  The unicorns have magic. The vampires have some. Dragons, numpties, ne’er-do-wolves—they all have magic.

  But you’re not a magician unless you can control magic, unless you can speak its language. And Simon … Well. Simon.

  He gets up now and walks over to the window, opening it wide and sitting on the ledge. His wand is in his way, so he pulls it out of his back pocket and tosses it on his bed.

  No. 4, I write in the air, The Mage.

  “So we know the Mage’s Men are raiding…,” I say. “And, Simon, didn’t you say they were unloading things back in the stables? We could sniff around back there.”

  He ignores me, staring out the window.

  “Agatha,” I say, “what else have you heard at home?”

  “I don’t know,” she says, frowning and fiddling with her skirt. “Father’s had lots of emergency Coven meetings. Mother says they can’t meet at our house anymore. She thinks our Normal neighbours are getting suspicious.”

  “All right,” I say, “maybe we should move on to questions now—what don’t we know?”

  I start a new column in the air, but Agatha stands up and starts walking out. “I really need to study.”

  I try to stop her—“Agatha, wait, you’ll get caught if you leave by yourself!”—but she’s already closing the door.

  Simon exhales loudly and runs his hands through his hair, making it stand up in curly bronze chunks. “I’m going for a walk,” he says, marching towards the door, leaving his wand on his bed.

  Part of me wishes he were following her, but I don’t think he is.

  I sigh, then sit down on his bed and look at our meagre lists. Before I leave, I blow my words out the window with a “Clear the air!”

  24

  AGATHA

  I don’t know what I’m hoping for.

  That he’ll see me standing at the wall, my hair whipping in the wind and my dress billowing out around me …

  And that, what?

  That it will mean something to him?

  That he’ll se
e me up here, waiting for him on the ramparts, and really see me for the first time—There’s the answer, he’ll think. And he’ll unfasten my ribbons and tie them around his arm, or his thigh. And, Morgana, what would that even mean?

  Something.

  Something new.

  I know that Basil, I don’t know … thinks about me. Or at least thought about me. That he used to watch me. Especially when I was with Simon.

  I know that he hated what Simon and I have. And wanted it. That he’d do anything to get between us.

  Baz was always there, cutting in at every dance. Teasing me away from Simon, then just teasing me. Disappearing. Sneaking away.

  I played along sometimes—maybe I should be grateful that Baz never called my bluff.

  Because maybe it wasn’t a bluff. Maybe I would walk away with Baz. I followed him into the Wood that day; I still don’t know what I was thinking.

  I mean, I know who Baz is. I know what he is.

  I can’t break up with Simon for a Tory vampire—my parents would disown me. And I don’t even know what that would entail. Would I have to be evil? Slip poison into people’s drinks? Cast dark spells? Or would it just be sitting next to a different boy at a different table … Being beautiful on another side of the room.

  I’d be gold to his black. Both of us pale as snow.

  Maybe I wouldn’t have to be evil—but Baz wouldn’t expect me to be good, always so good.

  And maybe I’d live forever.

  I walk the ramparts at night in a white dress and a knee-length woven cloak. The weather’s turning. I feel the roses in my cheeks.

  Maybe he’ll see me up here before I see him.

  Maybe he’ll want me.

  And I’ll know what I want, too.

  25

  LUCY

  I keep trying.

  I keep calling.

  I know this is your place.

  26

  SIMON

  At first, when I see her standing along the ramparts, I think she’s a ghost. A Visiting.

  She’s pale and wearing a flowy white dress, and her white hair is unbound and flying around her head.… But everybody else has come through the Veil wearing whatever it is they died in—not stereotypical ghost clothes.