Carry On

by Rainbow Rowell

  “Yes.”

  “For Christmas.”

  “Yes.”

  “With your family.”

  Baz rolls his eyes. “Well, it’s not like you have any family of your own.”

  “You’re mad.” I move again towards the bathroom.

  “How is it mad?” he demands. “I could use your help, and there’s nothing here for you—you’d think you’d appreciate the company.”

  I stop at the door and turn back again. “Your family hates me.”

  “Yes, and? So do I.”

  “They want to kill me,” I say.

  “They won’t kill you—you’ll be a guest. I’ll even cast the spell if you want. Be our guest.”

  “I can’t stay in your house. Are you kidding me?”

  “Snow, we’ve lived in the same room for seven years. How can you have a problem with this?”

  “You’re mad!” I say, closing the door.

  Completely off his nut.

  * * *

  “Your mum doesn’t trust me?” I say.

  We’re walking down the hall, and Penelope immediately starts shushing me with her hand. “She does trust you,” she says. “She trusts you completely. She knows that you’re honest and forthright, and that if you hear something you shouldn’t, you’ll go right to the Mage with it.”

  “I wouldn’t!”

  “You might, Simon.”

  “Penny!”

  “Shhhhh.”

  “Penny,” I try again, more quietly, “I’d never do anything to get your mother in trouble with the Mage. And I can’t imagine she’s done anything that would get her in trouble with the Mage.”

  “She’s sent his Men away again,” Penny says. “Premal says the Mage himself is coming to the house next time.”

  “Then I should be there,” I say. “He’d never hurt her in front of me.”

  Penny stops in her tracks. “Simon. Do you really think the Mage would hurt my mother at all?”

  I stop, too. “No. Of course he wouldn’t.”

  She leans in. “Mum’s filing an appeal with the Coven; she thinks this will work itself out. But you know I need to research the Watford Tragedy while I’m home, and there’s no way Mum will let you into our library with everything that’s happening. She calls you Mini-Mage.”

  “Why doesn’t she like me?”

  “She likes you,” Penny says, rolling her eyes. “It’s him she doesn’t like.”

  “Your mother does not like me, Penny.”

  “She just thinks you attract trouble. And you do, Simon. Possibly literally.”

  “Yeah, but I can’t help it.”

  Penelope starts walking again. “You are preaching to the head of the choir.”

  It’s not that I mind being alone at Watford—I don’t mind it much. But nobody’s here on Christmas Day. I’ll have to break in to the kitchen to eat. I guess I could ask Cook Pritchard for the key.…

  We get to my next lesson, and I intentionally slam my shoulder into the wall next to the door. (People who tell you that slamming and bashing into things won’t make you feel better haven’t slammed or bashed enough.) “Is that what we’re calling it now?” I ask. “‘The Watford Tragedy’?”

  It takes Penny a second to backtrack in our conversation. “It’s what they called it at the time,” she says. “What does it matter what we call it?”

  “Nothing. Just. We’re doing this because somebody died. Baz’s mum died. ‘The Watford Tragedy’ makes it sound like it happened to people far away who don’t matter to us.”

  “Tell the Mage you’re staying here for Christmas,” she says. “He’ll want to spend it with you.”

  That makes me laugh.

  “What?” Penny asks.

  “Can you imagine?” I say. “Christmas with the Mage?”

  “Singing carols,” she giggles.

  “Pulling crackers.”

  “Watching the Queen’s speech.”

  “Think of the gifts,” I say, laughing. “He’d probably wrap up a curse for me just to see if I could break it.”

  “Blindfold you, drop you in the Hell of the Wood, and tell you to come home with dinner.”

  “Ha!” I grin. “Just like in our third year.”

  Penny pokes my arm, and I slide away, along the wall. “Talk to him,” she says. “He’s a mad git, but he cares about you.”

  * * *

  Baz is one of the last students to leave for break. He takes his time packing his leather trunk. He’s got most of our notes in there.… He still hasn’t decided whether to talk to his parents about all this, but he’s going to find out what he can. “Someone has to know something about Nicodemus.”

  I’m lying on my bed, trying to think about how nice it will be to have the room to myself—and trying not to watch him. I clear my throat. “Be careful, yeah? I mean, we don’t know who this Nicodemus is, and if he’s dangerous, we don’t want him to twig that we’re looking for him.”

  “I’ll talk only to people I trust,” Baz says.

  “Yeah, but that’s it, isn’t it—we don’t know who to trust.”

  “Do you trust Penelope?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you trust her mother?”

  “I trust her not to be evil.”

  “Well, I trust my family. It doesn’t matter whether you do.”

  “I’m just telling you to be careful,” I say.

  “Stop showing concern for my well-being, Snow. It’s making me ill at ease.” He closes the lid of his trunk and snaps the latches. Then he looks at me, frowning, and decides something. I’m familiar with that look. I put my hand over the hilt of my sword.

  “Snow…,” he says.

  “What.”

  “I feel like I should tell you something. In the interest of our truce.”

  I look over at him, waiting.

  “That day you saw Wellbelove and me in the Wood…”

  I close my eyes. “How can this possibly be in the interest of our truce?”

  He keeps going: “That day you saw me with Wellbelove in the Wood—it’s not what you think.”

  I open my eyes. “You weren’t trying to pull my girlfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Sod off,” I say. “You’ve been trying to get between me and Agatha since the day she chose me over you.”

  “She never chose you over me.”

  “Get over yourself, Baz.”

  He looks pained; that’s a new one. “No,” he goes on. “What I’m saying is—I’ve never been an option for Wellbelove.”

  I push my head back into my pillow. “I shouldn’t have thought so, but apparently, I was wrong. Look, you’ve got a clear shot at her now. She’s done with me.”

  “She interrupted me,” he says. “That day in the Wood.”

  I ignore him.

  “She interrupted my dinner. She saw me. I was asking her not to tell anyone.”

  “And you had to hold her hands for that?”

  “I only did that bit to piss you off. I knew you were watching.”

  “Well, it worked,” I say.

  “You’re not listening.” He’s looking very pained now. “I’m not ever going to come between you and Wellbelove. I was always just trying to piss you off.”

  “Are you saying you flirted with Agatha just to hurt me?”

  “Yes.”

  “You never cared about her?”

  “No.”

  I grit my teeth. “And you think I want to hear that?”

  “Well, obviously. Now you can make up with her and have the best Christmas ever.”

  “You’re such an arse!” I say, jumping to my feet and charging at him.

  “Anathema!” he shouts, and I hear him, but I almost plant my fist in his jaw anyway.

  I stop just short. “Does she know?”

  He shrugs.

  “You’re such an arse.”

  “It was just flirting,” Baz says. “It’s not like I tried to feed her to a chimera.”

 
“Yeah, but she likes you,” I say. “I think she likes you better than me.”

  He tilts his head and shrugs again. “Why wouldn’t she?”

  “Fuck you, Baz. Seriously.” I’m standing so close, I’m practically spitting in his face. “She was carrying around your bloody handkerchief, that whole time you were gone. Since last year.”

  “What handkerchief?”

  I go to the drawer where the handkerchief is shoved in with my wand and a few other things, then I wave it in his face. “This one.”

  Baz pulls the fabric out of my hand, and I pull it right back because I don’t want him to have it. I don’t want him to have anything right now.

  “Look,” he says. “I’ll stop. I’ll leave Wellbelove alone from now on. She doesn’t matter to me.”

  “That makes it worse!”

  “Then I won’t stop!” he says, like he’s the one who should be angry. “Is that better? I’ll damned well marry her, and we’ll have the best-looking kids in the history of magic, and we’ll name them all Simon just to get under your skin.”

  “Just go!” I shout. “Seriously. If I have to look at you anymore, I won’t even care about the Anathema. If I get kicked out of Watford, at least I’ll finally be done with you!”

  51

  BAZ

  I was trying to do Snow a favour.

  A favour that doesn’t serve my interests at all—at all.

  I bloody well should marry Wellbelove. My father would love it.

  Marry her. Give her the keys to whatever she wants keys to. Then find a thousand men who look exactly like Simon bloody Snow and break each of their hearts a different way.

  Wellbelove isn’t very powerful, but she’s gorgeous. And she’s got a great seat; she and my stepmother could go riding.

  Then my father could stop wringing his hands about the Pitch name dying with me. (Even though the Pitch line already died with me; I’m fairly certain vampires can’t have babies.) (Crowley, could you imagine vampire babies? What a nightmare.) (And why doesn’t Aunt Fiona pass on her bloody name? If my mother gave me hers, Fiona can surely provide the world with a few more Pitches.)

  I think if I got married, to a girl from a good family, my father wouldn’t even care that I’m queer. Or who fathered his grandchildren. If the idea of passing on my mother’s name that way didn’t turn my stomach, I’d consider it.

  Snow would probably find a whole new way to hate me if he knew I thought this coldly about love and sex and marriage. About his perfect Agatha.

  But what does it even matter if my intentions are never good? My road to hell isn’t paved with good intentions—or bad—it’s just my road.

  Go ahead, Snow. Forgive your girlfriend. I’m not standing in your way. Go stand on bloody hilltops together and watch the sun set in each other’s hair—I’m done being a nuisance. I’m done. Truce.

  I didn’t expect to mend any fences with all this … co-operating. I didn’t expect to convince or convert Snow. But I thought we were making progress. Like, maybe when this was all over, he and I would still be standing on either side of the trench, but we wouldn’t be spitting at each other. We wouldn’t be spoiling for the fight.

  I know Simon and I will always be enemies.…

  But I thought maybe we’d get to a point where we didn’t want to be.

  52

  SIMON

  With Penny (and Baz) gone, I spend a lot of time walking around the school grounds. I decide to look for the nursery.…

  Baz thinks the Weeping Tower swallowed it after his mum died. Penny says that can happen sometimes when a magician is tied to a building, especially if they’ve cast blood magic there. When their blood is spilled, it hurts the building, too. The place forms sort of a cyst around it.

  I think about what might happen if I died in Mummers House—after all the times I’ve spilled my blood to let our room recognize me.

  This is one reason Penny doesn’t like blood oaths and spells. “If you’re as good as your word, words should be good enough.”

  I’m quoting her again. I’ve been having conversations with her in my head all day. Sometimes Baz joins the imaginary conversation, too—usually to tell me I’m a twat … though he never uses that word, even in my head. Too vulgar.

  I’m rattling around the Weeping Tower that way, talking to myself and poking my nose in corners when something out the window catches my eye. I see a line of goats moving through the snow across the drawbridge. A figure that must be Ebb trails behind them.

  Ebb. Ebb …

  Ebb’s been at Watford since she was 11—and she’s at least 30 or 40 now. She must have been here when Headmistress Pitch died. Ebb never left.

  The goats are back in their barn by the time I get out there. I knock at the door—I don’t want to give Ebb a shock; she lives out here with the goats.

  I know that’s strange, but honestly, it’s hard to imagine Ebb living around other people. Other staff members. She can do as she likes in the barn. The goats don’t mind.

  “Hiya, Ebb!” I say, knocking some more. “It’s me, Simon.”

  The door opens and one of the goats peeks its muzzle out before Ebb herself appears. “Simon!” she says, holding the door wide and waving me in. “What’re you doing here? I thought everybody had gone home.”

  “I just came by to say Happy Christmas,” I say, following her into the barn. It’s warmer inside, but not by much. No wonder Ebb’s dressed like she is—her ratty Watford jumper layered over another jumper, with a long striped school scarf and a mess of a knit hat. “Snakes alive, Ebb, it’s cold as a witch’s wit in here.”

  “It’s not so bad,” she says. “Come on, I’ll build up the fire.”

  We walk through the goats to the back of the barn, which serves as Ebb’s sitting room. She’s got a little table and a rug back here—and a TV set, the only one at Watford, as far as I know. Everything’s set up around a potbelly stove that isn’t connected to any wall or chimney.

  That’s the best part of visiting Ebb—she doesn’t care at all about wasting magic. Half the things that come out of her mouth are spells, but I’ve never seen her magic-thin or exhausted.

  The stove is magicked, I’m sure. And she probably uses magic to watch football matches.

  “Why doesn’t she put in a magickal shower?” Agatha asked, the last time she visited Ebb with me—which must have been years ago. I don’t know where Ebb washes up. Maybe she just Clean as a whistles every morning.

  (I had the same idea when I was 13, but Penny gave me a lecture about whistles not being very clean, actually, and Clean as a whistle only taking care of the dirt you can see.)

  Ebb feeds some branches into the stove and pokes at the fire. “Well, Happy Christmas yourself,” she says. “You caught me just in time. Going home tomorrow.”

  “To see your family?” I ask.

  Ebb’s from East London. She nods.

  “Do you need someone to watch over the goats?”

  “Nah, I’ll let them wander the grounds. What about you? Off to Agatha’s?”

  “No,” I say. “I thought I’d stay here. My last year and all, trying to soak up as much Watford as I can.”

  “You can always come back, Simon—I did. You want some coffee? ’Fraid all I’ve got out here is coffee. No, wait, I’ve got some Rich Tea biscuits. Let’s eat ’em before they go soft.”

  I turn over a bucket and sit close to the fire. Ebb fusses at the cupboards she’s nailed to the back of the barn. She’s got shelves hanging there, too, crammed with dusty ceramic animals.

  When I was a second year, I gave Ebb a little breakable goat for Christmas; I’d found it over the summer at a car boot sale. She fussed over it so much that I brought her bric-a-brac every Christmas for a few years. Goats and sheep and donkeys.

  I’m feeling shamefully empty-handed when Ebb hands me a chipped mug of coffee and a stack of biscuits.

  “I’m not sure what I’d do around here,” I say. “I don’t think Watford needs two go
atherds.” One of the smaller goats has wandered over and is nuzzling at my knee. I hold out a biscuit in my palm, and it takes it.

  Ebb smiles and settles into her easy chair. “We’d find something for you. It’s not like there was an opening when Mistress Pitch brought me on.”

  “Baz’s mum,” I say, scratching the goat’s ears. Getting Ebb to talk about all this might be easier than I thought.

  “The same,” she says. “Now, there was a powerful magician.”

  “Did you know her well?”

  Ebb takes a bite of biscuit. “Well, she taught Magic Words when I was in school,” she says, puffing crumbs out onto her dirty scarf. “And she was the headmistress. So I guess I knew her that way. We certainly didn’t move in the same circles, you understand—but after my brother Nicky passed, my family didn’t move in any circles at all.”

  Ebb’s brother died when she was in school. She talks about him a lot, even though it gets her all worked up and morose every time. This is one reason Penny never took to Ebb. “She’s so melancholy. Even the goats seem bummed out.”

  The goats seem fine to me. A few are poking around Ebb’s chair, and the little beggar has settled down at my feet.

  “I was afraid to leave Watford,” Ebb goes on, “and Mistress Pitch told me I didn’t have to. Looking back, she was probably worried I’d get up to my own brand of trouble. I always had more power than sense. I was a powder keg—Nicky and I both were. Mistress Pitch did a service to magic when she took me in and told me not to worry about what was next. Power doesn’t have to be a burden, she said. If it’s too heavy ’round your neck, keep it somewhere else. In a drawer. Under your bed. ‘Let it go, Ebeneza,’ she said. ‘You were born with it, but it doesn’t have to be your destiny.’ Which is never what my da told me … I wonder if Mistress Pitch would have been so forgiving if I was one of her own.”

  I’m giggling and trying not to spit out wet biscuit.

  “What?” she says. “This is supposed to be an inspirational story.”

  “Your name is Ebeneza?”

  “It’s a perfectly good name! Very traditional.” She laughs, too, and shoves an entire biscuit into her mouth, washing it down with coffee.

  “She sounds good,” I say. “Baz’s mum.”