Carry On

by Rainbow Rowell

  I did agree to it.

  I thought …

  I thought Davy might do it without me. That he might find a way.

  I thought that as long I was there, I could keep him from going too far.

  And I thought … that Davy wanted a child. Underneath it all, we were talking about a child. He was asking me to have his child. To change our lives.

  I wanted that.

  “I’m sure,” Davy said. “I’ve compared the ritual and phrases over three sources; the three accounts complete each other, and the divergence is small.”

  “Why hasn’t anyone else tried this?” I asked.

  “Oh, I think they have,” he said brightly. “But we haven’t. You said it yourself, no one has studied these rituals like I have. None of these scholars had access to each other’s notes.”

  He’d shared some of the spells with me. Beowulf. The Bible. I wrapped my shawl tighter. “So there’s no risk—”

  “There’s always risk. It’s creation. It’s life.”

  “It’s a child,” I said.

  He stood and hopped over his designs to crouch in front of me: “Our child, Lucy, the most powerful magician the World of Mages has ever known.”

  * * *

  The room was lit by seven candles.

  And Davy chanted every spell seven times.

  Why is it always seven? I wondered, lying on my back on the cold wood floor.

  I wished that we’d brought music. But there was singing outside—the students at the equinox bonfire out on the Great Lawn.

  The night was turning out more solemn than I had expected. It had been a lark, sneaking into Watford, finding the hidden room. But now Davy was focused and quiet.

  I wondered how we’d know whether the ritual had worked.…

  How would we know if our baby was the most powerful mage in the world? Would he look any different? Would his eyes glow?

  Davy said we couldn’t talk at all during the ritual, so instead I caught his gaze. He looked happy, excited.

  Because he’s finally doing something, I thought—not just shouting at the sky.

  I tried not to talk. I lay very still.

  And I knew—oh, I knew the moment it happened that magic and luck were on our side.

  There was a pull deep in my belly. Like a star had collapsed there. The world around me went white, and all my magic contracted into a tight ball in my pelvis.

  When I could see again, all I could see was Davy’s golden face above mine, as happy as I’d ever known him.

  80

  AGATHA

  The gates are open when I get to Watford, and there’s a single set of tyre tracks in the snow. That’s good; that means the Mage is here. I follow them and park the Volvo in the main courtyard right next to the Mage’s Jeep. I won’t get in trouble—this is an emergency.

  I’m not good in emergencies. I can’t wait to find the Mage and hand this off to him. I’ll tell him what I know, then I’ll get as far from this mess as I can.

  Maybe I’ll go over to Minty’s house. And we can watch Mean Girls. And her mum will make us virgin mojitos. And we’ll do gel manis—Minty’s got her own machine.

  Minty doesn’t care about magic.

  Minty won’t even read fantasy novels. “I just can’t make myself care,” she says. “It’s all so fake.”

  (I tried to do manicures with Penelope once, and she got distracted, trying to come up with a way to do it magickally.)

  I run through the snow to the Weeping Tower and up to the Mage’s office. It’s a thousand stairs, I swear. There are elevators, but I don’t know the spells.

  I’m worried about knocking at the Mage’s door, but it’s wide open, and when I walk inside, it’s a catastrophe. It looks like Penny’s been in here: There are books everywhere, in stacks and lying open. There are pages ripped out and taped all over one wall. (Not taped—stuck to the wall with spells.) (And this is exactly the sort of thing I’m sick of. Like, just use some tape. Why come up with a spell for sticking paper to the wall? Tape. Exists.) Anyway, the Mage isn’t here. I suppose I could leave him a note, but how would he ever find it? And what if he doesn’t come back in time? The Mage should really have a secretary, given his responsibilities. I close one of his books out of spite and lean against a window frame, trying to decide what to do next.

  That’s when I see the lights in the White Chapel.

  SIMON

  I’m not sure how I know the way to Watford.

  I’m not sure I’m really flying anymore. Or if I’m just thinking about being there.

  I wonder if this—what I’m doing, the magic I’m using—is enough to tear a new hole, or if it’s just making an old one bigger.

  I wonder if they’re all wrong about me, all of them.

  AGATHA

  I don’t like the White Chapel. Whenever we have assemblies in here, I can’t get the smell of incense out of my hair.

  It smells more like smoke than incense today. Smoke and spent magic. Like a classroom after an exam.

  I’m just going to find the Mage, tell him what I know, then leave.

  (Minty’s house might not be far enough away from this disaster. Maybe I’ll go to university in Scotland. At that school where Kate went to meet William.)

  The front hall of the Chapel is empty. I walk deeper in, following the smoke, which seems like an idiotic move—a Simon move—but also seems like the best way to find the Mage.

  I keep going, opening doors, making my way deeper into the building. It’s smokier back here. And darker. And I think I hear the Mage chanting. I’m probably interrupting some heavy magic. Maybe he’s searching for Simon.

  “Sir?” I call out. I don’t know what else to call him—I’ve never heard anyone actually call the Mage “the Mage” to his face.

  There’s a crash like wood hitting wood. I can’t tell where it’s coming from, and I can’t see anything. I start looking for a light switch. Some of the older Watford buildings don’t have switches—you have to turn on the lights with magic. But my wand is in the car, lying on the passenger seat; it didn’t fit in my coat pocket.

  There’s another crash. I stand very still and listen:

  A metallic clanging. Someone shouting. Footsteps coming towards me—running. Panting.

  Someone slams into me, pushing me aside and running past me. Then someone else catches me and pins me, my back against the wall. “I told you not to run!” he growls.

  “You didn’t,” I say. “You didn’t tell me.”

  He’s holding my arms so tight, I think they might actually break. “Let there be light!” he says.

  And there is.

  I stare into the Mage’s eyes. When he sees that it’s me, he throws me aside.

  “Where did she go?” he demands.

  “Who, sir?”

  He swings his wand around him. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!” His teeth are bared. “You know I don’t have time for this. The hour is near!” He slashes with his wand. “Please!” (Slash.) “Please!” (Slash.) “Please!” (Slash.) “Let me, let me, let me!”

  I’m not sure what he’s casting for, but the spell tugs at me, and I fall forward.

  “You…,” the Mage says, noticing me again. His tunic is open, and he’s sweating profusely. There’s something blue smeared all over his chest. “What are you doing here, girl?”

  “I came to tell you about Simon, sir.”

  “Simon!” he says wildly. “Where’s Simon?” He holds up his hand. “Wait—” The Mage looks like he wants to run away, like he’s listening. I take a step away from him, but he grabs my arm. “Where is Simon?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” I say. “But I came to tell you—he was with Basilton Pitch. Last night. They told me they were going to find some numpties, but I think it’s a trap! You have to help him!”

  The words rush out of me. Everything I rehearsed in the car.

  The Mage groans and holds his head, pacing now across the dark room, coming in and out of my s
ight. The light from his spell still hangs in the air around me. I take a step towards the door.

  “Numpties now. Vampires. Children. I don’t have time for this!” He growls, in frustration, and I hear something loud and heavy, like a bookcase, fall to the ground. Maybe he’s distracted. I turn to run from the room, but the Mage is right there, grabbing me. “You’ll have to do,” he says. “You’ll have to do for now.”

  My legs give out, and he drags me.

  “You don’t have much to give,” he says, “but I’ll take it.”

  BAZ

  Bunce is biting her nails. She keeps trying to cast spells on the car, but I’m already driving it as fast as it can manage, and all her spells come out nervous and tight.

  She’s worried that the Mage will kill Simon once he finds out that Simon is causing the Humdrum.

  I’m worried she’ll figure out that I want to kill the Mage first.

  PENELOPE

  I don’t trust Baz.

  I only called him for help because he has a car.

  I mean, I’d love to trust him—he’s a brilliant magician and excellent company—but I can’t.

  I only trust four people: my parents, Micah, and Simon. I don’t have any spare trust lying around, and if I did, I wouldn’t give it to Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch. He’s cynical, manipulative, and utterly ruthless. All he cares about is getting what he wants and protecting his own people.

  And there’s something in the way he looks at Simon.…

  I don’t think Baz has set aside the last seven years of hostility. He’s got a mad glint in his eyes for Simon. If he gets a chance to stab him in the back, I think he might take it.

  I need to get Simon away from the Mage.

  And then I just need to get him away.

  AGATHA

  I should be scared. And I am—terrified.

  But I’m also thinking, Fucking of course. Of course this is how I’m going to die! Because somebody’s looking for Simon and finds me instead. I’m going to be murdered by some power-hungry maniac who doesn’t even know my name.

  I don’t try to fight. What’s the point? But I go limp. And start to cry. Just because I knew I was going to die like this doesn’t mean I’m ready for it. I wish I’d been nicer to my mum this morning. I wish I were wearing something other than leggings and Ugg boots. I always figured I’d make a more beautiful corpse.

  The Mage hauls me to another room, where a trapdoor hangs open in the ceiling, light streaming down.

  He points his wand at himself—“Up, up, and away!” You’re not supposed to cast that spell on people; you can accidentally pull their lungs through their shoulders. But the spell works for him, and we start to float up through the door.

  Then another spell—“And we all fall down!”—knocks us both to the ground. Whoever casts it falls, too. I hear her land.

  “No, Davy,” she says. “Let her go.”

  And I think it must be Lucy. Here. To save me.

  SIMON

  I land on the Great Lawn at sunset and walk across the drawbridge. I see the Mage’s Jeep, and Dr. Wellbelove’s Volvo, and I wonder if they’re here—or if they’re off somewhere fighting. Actually fighting. Blades out, wands drawn. I don’t even know where to look for the war if it isn’t at Watford.

  I’m headed for the Mage’s office when I see the light at the top of the Chapel.

  It’s in a tower I’ve never seen lit before. I’ve never even noticed the stained glass there—it looks like a crown, or a cluster of stars.

  As I’m looking, the windows blaze with light.

  AGATHA

  The Mage lurches up onto his hands and knees and starts casting spells. “Please, please, please! Let me, let me, let me!”

  “Hell hath no fury!” the woman shouts. Fire pours from her staff and hits him in the chest. I’ve never seen anything like that, not even from Simon. The light from the fire finally illuminates her face—it’s Ebb. The goatherd.

  “Run, Agatha!” she says.

  But the Mage has fallen on top of me. “I can’t!” I sob.

  The Mage raises his wand to cast at her, and I hit his hand as hard as I can. His wand goes flying, and he rolls away from me to get it.

  “Run for your life!” Ebb shouts, and I do. I scrabble to my feet and run from the room like there’s a jet stream at my back.

  I run through the smoke and darkness out into the light and snow, and then I keep running.

  81

  EBB

  He would have killed that girl.

  I don’t suppose I had a choice but to come back.

  THE MAGE

  There’s no time.

  The Humdrum is devouring us.

  And today’s the day—today is a day that my magic might work. Holidays are auspicious, the solstice lingers.

  Today is the day.

  This is the hour.

  If only Simon were here.…

  I thought we’d done it—at great cost, yes—but I thought we’d done it, Lucy. We’d brought the Greatest Mage.

  He is the greatest mage.

  I hid him among the Normals, so that no one would know. So that no one would ask. I hid him until he was ready. Until he called me to him, just like every prophecy said he would!

  I didn’t know that he was broken.

  I couldn’t see that he was a cracked vessel.

  Maybe it was too much power for a babe to hold—maybe that was my mistake.

  If he were here, I could fix it. I have different spells now. (I’d been looking too far in the past; I should have realized that new power must come from new psalms.) I have a chance now, I could relieve him.

  But Simon isn’t here. And I can’t wait for him. The Humdrum won’t wait. The Pitches are on their way—

  This woman will have to do. She’s the brightest star in the Realm, next to Simon.

  Our Simon.

  I can take her power.

  I just have to kill her first.

  EBB

  I don’t suppose I ever had the choices I thought I did.

  THE MAGE

  She’s all brute force and ’90s clichés.

  I’ve seen her weave spells like a master on the goats and the grounds. But in battle, Ebb’s a cannon at a sword fight. No wonder Simon follows her around like a lost kid.

  I’d thought about making her redundant over the years—what does Watford need with goats?—but she’s powerful, and she protects the school when I’m away.

  I wouldn’t sacrifice her today if the fate of our world didn’t hang in the balance.

  EBB

  I’m out of practice.

  I was never in practice, with spells like this. I know ten spells to turn water into whisky, and I can bring the goats in with a turn of phrase. But I never saw the point of all this.

  Even when Nico and me would get in a dust-up, I’d usually settle him with Don’t worry, be happy or Hush little baby.

  My only chance now is to overpower Davy.

  I throw, “Head over heels!” and “Hit the floor!”—spells I learned in pub brawls. The Mage does something I’ve never seen before—obeying the spells instead of letting them hit him.

  He looks like a madman. His shirt is torn open, and he’s covered in muck. Who knows what dark magic he’s about—he still hasn’t said what he wants from me. We’re circling each other like two wolves.

  “You’re no match for me, Ebb,” he says, then shouts, “Resistance is futile!”

  I absorb the spell. I can do that sometimes, let a spell burn out in my magic. “Bend over backwards!” I shout back desperately, when I’m able.

  The Mage swings back into the ground like he’s made of rubber—then picks himself up, sighing.

  THE MAGE

  She caught me by surprise with that one, and my head is ringing. “I’m sorry, Ebb. But I don’t have time for this. I need your power—the World of Mages needs your power.”

  “I’m not a fighter,” she says.

  “I know. But I a
m.” I step closer. “Make this sacrifice for your people.”

  “What do you want from me, Davy?” She’s scared. I’m sorry for that. A hank of blond hair covers one of her eyes.

  “Your power. I need your power.”

  “I’ll give it to you. I don’t want it.”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” I say. “I have to take it.”

  She steels her jaw, holding her shepherd’s staff between us. “Helter skelter!” she screams—and the room goes mad.

  Floorboards peel up and whirl about us like ticker tape. Every ancient window shatters.

  It’s a child’s spell. A tantrum. For upsetting board games and scattering marbles.

  The power in this woman …

  Wasted.

  I stumble forward through the chaos and sink my blade in her chest.

  EBB

  I decide the Mage must be right, even though he talks like a madman.

  I decide this is for the best. This is for a reason.

  I hope that someone remembers to bring the nannies home.

  82

  SIMON

  As I reach the door to the White Chapel, every window explodes. It sounds like the world is ending, and it’s made of glass.

  I hope I’m not too late.…

  To stop whatever needs to be stopped.

  To help whoever needs to be helped.

  I run into the Chapel, behind the pulpit. Then I think about the Mage, and find my way to a room at the back, with a trapdoor hanging open in the ceiling. I flutter my wings—I still have wings—and catch the edge of the opening, hauling myself up.

  It’s a round room, ruined now, and the Mage is kneeling in the centre, his eyes closed and his shoulders heaving. There’s someone lying on the ground below him—and for a breath, I think it might be Baz. But Baz went to the numpties; I know he did.

  Whoever it is on the floor, it means it’s all started.

  I clear my throat and rest my hand on my hip. The blade appears without the incantation. It’s like the whole world is just reacting to me. I don’t even have to think.

  I don’t have to think.

  The Mage has his hands on the person’s chest. There’s a haze of deep magic around them, and he’s chanting. It takes me a minute to recognize the song.…