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"I may think of you softly from time to time. But I’ll cut off my hand before I ever reach for you again.”
― Arthur Miller, The Crucible
BAZ
The car has stopped but I don’t get out. We’re not yet through the gates, and there’s a line of cars waiting behind us; ugly SUV’s and combi-vans, big enough for the whole family. Everyone wants to be here, today. Someone’s honking already and I twist around, seat belt digging into my stomach, to see who it is. But it’s just Fiona in her little red MG, honking and flashing her headlights impatiently. Or maybe she’s just excited, who knows.
Father and Daphne are in front of the closed gates, THE WATFORD SCHOOL and the slogan MAGIC SEPARATES US FROM THE WORLD – LET NOTHING SEPARATE US FROM EACH OTHER spelled out in big iron letters above their heads. Daphne’s carrying the baby – it’s Mordelia’s first time at Watford, and of course she gets to open the gates. (It’s tradition. But it’s also a test.)
Through the windscreen I can see Mordelia reach out and close her tiny fist around the M of MAGIC. She’s cute as a button with her little yellow sunhat. Father takes a picture of her with his camera.
I wish I could remember my Gate Opening. There’s a picture of it, in one of the big leather-bound photo albums in our library. I looked at it just this morning. My mother in a lovely, rose-patterned suit, with me on her hip. I’m slightly grumpy and very red-faced in a bright blue romper; so much blood, so much anger, so much life in such a small body. I know that it’s me, but it’s hard to recognize myself. (But doesn’t everyone feel like that about their baby pictures?) My father has an arm slung around my mother’s shoulders, holding us close. Fiona’s thumb is in the picture too, a big red blotch blurring over the silhouette of Watford behind us.
The gates swing open and my father and Daphne laugh in relief. Mordelia starts crying. (She doesn’t yet know that she just proved that she’s a proper mage. She’s just tired.)
Fiona honks, again.
They get back in the car and we drive through the gates, up the path to where a section of the great lawn is marked with fluttering ribbons. The car jolts over the grass and the molehills; a fourth-year student in school uniform and boater waves us over to an empty parking spot.
There are already loads of people milling about, chatting and laughing. The first day of school is always an opportunity for the Families to meet up, to show off, to cast see and be seen! and impress their adversaries. Father’s been looking forward to this day for ages; he and Daphne are out of the car before I have so much as unbuckled my seatbelt, shaking hands and introducing Mordelia to the World of Mages.
I open the car door and am about to get out when I see it: the Weeping Tower. It’s the tallest building in Watford, dark against the morning sun in all its sad, leaning glory.
I haven’t seen the Weeping Tower in six years. Merlin and Morgan, I haven’t seen Watford since I’ve been Turned. Since my mother was killed.
And suddenly I feel like, as soon as I get out of the car, as soon as my feet touch the great lawn, all my memories will vanish. All the hazy, loving bits I remember about my mother – how she let me play on the ramparts, how she showed me how to intimidate the merwolves, how she taught me clapping games in the Wavering Woods – will get overwritten with new, stupid memories.
Conjugation in five different languages. Potions and history and football.
This is what my life will look like as soon as I cross the drawbridge.
This is what I was looking forward to until I saw the Weeping Tower.
I wasn’t even at my mother’s funeral. At the time I was still sick, lying in bed with a fever that left me like I am now. (Undead. Soulless. A fucking tragedy.)
Something clenches in my chest.
I just want to go home, to leave Watford as it is: full of ghosts and memories and everything good that ever happened to me while I was still alive.
That’s how Fiona finds me. She walks over from where she parked; a spot of black in a crowd of pastel sundresses and beige summer suits.
I just sit there, half turned in my seat, legs dangling out of the open car door. I can’t move.
“Hey, kiddo,” Fiona pushes her sunglasses into her hair and squints at me. “You all right?”
“Terrific,” I say, but the word comes out shaky.
“Looks like you’re freaking out if you’re asking me.” Fiona puts a hand on the hood of the Jag and leans closer, peering at my face.
I close my eyes and groan. “I’m not asking you.”
“Well, too bad,” Fiona shrugs, “because I’ve got something for you.”
At this, I open my eyes again. Fiona’s presents are the best – she doesn’t care about sensible, or educational, or not prone to making loud noises, like Father does. Fiona got me my first football, and my Paddington Bear, and a stereo that is loud enough to make the gargoyles on the roof crumble.
Fiona squats in front of the open car door and doesn’t say anything until I sit up straighter.
“You’re afraid of the new school?” she asks, gesturing towards Watford.
I nod. It’s a white lie, easier than the ugly truth that has lodged in my throat.
But Fiona sees straight through me. (She always has, and I love her for it.)
“You miss your mom?”
I nod, again, afraid that I’ll start tearing up if I open my mouth. This is so embarrassing.
She pats my knee, and, just for a second, her cool façade slips. “Me too, kiddo. Me too.”
Then she reaches under the collar of her Vivienne Westwood destroy fascism shirt and pulls out a necklace. It’s a small amulet on a silver chain, with the Watford emblem engraved in intricate detail, winged goats and all. “When your mother graduated, the whole year got these, in honour of Watford’s eight-hundred-year jubilee. Well, the girls got amulets and the boys got signet rings, long live sexism and all that. I found your mother’s when I looked through those boxes in my old room last month.”
She takes the necklace off and gently fastens it around my neck. “It’s like the gates, you can only open it if you’re a true mage.”
With trembling fingers, I press a fingernail into the tiny catch on the side of the amulet, and immediately, it clicks open.
In a bright purple eighties font, the words Watford! School of Magicks! 1183 – 1983! appear in the world’s tiniest turquoise starburst, hovering for a few seconds over the open amulet before turning into We were there! And we lived!
“See?” Fiona says, a hint of a smile playing around her lips. “You’ll live.”
The amulet looks like something straight from an arcade game, ugly and cheap and utterly magickal in its weirdness.
It belonged to my mother.
I tuck it under the Eton collar of my shirt, feel the warm metal settle against my cold skin.
Fiona nods, satisfied.
“Come on, we’ll drop off your luggage at the Courtyard,” she says. “And then I need you to help me fend off those bloody bachelors.”
(Another reason why there are so many people here today: Every mage who hasn’t found a spouse yet, sees the start of school as an opportunity to find someone to get off with. We are obsessed with not going extinct. It’s just as humiliating as it sounds.)
I still feel like I’m going to puke, so I shake my head. “I’ll stay in the car for a bit.”
I slump back into the seat.
Fiona gets up and puts her hands on her hips. I have to look up to see her face, and suddenly I feel a bit silly for putting up such a fuss. I’m not a child anymore. (Not really.)
“Basil,” she exclaims, and there’s a ruthless kind of anger in her eyes, “you’re going to get out of this car and walk over the drawbridge and show the fucking Mage what you’re made of.”
I don’t know what to say.
People are looking at us. I doubt that they can hear what Fiona says, but everyone loves a bit of drama, especially since the War started. Watching members of the Old Families tear each other apart is better than any sitcom and definitely a welcome distraction, these days. I spot Dr Wellbelove and his wife, pretending to be very occupied with admiring the ancient yew trees behind our car.
They’d love that: Headmistress Pitch’s son is wetting his pants because he’s scared of the new school.
I am not going to give them that satisfaction.
Fiona squats down again and waits until I meet her eyes. “You’re a Pitch, and my nephew, and you have no idea what the world would miss out on if you don’t go now to claim your rightful place in this goddamn shithole of a school.”
Then, before I can recoil in disgust, she spits on my shoes and polishes them with her sleeve, all in one swift motion. “There you go, boyo, now you’re perfect.” She gets up and pulls me to my feet.
I don’t resist. I guess it’s time to meet my fate.
She puts her hands on my shoulders and smiles. “Go and make your mother proud, you glorious little prat.”
Then she pushes me towards the drawbridge.
SIMON
It’s nice up here. Nicer than anywhere I’ve been lately.
Since the foster home went up in flames, things went kind of blurry.
This is what I remember from last night:
- The fire brigade. Sirens, red and blue, blue and red, flashing like crazy.
- The night spent in the gym because they couldn’t find enough places to sleep for all of us. No one wants a bunch of orphans in the middle of the night. Especially not the kind who burn down houses.
- The smell of scorched rubber, not from my ball, but from the smelly gym mats they gave us to sleep on. My fingertips were leaving big smoking black holes in the blue rubber. I think the others saw, but no one said anything.
- I couldn’t sleep. Everything was humming inside of me. I felt like one of those little kitchen timers that are shaped like fruit: ringing and ringing and ringing until they are about to topple over the edge of the counter. Except there was no edge and no stopping, not for me.
(Not even now: It’s like there’s something large and alive eating its way out of my skin. It’s not a bad feeling… it’s just so much where before there was so little.)
I’m glad that up here, everything’s made of stone. Nothing to burn.
(I think it was me. I burned down the foster home. I can’t remember how. And I didn’t tell the police, I’m not stupid. Besides, I don’t think the police would believe me if I told them that I set fire to the building just by wanting. Wanting to get out. Wanting more.)
The wind helps, too. It smells of freshly mown grass and scones and something else, something I can’t quite place, yet.
BAZ
I take another look at the Weeping Tower, and this time, there’s someone silhouetted between the medieval crenellations, at the very top. A person, staring down at the slowly moving crowd that streams towards the castle. No – smaller than a person. A child.
Why would anyone be up there right now?
I keep staring, craning my neck. It’s hard to see, but I think whoever it is might be hiding. Or maybe just waiting for the ceremony to start.
I wish I were up there right now.
I remember what it’s like at the top of the Weeping Tower, close enough to the sky to lick the clouds.
I remember what it’s like because you can only get there from the headmaster’s office. My mother’s office.
Whoever is up there has no right to be there.
(What did Fiona say? Something about claiming my rightful place?)
SIMON
I still can’t believe that this is a school. I mean, I knew that rich people went to expensive public schools, but I didn’t think that they’d have whole castles just to themselves. I don’t even think that there are tourists allowed at Watford. None of the rooms that I’ve been in so far were roped-off with those fancy red velvet cords I saw at the school trip to Warwick Castle. In Watford, you can just touch everything.
“Touch it. Open it. Go on.”
That’s what the Mage said when we arrived at the gate here this morning, after an endless train ride, and a drive in the Mage’s jeep into the middle of nowhere.
And I was disappointed because I had hoped that he’d make it open, with a flick of his wand, the way he opened the door of the gym, with a bang and a bit of smoke. (I can’t wait to see more magic. I hope I get a wand. And a sword, like the Mage’s. That’d be so cool.)
But the Mage is my guardian now, so I went up to the gate, craning my neck to read the big iron letters. I could feel his gaze on the back of my head and got nervous. Reading is hard, sometimes. (At least he didn’t ask me to say anything.)
There was no doorknob, no handle, not even a lock.
I was so excited. Everything inside me was still burning to get out: I could see the big lawn on the other side of the gate, and the castle behind it and I wanted nothing more than to run and explore and maybe throw a few stones into the moat.
So I decided to just push the gate open, although it is huge and made of iron.
I reached for the gate, but before I could touch it, it swung open.
The Mage congratulated me as if I’d performed a miracle. “That was magickal, Simon!” he shouted. “I knew you could do it!”
I wasn’t that impressed; I mean there’s obviously just some sort of mechanism, like with the sliding doors in the supermarket – but maybe the Mage has never been in a supermarket. I don’t think they let people with birds fluttering around their shoulders into Tesco, anyways.
And who needs supermarkets when they can have magic?
The people down on the big lawn all look like they don’t go to the supermarket either. They all look like they have butlers and housemaids. Posh and rich and like they’d rather die than open a gate with their bare hands. I’m so jealous it makes my stomach hurt.
I clench my fist, squeezing my rubber ball.
I breathe out, dig my fingernails into the red rubber, and, just for a second, I feel less like I’m burning up inside.
BAZ
And then – a split second before I lose it and storm towards the Weeping Tower to push whoever’s up there off the battlement – I feel it. The magic. Like heat sizzling on a tarmac road. Making the hair on the back of my neck feel like it’s being singed off.
The sun is so bright that it creates a sort of halo around the kid’s head.
SIMON
When the Mage told me that he was taking me to Watford, a school for magic, I immediately believed him. As soon as I saw him, I knew it was either that, or he’d ask me to join a band of outlaws who live in the forest, Robin-Hood-style.
I’ve never met anyone who looks like him, like he’s ready to break into song any time. (And then he did break into song, at the train station. A nursery rhyme, I think. And as soon as he had started, there was an announcement that our train wasn’t delayed after all. He bought me a Capri Sun to make me stop staring at him.)
Somehow, I expected everyone here to look like him. I expected capes and pointy hats, broomsticks and dragons, like in the movies.
I met all the teachers. One of them had the head of a bull. The rest of them looked just as tired and annoyed as all teachers I’ve ever had. (The only name I still remember is Ms Possibelf. She gave me a cookie.)
No dragons so far.
There are goats, though, all over the big lawn. They’re everywhere; milling between the fancy cars and the people like they own the place.
I can see one of them right now, a dirty white spot on the green lawn. It’s a baby goat, I think, and it’s nibbling on the dress of a girl with the blondest hair I’ve ever seen. She doesn’t notice, and I laugh.
There’s so much to see.
Kids are dragging suitcases and trunks from the cars and over the lawn until their parents take pity on them and suddenly the suitcases start floating over the wooden drawbridge.
They all press toward the castle. They cross the moat, and down in the green water huge beasts thrash their tails. I think they might be sharks, but when the Mage and I were there this morning, they started howling like a bunch of feral dogs.
I didn’t want to admit it, but I was scared of them. I clutched my duffel bag tighter and when the Mage saw my face, he took me by the shoulders.
“Listen, Simon,” he said, shaking me a little bit in his excitement, “you’re the Chosen One. You’re our destiny. You’re going to end the War of all Wars. You’re going to bring true magic back to our world! There’s so much worse waiting for you out there than just a meagre little pack of merwolves.”
Then his eyes glazed over for a moment and he abruptly turned on his heel. I had to jog to catch up with him.
I look towards where all the people are standing together, and I can see the Mage, a small figure in green, striding through the crowd. He climbs the steps of a big grey fountain in the middle of the courtyard and everyone turns to look at him.
The Mage says something, I think.
Everyone falls silent.
Then, a murmur floats through the crowd.
BAZ
There’s a shortcut, overgrown with wild brambles, behind the administration building. I remember it because my mother used to put me on her shoulders so that I could reach the highest, fattest berries. They were big as thumbs and sweet as honey.
Now, I don’t spare them a glance. The strange magic is still prickling against my skin.
I am halfway towards the Weeping Tower when a cheer goes up behind me. Must be great to have parents who are that excited that you’re starting school. I haven’t seen either Father or Daphne since we arrived.
I kick a stone, hard, and it flies deep into the bushes beside the path. There’s a low growl from deep inside the thicket, and I walk faster. Bramble ramblers. I’d forgotten that they live here. (They’re nasty little gossipmongers, and that’s probably the reason why they’re an endangered species. Either that, or because there’s a cookbook that mentions that they’re the perfect ingredient for a delicious chutney.)
I’ve almost reached the tower when I hear someone call my name.
“Baz! Baz!” It’s Dev, zigzagging around the all the people who have left the Courtyard and are now streaming towards the White Chapel. Everyone is chattering excitedly.
Dev’s wearing a beanie and khaki shorts. Clearly, he doesn’t care that it’s tradition to dress up on the first day of school. Sometimes, I can’t believe that we’re related. (But he’s good company. And he plays the piano. Last Christmas, we did the whole Pirates of the Caribbean score together, and it was amazing.)
There’s another boy, tagging along after him, in a striped shirt and with a blond Justin Bieber fringe. “Mate! Stop running!”
Dev skids to a halt in front of me. “Baz! Can you believe it?”
“Believe what?” I ask, putting my hands in my pockets.
“Whoa, mate, how have you not heard?” exclaims the blond boy. “Everyone’s been talking about it!”
I can’t remember the last time anyone called me mate.
“Who’s this?” I raise an eyebrow and look at Dev.
“Baz, this is Niall, we went to the same Normal school together,” Dev grins and throws an arm around the boy’s shoulder. “Niall, this is Baz, my cousin.”
We look at each other. He’s lanky, taller than Dev but not quite as tall as I am. Pale skin, muddy blue eyes, like a spell gone awry.
I don’t know him. There aren’t that many mage children, but we’re scattered all over the country. I know most parents, because of the meetings Father holds, but the children are never allowed to stay at our house.
Slowly, I extend a hand. “Basilton Grimm-Pitch. Nice to meet you.”
He ignores my hand, but his eyes widen, and he slaps his forehead. “Blimey! You’re a Pitch! Should’ve known, what with you being Dev’s cousin and all! Your mum was Natasha Grimm-Pitch – my Ma’s doing her doctorate about your mum’s thesis on Dystopian Approaches to the Loss of Literacy! Your mum was the coolest, mate!”
He offers me a fist bump, and I don’t hesitate for a second.
SIMON
Apparently, there’s some kind of ceremony in the big church – or is it a chapel? – where the First Years get their roommates. I don’t care all that much about who I get to live with; I’m used to sharing a room. As long as they’re not going to flush my head in the toilet, I’ll be fine. Maybe we’ll even be friends.
I think I should go down soon. I don’t think anyone is going to come get me; the Mage is nowhere in sight and all the other teachers are busy, probably.
Maybe they forgot about me.
BAZ
“The Mage’s Heir! He’s here! Today!” Dev looks like he’s about to faint. “Everyone’s going bonkers about it!”
“The Mage found him and brought him here!” Niall adds, his voice squeaky all of a sudden.
I can feel my heart beat faster. The Mage’s Heir. I wonder what he’s like. Whether he is strong and handsome and really has a ‘blade of fire and golden hair’, like in the songs. I wonder where he’s been all this time.
“Maybe he’s going to be a teacher…” Dev says. He lowers his voice to sound like a grownup. “Good morning, children!”
“Goooood moooor-ning, Mr Mage’s Heir!” Niall drags out the words in an imitation of the classic student greeting.
They giggle.
I don’t. I’m still too caught up in imagining what the Mage’s Heir might be like. An adult, that’s for sure. But other than that? Maybe I’ll meet him. The Families will stop at nothing to get their hands on the Chosen One. Maybe he’ll stay at our house, one day.
“Oh, come on, Baz, aren’t you excited?” Dev pulls a face.
Before I can answer, Daphne interrupts us. Mordelia gurgles happily in her pram when she spots me.
“Did somebody say excited?” Daphne smiles and puts an arm around me and Dev. “I’m sure you’re all very excited to find out who your roommate is going to be. Aren’t you, boys?” She starts chatting with Dev and Niall.
I don’t want a roommate. I just want to live in my mother’s office, forever.
I duck out from under Daphne’s arm and crane my neck to look at the top of the Weeping Tower. Whoever was up there is gone.
I start toward the White Chapel, past the other First Years who are hugging their parents goodbye. (Parents have to leave before the ceremony starts but I don’t feel like hunting down my father just to get a half-hearted pat on the shoulder.)
The White Chapel an imposing building, with spires and turrets and stained-glass windows. (They depict myths and prophecies and important literary scenes: The Beguiling of Merlin, The Burning of the Malleus Maleficarum, Salome Beheads John the Baptist, Beowulf Slays Grendel, Puck Enchants Titania with ‘Love-in-Idleness’ – that sort of thing. It’s breathtakingly beautiful, if you’re in the mood for it.)
There aren’t many kids inside yet, and my footsteps echo on the white stone slabs. Someone has magicked all the pews away and there’s a big, unlit firepit in the centre of the Chapel.
“Hey, Basil,” someone hisses behind me. “In here!”
It’s Fiona, poking her head out of a panel in the backwall of Poets Corner. It would be almost funny, her face between the busts of Marx and Wodehouse, if the dark khol around her eyes wasn’t smeared from crying.
SIMON
There’s a giant window made of colourful glass at the far end of the chapel, leaving dancing red and yellow spots on the stone floor around the altar. It shows a young knight with curly hair; he’s surrounded by golden rays of light. He’s about to ram his sword into the neck of a red dragon – but there’s something wrong with the perspective, I think, because the dragon is half-hidden behind the knight, so that it looks like the its red wings are sprouting from the knight’s back. The knight looks like he’s about to fly away as soon as he’s killed the dragon.
I’d trade my grotty trainers any day for a pair of wings.
I’d do anything for a bit of magic.
The Mage says I’m the Chosen One. The Mage’s Heir.
But all I did was set something on fire, and I didn’t even do it on purpose.
How am I supposed to save the World of Mages when all I know is how to explode? (Going off, like a bomb. That’s what it felt like, last night. Like, if I’d keep it in one more second, I’d turn myself to dust.)
By now, there are maybe three hundred kids in the Chapel. It’s easy to recognise the other First Years because everyone else is already wearing their school uniform. They are all chattering excitedly, gathering around the big stack of wood in the middle of the floor.
They are waiting for the ceremony to start. Some of them throw me curious looks.
I clench and unclench my fingers around my ball and try to breathe in time with it, like the counsellor at the foster home once showed me after I beat up one of the other kids.
On the other side of the fire, in the shadows, someone slips out from behind a hidden panel in the wall. It’s a boy with black hair, and as he weaves his way through the crowd towards the centre of the chapel, his face shines bright in the light from the stained-glass windows.
I wonder where he’s come from.
BAZ
I leave the Catacombs as soon as my eyes have stopped burning. The secret panel glides shut behind me, but I can still hear Fiona blowing her nose in the vaulted corridors under the Chapel, the bones and skulls offering only a dry echo. (She didn’t want me to miss the ceremony, but she wanted to have a fag before she had to face ‘that fucker of a Mage and all his bloody vapouring about the fucking Heir’. Her words, not mine.)
Fingers pressed to my chest where I can feel the shape of my mother’s locket, I make my way over to the firepit. I’m just in time to see a bunch of Eighth Years cast spells on a huge iron cauldron so that it hangs in the air above the still unlit wood. There’s a small girl with brown skin and bright red hair commenting on their sloppy wand work. Judging by her patronising tone and her huge glasses, she’s a Bunce.
The iron cauldron is the Crucible, of course. It’s one of the most valuable magickal objects at Watford. It’s semi-sentient, and there are rumours that if you heat it up properly and ask nicely enough, you can get it to sing you a song about friendship and soulmates. Disney ought to make a blockbuster about it.
The Mage appears and starts swishing his wand at the piled-up wood.
Fiona told me how this is going to happen, although it's supposed to be some big, exciting secret for us First Years. (She also told me to stay away as far as possible from the fire. “Sparks,” she said, pointing to an imaginary pyre. “Flammable vampire,” she added, stabbing her index finger into my chest.)
I suspect that I'm not the only pupil who got a hint; nobody around here looks all that excited. Except for the Mage, who probably was born with this expression of fake cheerfulness. (I hope he wasn't born in those ridiculous green tights. No mother should have to bear such a sorry sight.) (Neither should a pupil on his first day at school.)
SIMON
Everyone is shuffling closer to the middle of the room, and somehow, I end up right in front of the firepit. Which is great because now I can get a better look at what the Mage is doing: He’s got his wand out and is singing under his breath, almost dancing around the stack of wood, his cape flowing along behind him.
I think he’s casting a spell. I wonder what’s going to happen this time.
BAZ
The Mage points his wand at the piled-up wood, and I wonder what kind of spell he is using. There are so many for fire. (And I know them all.)
I look around. I’m not the only one watching the Mage. On the other side of the pit, there’s a meagre little boy, eyes fixed on the Mage as if his life is depending on it. He’s wearing crappy jeans and dirty T-shirt, like he’s crawled straight out of a dumpster. He must have shaved his head recently, there's only about an inch of reddish hair to be seen.
I’ve never seen anyone like him, not among mages. Maybe he’s one of the Mage’s charity cases; a changeling, or some other half-magic hoax, something that you’d leave out for the fairies to get rid of it.
It’s weird: he looks like he’s about to go all Please, Sir, I want some more at the Mage – and at the same time there’s a strange determination in his eyes, like he’d rather gnaw off his own leg than ask for help.
Apparently, I’m not the only one who’s fascinated. Despite his cheap, too large shirt and visible effort not to draw any attention, everyone is looking at him.
So there we are: watching the boy who’s watching the Mage. The boy holds some kind of red rubber ball in his left hand and every time he clenches his fist, the feeling gets stronger.
The feeling, the magic, I realise, is the reason we’re all staring at him.
(I pretend not to stare. Father says staring is vulgar. But I observe him, from the corner of my eye.)
SIMON
Maybe they’re going to roast a pig over the fire, like at that medieval festival we went to on a school trip. I haven’t eaten anything all day, except for Ms Possibelf’s cookie. I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse.
Hungry for food, yes; but there’s something else, a hollow ache in my stomach, a dry itch crackling under my skin. It feels exactly as it did last night, when I was lying in bed in the foster home, fists clenched, eyes shut tight.
To distract myself, I take my eyes off the Mage and search for the boy with the black hair.
There he is, half-hidden in the shadows of the big columns. He’s wearing a ridiculously posh suit, like he’s from the MIB and ready to put on sunglasses and neuralize some poor bystander after an alien attack. (He looks well cool – but something about the way he’s crossed his arms tells me that he’s the sort of bloke who likes to pick on people for a hobby.)
BAZ
The Mage finally manages to set the wood on fire. We watch the lump of iron inside the Crucible melt. Ever so slowly, it turns from boring grey metal into hot, burning liquid. This is why I love fire. (It transforms. It changes.)
But I can’t concentrate on the Crucible. My eyes are drawn to the other side of the flames.
I'm feeling light-headed – the magic that is coming from the boy in waves wraps itself around my throat. It's both weird and exhilarating. (And it makes me want to cross the nave, so that I'll be closer to him.) (I wonder whether everyone can sense this. I wonder whether everyone's skin is tingling.)
SIMON
The Mage says something, but I’m not listening. The big iron pot is glowing with heat. Inside, melted metal sloshes as the pot slowly rotates over the fire.
The Mage shouts, “Find your roommates!”, like he’s signalling the start of a race. No one explained this to me. Maybe I’m supposed to ask someone whether they want to be my roommate, like finding a buddy for the school bus back in primary school.
I turn to see who’s standing next to me. The boy to my right is short and stocky, and he’s tightly gripping the flashiest belt buckle I’ve ever seen, like he’s about to thrust his hips and yell yeehaw.
I want to walk over and say hi, but only now I notice that there’s a wide circle around me. Everyone’s at least two metres away, even though the chapel is jam-packed with people.
I catch the boy with the belt buckle looking at me.
Suddenly, I’m nervous. I clench my fist.
His eyes widen, and there’s a flash of fear in his face. He turns away, towards a boy in a wheelchair. They shake hands, grinning.
I wonder whether anyone will ever choose me.
BAZ
Everyone’s looking at each other, waiting for a clue about how this is supposed to happen. Then the first kids start to walk around, towards each other, forming pairs, smiling like idiots. I can see Dev and Niall, high fiving at the far end of the Chapel. The Bunce girl is hugging a girl with pointed ears and hair that looks like candyfloss. Dr Wellbelove’s daughter Agatha is giggling over something with a mousy little girl.
And I'm still waiting. My throat is burning. I take a hesitant step forward since everyone else is already moving and I don't want to seem like something is wrong. (Like I won't get a roommate.)
They all seem so happy, so alive. I think maybe that’s the problem: I’m dead. Maybe the Crucible cannot sense me, maybe I’ll have to stand by and watch everyone meet their roommate, like a complete loser.
But the other feeling, the magic, is still flowing over me, luring me closer to its source. Closer to the other side of the fire.
SIMON
It’s him. It must be him.
Dark hair.
Grey eyes.
I can feel it in my stomach, like a hook that’s digging into my very existence, pulling me towards him.
I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.
BAZ
I shuffle forward only the tiniest bit and the pain in my throat eases. Not much, but enough that I stand still again.
And then I see him.
The only other kid that's still without a partner –the lonely, ragged boy, walking towards me, nearly tripping over his feet. Hurrying, breaking into a trot, nearly running.
I don't move. I can’t move.
The closer he comes, the less my throat hurts. (The closer he comes, the more his magic stirs my heart.)
SIMON
“Simon,” I say, out of breath. I don’t know how I manage it, but I don’t even stutter. “Simon Snow.”
He arches an eyebrow, clearly not thrilled at the prospect of taking my hand.
So I add: “I’m the Mage’s Heir.”
(It worked on the teachers when the Mage told them earlier today. Suddenly they were all smiles and handshakes.)
BAZ
He’s the Mage’s Heir. I should have known. There’s no doubt about it; I can feel how powerful he is, like a bass beat humming through my body, drowning out everything else.
I cannot take his hand.
The pain in my throat is nearly gone, but right now, it is the only thing that keeps me rooted. I need to keep a minimum distance between us because his magic is so strong, wrapping itself around us, layer after layer.
SIMON
Why won’t he just take my hand?
BAZ
He is shining in the firelight. There are freckles scattered across his face and his smile is slightly wonky.
I want to kick him in the knees.
Instead, I take his hand.
For a brief moment I'm stunned. Something clicks into place. The pain subsides and magic envelops us.
And suddenly, I get it; I recognize the magic. He’s the kid who was on top of the Weeping Tower. He was in my mother’s office.
SIMON
I hold his hand and I feel better than I have all day.
I feel like I belong, like this is where I’m meant to be.
But he’s frowning at me. And I know the look on his face, I’ve seen it a hundred times. I know his kind: full of hate and disdain and so much worse to come.
But I won’t give in. I’ve found my place, here at Watford. I’m the Mage’s Heir.
I’ll fight him if I have to.
BAZ
I drop his hand with a sneer and wipe my palm on my trousers' leg.
Simon Snow is going to be my roommate for the next eight years. And eight seconds of holding his hand already made me want to rip out his heart and burn him at the stake.
Aleister Almighty, this is going to be fun.