Work Text:
Mitali
There’s so many other, more restful places I could be right now, and so many more productive things I could be doing, but...politics. Morgana, will I ever be done with politics? Coven meetings are boring when they’re not contentious and today’s session is both. I’m wearing my itchy, overly stuffy formal robe as Watford headmaster, and I’m stuck listening to Titus Demersol drone on about the burden of taxation on his family (his family is one of the wealthiest in the country, but they like to play the ‘poor us’ card at every. single. meeting.) (Nobody buys it. It doesn’t stop them from trying).
Dr. Wellbelove, seated on one side of me, is looking gravely attentive, as he always does. I don’t know how he does it. Elizabeth Hereford, on my other side, looks just as sweaty and fed up as I do. She’s resting her head on one fist and, though she appears to be looking towards the podium, her eyes are glazed. Wherever she is in her mind, it’s not on the taxing of magical alfalfa!
I like Elizabeth well enough. She’s smart, and doesn’t suffer fools gladly. I don’t have friends, I have colleagues, but she’s one of my favorite colleagues. I’m so bored and irritated, I can’t resist being slightly immature: I nudge her with my elbow and whisper out the side of my mouth, “what do you think will run out first, his voice or the hourglass?” Each petitioner before the Coven gets the length of one hourglass turn to state their case. Most people finish in only minutes. Demersol has been going for at least three quarters of an hour already.
Elizabeth hides a smirk behind her hand, and whispers back, “I think they’ll have to carry him out, still talking.” I snort, and turn it into a cough, for the sake of being courteous, not that the current speaker has never deserved my courtesy.
Elizabeth looks gratified by my reaction, and clearly decides that she’d rather entertain herself by gossiping, because next, she whispers, “Have you heard the big news?”
I shouldn’t encourage this. Every speaker, no matter how pretentious and stodgy they are, deserves the full attention of each member of the Coven. But I’m feeling weak. My problems loom larger than ever. On top of my usual woes involving my children and my work, I now have to worry about this disturbance to my marriage. Martin nearly lost his magic to a charlatan, and I didn’t see it happening until it was almost too late. He says he doesn’t blame me, but I blame myself. Everytime I take my attention off of things for a moment, they tend to go completely off the rails!
And then my daughter Penelope, aside from her usual vexing relationship with the (former) Chosen One, has taken up with a Normal. And she says she’s dating him! Morgana, what did I do wrong in raising that girl?
So, like I said, I’m feeling weak and overworn right now, and so I give in to the minor thrill of gossip, and whisper back, “I’m not sure, what news?”
Her eyes sparkle in enjoyment, probably at knowing something I (possibly) don’t. I usually pride myself on being well informed on all the goings on in the World of Mages; it’s a way of being prepared for trouble, and it’s served me well over the years. Still, I think, with all I’ve had to deal with this week, I can be forgiven for being slightly out of the loop.
“About the Salisbury Heir?” She murmurs.
I frown. Is she planning to tell me about Jamie Salisbury losing his magic? Surely she knows I was there for the whole blasted drama.
“Jamie?” I ask.
“No!” She hisses, and her smile is wider now, since her news clearly IS news to me.
My frown deepens. “But Jamie Salisbury is Ruth’s only heir. What am I missing?”
She shakes her head, just slightly. “Not anymore,” she whispers. “Someone was able to pull out the Salisbury Excalibur last week. They’ve found the missing heir! Lucy’s son!”
My eyebrows shoot up and try to join my hairline, and my heart beats hard in my chest. Lucy...my beloved Lucy. Is she alive? Has she returned? Ruth told me she thought there was a child, years ago, but I always discounted it. I was certain that, however estranged we were, my dearest friend would never have hidden her child from me, much less from her parents.
I break protocol enough to turn and face Elizabeth. “Who is it?!!” I hiss, and I’m not being discreet at all anymore. Titus Demersol pauses his litany of complaints and stares at me, affronted, but I haven’t time for him anymore. Elizabeth tries to placate me, but I won’t have it. I’ve been waiting to hear news of my best friend for twenty years, and I’m not waiting one second longer. I turn to Welby and whisper harshly, “Elizabeth and I have to step out. It’s an urgent matter. I apologize.” His eyebrows lift at my tone, but he nods graciously enough, and I rise and usher Elizabeth off the dais.
I clamp a hand around her upper arm and haul her behind me to the first private office I find. I’m not sure whose it is, but that hardly matters now. I round on her. “Is Lucy back? Is she still alive? Please, you’ve got to tell me!”
Elizabeth looks apologetic now. “I’m so sorry, Mitali. I forgot how close you two were, in school. No,” she says, and now she looks at me with clear sympathy. “I’m afraid it’s been fairly well confirmed that Lucy died twenty years ago. Ruth says she thinks now that her candle spell was likely Lucy’s spirit, lingering to keep hope alive until Ruth found her grandson.”
Something shatters in me. Somehow, though I knew it was likely, I’d been holding on to hope of being able to take Lucy in my arms again one day and welcome her back. I’d had fantasies of us resuming our friendship as if it had never been severed. Now, all hope of that is gone.
I must have been lost in my head for a while, because the next thing I know, Elizabeth is tugging at my arm and offering me a tissue. I realize that my face is wet. I didn’t know I was crying. I accept the tissue and turn away to mop at my face, embarrassed at my loss of control.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and my voice sounds thick and clogged. “I just had hoped…”
“I know,” she says, soothingly. “I should have been more tactful. But I honestly thought you would have heard this already, given your daughter, Penelope.”
My daughter? What could she mean by that? I want to ask, but I have other questions that seem more urgent.
“But Lucy’s son, he survived? Why hasn’t he made himself known to us before?” Even if he was afraid of Davy, Davy’s been dead for over a year now.
Elizabeth looks angry now, but not at me. She didn’t like the Mage any more than I did. I think that’s why she and I get along so well. “Because,” she snarls, “Davy never told the poor boy his parentage. He was the boy’s father, and he kept the poor kid completely in the dark.”
I’m starting to have a very bad feeling about this. Elizabeth is making it sound like Davy had still been in contact with his son. But I’m only aware of one orphan in the entire magical world...it...it can’t be...
Elizabeth continues, oblivious to my horrified train of thought, “So, last week, when Simon Snow pulled the sword, it was the first time he knew anything of his family at all. I imagine that the poor lad is struggling with all this. I mean, the Mage brought him to Watford, made him his heir, and yet left the child in the dark completely about their familial relationship. It’s unconscionable, even for a villain like the Mage!”
The room is spinning around me, and I have to lower myself onto a leather chair before I fall over. I stare down at my knees, wondering if I should put my head between them, if it would help this awful dizzy feeling. “Simon Snow...Penny’s Simon...is actually Simon Salisbury?” I whisper, barely audible.
Elizabeth nods and then shrugs. “He is, or, if Davy and Lucy ever actually got married, I suppose he might be Simon Cadwallader.” I flinch at the name, and, to my abject humiliation, tears start dripping down my face once again.
Elizabeth lays her hand tentatively on my shoulder. “I’ve given you a shock, Mitali, I’m sorry. My family is always telling me that I need to think things through before I speak, and I never listen.” I suspect she’s feeling helpless, not knowing how to handle seeing the indomitable Mitali Bunce fall apart before her eyes.
I can’t spare the energy right now to ease her conscience. I need to be alone. I need to process...this. “Elizabeth, can you give me a moment?” I ask, not lifting my eyes from my knees.
Elizabeth seems, frankly, relieved at my request, even if her voice still holds a trace of guilt. “Of course, Mitali. I’ll return to the meeting.” She turns and walks away with firm, measured steps.
At the door, she pauses and turns back. “If you need someone to talk to Mitali, you can always give me a call. I’m a good listener.” I nod, fighting back another gush of tears at her offer, and she turns and continues out, closing the door gently behind her. To my gratitude, I hear her whispering a silencing spell from the other side of the door. As if her words are a cue, I break down. Loud, wrenching sobs tear at my throat.
I don’t know how long I cry, grieving my best friend, the girl who actually didn’t run off and abandon us at all, but instead died, and nobody knew. All I know is that eventually, I’ve got no more tears in me, and I’m once again staring at my knees, my chest heaving with my breath.
I hate to admit it, but the tears did me good. I feel lighter, somehow. I’ll probably cry again over Lucy, at least at the funeral (will Ruth be having a funeral?), and perhaps when I share this with Martin. But I’ll be able to go on, in spite of the sorrow. The guilt, however…
I don’t know how I’ll live with the weight of guilt that’s now sitting heavy in my chest. It’s taken the place of my grief now, but I somehow doubt I’ll be able to find catharsis for this feeling as easily as I did with the pain of my loss.
My mind is racing through the last twenty years, and I’m finding far too many reasons to blame myself. I’m not used to guilt; I’m very good at doing the right thing, and at knowing exactly what the right thing to do is. I’m not used to being wrong. And I’ve been so horribly wrong, for such a horribly long time.
I remember laying in the grass on the Great Lawn with Lucy sitting by my side, weaving tiny flowers into chains. Lucy was always clever with her hands and with her mind. I admired her, more than any other person, I think. Until Davy. I scowl, even thinking of his name. In this particular memory, Lucy and I had just finished our exams for the year. I think it was seventh year? We’d started talking about what the future would look like, where we’d be a year from now, or five years, or ten.
“I’ll be the head of the Coven in ten years,” I remember stating, with utter conviction. Lucy laughed. She had the brightest laugh; if sunshine had a sound, it would be Lucy’s laugh. And she always laughed at me, but I never took offense, because she never meant it mockingly. She just found the whole world amusing, though even then, at 17, she was starting to lose her happy glow to Davy’s intensity and obsessions. But for today, Davy was still taking his final exam, as was Martin, and it was just the two of us, and I relished in having Lucy to myself for a while.
“I believe you,” she said, smiling down on me. “You could conquer the world, if you put your mind to it.” I smiled, and took her statement as my due.
“What about you, Lucy? Where do you see yourself in ten years?” She paused, looking sober and thoughtful. The expression looked wrong on joyful Lucy’s face, but I brushed away my unease at the time, not wanting to bring down the mood.
“I think,” she said, dragging her words out almost reluctantly, “that I shall at least be married with children, in ten years.”
I scowled at her. “Is that all you want? Just marriage, and children?” She was unaffected by my derision and just threw her head back and laughed again.
“I’ve got time to decide, Mitali. I’m only seventeen. I suppose I’ll go to uni and try a few things out, see what sticks. But I do know I want a family of my own. I want children to bring up, in love and happiness, as my parents did for me. And I don’t want to wait a decade to start that, I want to have my kids while I’m young enough to enjoy them.”
“I don’t plan to wait, either,” I admitted. “But I can have my family and go to Uni and become the head of the Coven, all at the same time. I know I can.”
Lucy smiled down on me, and I couldn’t help but smile back. Lucy’s smiles, like her laughter, were always infectious. One of the reasons that I despised Davy was because she had smiled and laughed so much less since she started dating him.
“I know you can,” she said, and I basked in the glow of her utter faith in me. She had a way of making anyone feel like they could accomplish anything. “Can you imagine it, Mitali? You and I, with husbands and children, meeting for coffee every Sunday and trading work complaints and child-rearing stories with one another?”
I smiled, and admitted that I could imagine it. “I can see it now,” she continued. “My family and yours, together for every holiday. Our children will grow up to be best friends, as inseparable as we are. You’ll be the Magicmother to my children and I’ll be the same for yours,” She laughs again.
I’ve heard that Normals have a concept like a Magicmother, but, as with everything, they get it wrong. The Magicmother (and father) is someone who mentors a child and helps them develop their magic. Magicmothers and fathers are also the reason that there are no magical orphans; if a mage child can’t be raised by their birth parents, their Magicparents take over the responsibility.
“I’d be honored,” I said, though even then, I had serious misgivings about allowing Davy any role in my children’s lives. Still, people can grow and change, or Lucy might have seen through him eventually and plotted herself a wiser course.
“It’s a deal, then,” Lucy said, with evident satisfaction. “You’ll raise my children and I’ll raise yours, should anything happen to either of us.” She lifted her face to the sky, eyes closed and the barest quirk of a smile on her lips. “I’m so happy right now, Mitali,” she said, and she was. She was radiating pure joy. It almost hurt to look at her when she was that happy. I was feeling pretty sentimental myself. Agreeing to Magicparenthood is just as profound in its way as deciding to have children of your own.
“Me too, Lucy. I know I’ll love your children like I love my own,” I say, softly, and Lucy’s smile is blinding.
The memory collapses around my ears as I choke on another sob. These tears aren’t grief, however. They’re guilt. Because Lucy, though she’d not lived to see it, had gotten her wish. Our children had bonded instantly upon meeting and had been best friends their whole lives since. And I...I had done just about everything I could to run from any responsibility towards Lucy’s son. I’d even tried to interfere in the friendship of our children. If my daughter weren’t as headstrong as I am, I would have condemned Simon Snow...Simon Snow Salisbury (I’ll never accept Cadwallader) to a childhood of loneliness out of my own selfish fear of his power and Davy’s influence over him.
The worst part of it all is, had I accepted him with open arms as an impressionable eleven year old, I could have wielded nearly as strong an influence over him as Davy. I was fully aware that Davy left him alone at Watford over the school holidays, and sent him back to care in the summers. I knew, and I pitied the boy distantly, but deliberately chose not to get involved. I reluctantly allowed Penny to invite him for visits, of only a day or two at a time, and I tried to convince her, at every turn, to cut him loose. Welby took over where I should have with Simon, inviting him over for every holiday, giving him a semblance of a homelife when he wasn’t at school. That should have been me. It’s killing me that it wasn’t.
His mum was my best friend, and he never even got to know her. And I? I, who should have, would have taken him in and raised him as my own if I’d known, I pushed him away. I feel a flash of overpowering rage for a moment, at Davy, for keeping his own son secret from family and friends, from denying poor Simon all the love he deserved. But my anger turns to ashes. Being angry at the dead serves no purpose, and, while I had no control over what Davy did or did not disclose, I did have control over my own actions. I did have the choice to view an orphan boy as someone who needed love, instead of someone to fear. That is MY failing, and I don’t know how I can ever make up for it.
I can’t keep going over this in my head, I’m not getting anywhere. Guilt is a trap that I’ve always used, like some vast motherly spider, to keep my children and their friends in line and out of trouble, but I’ve always avoided it for myself because I’ve never seen myself as being in the wrong.
But I’ve been wrong so many times just in this last week. I disregarded Penny’s care for that Normal, Shepard, and got treated to radio silence from my child in return. I thought my husband was content with his magic, and it turns out, I was wrong about that too. And now I find that I was tremendously wrong about Simon Snow. I thought that my family would be far better off out of his orbit, and I’m tearing myself apart over how wrong I was to think that. Not that Simon is particularly safe to be around, but Morgana knows, that was never HIS fault. And I knew that! Yet I’ve spent the last nine years acting as if it was.
I don’t even know how to live with myself right now. I need someone else, someone who can see all this with an objective lens. I need Martin.
I leave the office I’ve been holed up in and return to my own, just to grab my handbag. Then I head straight home. Martin will be able to help me make sense of all this. He always has been more empathetic than I am.
Martin
When Mitali returns home from the Coven meeting hours earlier than usual, at first I think nothing of it. She’s unusually quiet, greeting Priya and Pip softly and sending them back to their previous pastimes with none of her usual vigor. But I just suppose that she’s tired. She’s got reason to be. She’s not just running half the magical world right now, but she’s got a fool for a husband who nearly consigned all of his magic to the void in the last week. I’ve honestly been avoiding Mitali a bit since then, because her sharp tongue can be hard to handle, no matter how much I deserve it.
But when my wife continues to mope through dinner and even fails to reprove Pacey for casting “Yeet!” at his brussel sprouts, I begin to worry. I’ve never known Mitali to be in a dour mood for this long. She thinks sulking is purely a waste of time, and doesn’t tolerate it in her children or in herself. Something must be very wrong.
I wait until she’s set the dishes to washing themselves in the sink with a “Seriously tough on grease!” and then I call to her.
“Mitali. What’s wrong, my love?” Oddly, she winces at the endearment. Then she looks around furtively.
“Not here,” she whispers. “I don’t want the children listening in.”
“Shall we go for an after dinner stroll?” I offer. She nods, looking slightly relieved, and goes to get her shoes.
We walk for several minutes in silence. I can see that she’s wrestling with something, and I’ve got long experience with getting my wife and children to confide in me by being patient and quiet. She’ll speak when she’s ready.
Finally, she does. “I found out about Simon’s parentage today,” she says finally, and I’m surprised. Not that Simon’s name hasn’t come up in Mitali’s rants over the years, but when it does, it’s generally not out of concern for Simon, but rather is my wife fretting over Penelope and the danger Simon puts her in. Well, in Mitali’s opinion, Simon’s the source of the danger. I tend to think that my daughter is perfectly capable of running headlong into danger quite on her own. But Mitali sees herself in Penelope, and therefore puts all the blame on the boy for the troubles Penny gets in.
But Mitali’s voice does sound concerned, and for Simon, and the oddity of that catches my interest. “Oh?” I ask, mildly.
To my immense surprise, Mitali stops, staring blankly ahead for a moment, before turning and burrowing herself into my arms. She’s...she’s crying...I can’t remember the last time I saw her cry; maybe when Pip was born? Awkwardly, because I’m completely dumbfounded, I wrap my arms around her and hold her close to me. This must be what I sensed earlier. Some great shock has disordered my wife’s mind. I stroke her hair and murmur to her while she cries stormily into my chest.
After a few minutes, her sobs have degenerated into the occasional hiccup, so I rest my hands behind her ears and raise her face to mine. “Tell me what's wrong, Mitali. Why does Simon Snow’s parentage drive you to tears?”
She gasps, half a sob almost, and she looks miserably into my eyes. “I’ve been so wrong, Martin. So wrong, and so cruel. I don’t know how to live with myself, knowing what I know.” I don’t know what she sees in my face other than my shock and worry, so she continues, explaining. “Martin, Simon Snow is the son of Lucy and Davy. He’s my best friend’s son.” My mouth falls open in surprise, but she’s not done. “My best friend...who’s dead.”
At this, I clutch her to me, convulsively. Mitali and Lucy were a force to be reckoned with in our Watford days. I know that Mitali has been hoping against hope to see her friend again for the last twenty years. I’m not sure how she found out Lucy’s fate, but I think I understand now why she’s so distraught. I’m a bit beside myself too. Lucy was a lovely girl, and everyone who knew her, loved her. Even Davy…
I scowl at that. “Did they find this in Davy’s papers? Did he kill her?”
She shakes her head against me, replying, “I don’t know. I don’t think so. The timing is right for her to have died in childbirth.” She shudders against me, and her words bring me back to the other part of her news.
“So, Simon Snow is the son of Lucy and Davy, then? Poor lad. That must have been so hard for him to hear, given what happened last year.” I pat her back, awkwardly. She doesn’t react to what I’ve said, so that’s clearly not what has been bothering her. “I am happy for him, though, that he finally has found his family.” At that, Mitali groans against me and then lifts her head to stare intensely into my eyes.
“I promised Lucy that our children would grow up together, and would be the best of friends. And they were!” She says mournfully.
I stroke her wild hair. I’ve always loved Mitali’s hair; dark brown and excessively curly, it seems to have the vitality of a living thing, almost. “Why does this upset you, if they are friends, and that’s what Lucy would have wanted?” I ask.
She looks down at the ground, and her cheeks redden. I can’t place the expression on her face. It’s one I don’t think I’ve ever seen before. “Because,” she admits in a low voice, “I’ve done everything in my power to push them apart. I even told Penny, before she ever met him, that he was too dangerous and should be avoided.” Ah. Now I know what that face means. This is what shame looks like on my wife’s face. It’s hard to see it; Mitali’s always been so certain and I love that about her. Finding out she can be profoundly wrong must shake her whole self-image. I mean, she can and has been wrong in her life, but so rarely that each instance stands out starkly in my memory.
I pull her to me again and run my hands down her spine, soothing and gentling her like a frightened animal. “Shhh, Mitali. You didn’t know. None of us did. I’m still having trouble believing it.” And the boy, while truly a good person, was undeniably dangerous. It’s not so terrible to worry over your child around someone like that.
She sniffles against my shoulder and again I’m struck by how unique this situation is. I’ve comforted Mitali before; when her mother died, when Lucy disappeared, but I’ve never had to reassure her before. I feel humbled, and grateful that she’s letting me see her now, in her agony of doubt. Finally she speaks. “He was just a child, though, Martin. I should have been kinder to him. I should have given him the benefit of the doubt, instead of setting myself against him before I’d even seen him.”
“Perhaps,” I admit. “But Mitali, you’ve done plenty of good for Simon over the years. You let him come to stay, even though his clumsiness always set you on edge. You took him in during his trial, and helped provide money and materials to support both him and Penny after they moved in together. You’ve always shown concern for him. I’m certain he wouldn’t find you blameworthy in this.”
She sighs, and I feel her shaking her head against me. “He should. I always disliked him, and not for good reasons. If I’m honest I think I was actually a bit jealous of his influence over our daughter. And worse, he knows I disliked him, Penny told me so, and I laughed it off. He never did anything to deserve that.”
She’s not wrong about that. In my opinion, Simon Snow deserves far, far more than the World of Mages has given him. He gave up his childhood, fighting to protect our world, and when he learned of his own connection to the Humdrum, he sacrificed himself without a second thought. I think the world of that boy, but Mitali’s always had a strong blindspot when it comes to Simon Snow.
“Well, my love, it’s as you always say. There’s no good to be found in dwelling in the past. The only useful path is forward. If you feel that you owe the boy something, what are you going to do about it?” I know my wife, and I know that what she needs is to be challenged. She thrives on a challenge.
Her head shoots up, and I’m relieved to see the spirit gradually come back into her face as she absorbs my challenge. Her lovely brown eyes glint with renewed determination (I fell in love with those eyes twenty-five years ago, and I’ve never regretted it). “You’re completely right, Martin,” she says, and her voice, to my relief, is as crisp and decisive as it ever was. “Let’s get home. I’ve got a backlog of work to deal with tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll go talk to Simon.”
I nod and smile, striving to keep my satisfaction out of my face. She’ll recover from this setback. Her self-image was damaged by this, but, in the long run, I think it will do her good. Maybe she’ll question some of the other assumptions she’s made, like those about that Normal boy, Shepard. That boy has seen more in his twenty-two years than I’ve seen in forty, and I look forward to spending more time talking to him. And it will be nice if I can do so without keeping my visits secret from my wife.
Simon
When I hear the firm knock at the door to my flat, I share a look of consternation with Baz, who’s laying across the sofa with his head in my lap. I just got off the phone with Penny, who’s at the airport, planning to spend several weeks in Omaha to get to know Shepard’s family. So neither of them would be knocking, Baz is with me, and nobody else knows I live here. Could be the landlady, I suppose. Merlin knows, there’s been enough chaos about this flat in the last week to clearly violate the promise I made to her to be a good tenant. If it is her, I’ll have to ask Baz to spell away her memory of the last few days.
Or—it could be another goblin. Or the same one again, even. I had Baz vanish the knife I confiscated from the goblin, but I’ve got the Excalibur now. When the knock sounds again, I look at Baz and put my finger to my lips. He nods, understanding instantly, and rises from my lap, slipping into our shared bedroom to find his wand. I slip into the kitchen, and unsheathe the sword from where I stuck it, in the granite countertop.(It still gives me an odd sensation to watch the sword slide smoothly out of solid stone).
Baz returns and stands behind the door, out of sight for whoever is knocking. I hold my sword to my side and slightly behind me; there’s no need to frighten the landlady into a heart attack if she’s the person at the door. Then I slide the deadbolt and open the door a few inches.
Penny’s mum is standing on the other side. My eyes go wide and I hear Baz hiss, “What, Snow? Who is it?”
I clear my throat. “Profess—er, I mean Dr. Bunce! What a...er...surprise?” Penny’s mom looks unwontedly serious, and not in her usual half-irritated, half-fond way, but her mouth quirks up a bit at my awkwardness.
“Simon, I need a word with you. May I come in?” she asks, and for a wonder it actually sounds like a request rather than a demand, which is what those words would usually be, coming from either of the Bunce women. I’m put off my guard by the mildness of it.
“Erm...sure? C’mon in, Mrs. Bunce...I mean Professor...I mean Doc—”
She waves me off with one hand. “You’re a grown man now, Simon. You can call me Mitali.”
No I can’t. I can’t even imagine it. But I nod uncertainly, and lead her over to my blue IKEA couch. Baz has already slipped away to our shared bedroom; he’s very good at knowing what’s needed in social situations such as this. I kind of wish that he’d stayed, though. Mitali Bunce and I have had very few conversations in my life that did not involve a scolding in some fashion or other. I don’t know how to just talk with the woman.
Wait, maybe I am being scolded... She seemed to have brushed off our misdeeds in America, but now that things have calmed down, maybe she’s decided we need to be told off after all? If that’s the case, I’ll accept it, and try to look as contrite as I’m able. Merlin knows I’m probably guilty of everything she thinks I’m guilty of.
The look on her face as she turns to face me, bringing one knee up on the couch, is odd. It’s not an expression I’ve ever seen on her face before, so it takes me a minute to interpret it. She looks....pained. And uncomfortable. And uncertain. I feel a wave of deja vu; she looks like Penny did after America, when my best friend had lost all her confidence.
It makes me feel a bit discombobulated; I’ve never seen Penny’s mum look anything other than utterly self-assured. I feel as if the world’s been turned upside down. First Penny, and now her mum. What on Earth could have happened to shake the indomitable Mitali Bunce, coven member, Headmistress of Watford and mother of five geniuses?
Baz
I’m polite enough to excuse myself from the room when Simon has a visitor, but I’m not quite polite enough to resist eavesdropping. I’m standing on the other side of the door to Simon’s bedroom listening and watching him and the Headmistress through the crack. I don’t have to even strain my ears to hear what’s being said (vampire senses).
Headmistress Bunce seems awkward, if the stiffness of her body language is anything to go by, but her voice comes out even and smooth. “Simon,” she says, “I heard of your good fortune this last week.”
Simon startles and I do too. My traitorous mind flies immediately to our *ahem* bedroom activities of the last few days. I mean, I feel extremely fortunate right now, but there’s no way Dr. Bunce would know about that...is there?
She continues, “Elizabeth Hereford told me about you finding your family.” Oh. That. My shoulders drop in relief. Of course it’s that. I was ridiculous to ever think it could be the...other thing. I laugh at my own stupidity and miss the next sentence. When I tune back in, I hear,
“Simon. I’m sorry. I know I have no right to your forgiveness, but I thought you deserved to know. It was wrong, the way I’ve treated you all of these years. I was a coward.”
...what?
I’ve never once heard Professor Bunce apologize for anything. To be fair, that’s because she’s hardly ever wrong about anything, but still. I don’t know what I missed, but if she’s apologizing, it must be something big.
I glance over to Simon, but he looks as confused and ill at ease as I feel. “I...I don’t understand, Professor. You’ve never treated me badly.” Oh. Good. I didn’t miss as much as I thought.
Mitali Bunce hunches over her lap, pressing her fingertips to her forehead. I suspect she hoped that Simon would understand immediately and she wouldn’t have to lay out whatever she thinks she’s guilty of. Too bad. I have to bare my soul to Simon Snow on a daily basis. It’s only fair that others in his life should have to do the same, or I’d start to feel singled out.
“I…” she begins, and then halts, searching for words. This is even more bizarre. I’ve never seen Penelope’s mother at a loss for words before. “I,” she tries again, “I’ve never taken care of you as I ought to have done. I’ve been so fearful of your power and of your influence on my daughter that I completely ignored the fact that you were a child too, and a far less fortunate child than most.”
Simon still looks nonplussed. “Professor Bunce, you’ve never been bad to me...exactly. Mitali winces at the pause. Simon’s right. While Mitali Bunce hasn’t exactly been bad to Simon, she hasn’t always been a force for good in his life either. Maybe she does have something to apologize for after all.
Simon continues, “But taking care of me wasn’t your responsibility. It was the mage’s job. Doubly so,” and he winces, but forges on, “because he was my actual father as well as my legal guardian.”
Professor Bunce squares her shoulders. “It may not have been my legal responsibility, Simon,” she says, “but it was my moral one, and it was a responsibility I agreed to take on, years ago. I’ve failed as a person and as a friend, and...and I can’t bear it!” The last part bursts out of her and she subsides immediately, looking embarrassed at her own emotion. Simon just looks confused. Well, Simon perpetually looks confused, but right now, he looks completely gobsmacked.
“Professor Bunce, forgive me, ”Simon says, “but how was I your responsibility in any way?”
Mitali meets his eyes and her gaze is intense. “Did you know I was friends with your mother?”
Simon looks surprised again at this apparent non sequitur. He shakes his head.
“We were really good friends. Best friends, in fact.” The Headmistress’s look begs Simon to figure out where she’s going with this, to spare her from having to say the words, but I know Simon won’t get it. He still gets confused sometimes by things that seem obvious to everyone else in the magical world, and magical family traditions confound him the most, having not had any semblance of a family himself.
I’m starting to understand, however.
Professor Bunce’s fingertips are pressed to her forehead again and she’s bending her head into them, kneading the skin there. “Simon,” she says. “I promised your mother, when we were girls, to care for you if anything ever happened to her. Such promises are sacred among mages.” Ah, now she’s getting it; assume Simon knows nothing about the world of magic and you won’t be too far off.
Simon’s eyebrows are threatening to disappear into his hairline now. “How could you have promised her to take care of me? I didn’t even exist when you knew her, did I?” I can see the thoughts buzzing around in his head like a hive of angry bees. I know he’s wondering right now if Mrs. Bunce knew his identity all along. I’m sure she didn’t. Mitali Bunce is honest to a fault. Often too honest, really. She doesn’t always stop to consider how hurtful her words can be. But she wouldn’t pull a lifelong scam on Simon. It’s not in her character.
The Headmistress seems to sense the direction of his thoughts because she’s shaking her head emphatically. “No, you were barely a thought in Lucy’s head when I knew her, Simon. But she and I had agreed to be Magicparents to each other’s children.” Seeing that her words haven’t cleared things up for Simon at all, she adds, “I believe in the Normal world, they’d say Godparents?”
“Oh!” Simon’s eyes widen in understanding. “That’s alright then. You didn’t do anything wrong, Professor. The mage kept my identity secret from everyone. Especially me.” I can hear the bitterness in his voice, and so can the Headmistress. She places her hands over his, which I’m now noticing are clenched in his lap, so tightly that the knuckles are white.
“Simon. I hope you know that, whatever Davy told you, you didn’t do anything to make him treat you that way. You were an infant when he sent you to the care homes. How could you have done anything wrong? I knew Davy since he and I were both eleven, and he was always odd and distant. The only person he ever regarded with any favor was Lucy, and even her, he treated as a disciple, not as a beloved. I don’t know if that man was capable of love; I certainly never saw any evidence of it.” Her voice is soft, and, a room away, I have to strain to hear, even with vampire senses.
Her voice strengthens when she adds, “You mum was different, though, Simon. Lucy had more love in her than anyone I’d ever met. We all basked in her glow, you know? I know that, if she’d lived, she’d have adored and protected you. She told me once how much she looked forward to having kids. I’m certain she loved you with everything in her.”
Headmistress Bunce’s body is partly blocking my view of Simon, so I hear the sob before I notice him shaking. I make an abortive movement towards the door handle, my only instinct to take him in my arms, but the Headmistress beats me to it. She’s pulled Simon into her arms and is holding him like...well, like a mum would. She strokes his back and murmurs into his ear, too low for even my enhanced ears, while Simon cries like a baby into her shoulder.
I open the door and stand hovering, uncertain, in the doorway. Mitali Bunce meets my eyes and gestures with her chin for me to join them. I do, though I’m not certain I’m needed here. The Headmistress seems to have it covered. She’s comforting him expertly, and soon enough, he’s sitting back against me, rubbing his eyes like a toddler. I offer him a handkerchief and he gives a watery laugh. He always laughs at my handkerchiefs, says they’re too posh to use for mopping up snot. Still, he puts it to its intended use and turns to face Mistress Bunce again.
“Simon,” she says, and there’s a world of guilt in her voice, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. I should have been your mother in everything but blood, but I let my fear of your power and my dislike of the Mage blind me. Morgana, you look so much like her! Not the hair color, but the curls, the blue eyes, the freckles—I have no idea why I didn’t figure it out on my own.” She’s kneading her forehead again. I’ve noticed that she does that when she’s anxious or exasperated. I’m guessing she’s anxious right now.
It seems it’s Simon’s turn to be the comforter. He reaches out and gently pulls her hands down and then brings them together between his own. “Professor, the point is, you didn’t know. The mage made certain of it. I—I’m still not sure how to think of him. I mean, he wasn’t my f-father, not in anything other than blood. You were far kinder to me than my own blood ever was. And you had no reason to think I had any call on your affection.”
Mitali shakes her head. “Still, I should have done far more. And I will, Simon, if you’ll allow it. I know you’re grown, now, but I’d like to consider you a part of my family, from here on out. I’ve got thousands of stories to tell you about your mum, and a heart full of affection for you that you’ve always deserved, and I’ve always withheld—”
Simon stops her there. “No, professor. I’ve always known you were fond of me, you were just cautious. And given all we know now about the mage, you were probably right to be. I can’t promise I wouldn’t have let things I knew about your household slip to him if he’d asked me. Back then, I was obeying him blindly without considering the cost. You were right to hold me at arm's length.”
“Maybe I had good reasons, but kindness and love should have trumped those reasons, Simon. Martin’s always thought the world of you, but I held him back and denied you what I now know was your birthright. I’d like to start over with you, Simon. I’d like to swear the Magicparent vows for you as I promised Lucy I would, more than twenty years ago. What do you say, dear? Will you let me stand in my beloved Lucy’s place? Will you let me be a mum to you?” Mitali removes her hands from between his and then wraps them around his hands instead. She stares into his eyes intensely.
Simon looks overwhelmed. I don’t blame him. In the course of one week, he’s gone from a penniless orphan with nobody but me and Bunce, to the last living scion of a wealthy aristocratic family with a grandmother and uncle. Not to mention the fact that he’s now in a (consummated!) relationship with the last scion of another wealthy old family. It would be too much for anyone! And now, he’s being offered the magical equivalent of being adopted; if he accepts, he’ll have a mother, father, brothers and sisters. Penelope has always been like a sister to him; this would just make it official in the eyes of Mage law.
Headmistress Bunce is nattering on about ‘of course he can take his time to decide, she very sorry to have dropped all of this on him out of nowhere, yada yada yada’, but Simon isn’t hearing it, I can tell. He’s looking intensely at the carpet, and his brow is furrowed. When the Headmistress suggests that maybe she should go, let him absorb all this new information and he can contact her later, his head shoots back up. “No!” he half shouts. Mistress Bunce looks taken aback, until Simon says, “No, I don’t need time to think. I-I’d love to call you my mum.”
I look over at him and his eyes are shining. I smile in relief. Simon deserves this. He’s always deserved this, but better late than never. Simon and the headmistress talk through options for the ceremony, because a Magicparent ceremony is nearly as involved as a mage wedding, and then she takes her leave. She envelops Simon in one more tight hug at the door, and then says good-bye. Simon squeezes her back, just as hard.
When she’s gone, Simon looks at me, a little sheepish over me witnessing such an overt display of affection. “D’you think I made the right choice, Baz?” He asks me, and his eyes are wide and wet. I pull him into my arms.
“Of course you did, love. You’ve always deserved all of the affection in the world. It’s about damn time the world started paying its debts to you.” Simon smiles at my use of a Normal swear, (I only ever use Normal curses when I really want him to pay attention) and turns to look back at the now closed door.
“I don’t know how to hold all of these feelings, Baz,” he whispers.
“I’ll help you carry them, love. You’ll find it becomes a lighter and lighter burden over time, until you don’t even feel it anymore.”
He laughs. “I know. And I want it, I want it all. I just feel...greedy for wanting so much.”
“If anyone in the world of mages has a right to feel greedy right now, it’s you Simon. But you’re not being greedy to want love. You deserve it. It’s not greedy to want what you always should have had.” I tuck his chin into my chest and rub over the place where his wings sprout out of his back. “Let us all love you, darling. You deserve it.”
“I’ll try, Baz. I’ve been trying. And I’ll keep trying,” he vows.
“That’s all anyone could ask of you.”
Mitali
My heart is more at ease as I fall asleep tonight. Simon was understandably shocked at what I had to tell him, but he did agree to my proposal, and now I have years to make things up to him, this time as my son, instead of as my daughter’s troublesome friend. Looking back, I can make less and less sense of my own behavior over time, but that’s water under the bridge (not Water Under the Bridge, which is a powerful memory spell).
I’ve barely closed my eyes when I’m opening them again. I know I’m dreaming which is odd. Usually I not only don’t dream, when I do, I don’t remember my dreams.
This one is as clear as anything in real life, though. I’m at Watford, which shouldn’t surprise me, but somehow it does. It’s late afternoon—the light has gone thick and golden, with little sparkles of haze in it. I look around myself, and find that I’m seated in the grass beneath the yew tree, and there’s a football game, all dust and scramble, livening up the pitch to my right. Other students are seated here and there on the grass, some holding hands in pairs, some chatting in small groups. Then, I realize that I must be one of them. I recognize the grey uniform trousers smooth over my legs and green blazer that is too warm for the afternoon heat. I take it off and lay it on the grass beside me, leaving just my plain white uniform shirt and green and purple striped tie.
I watch the match for a while, somehow content to just exist in the moment as I never am in real life. I can tell that it’s nearly the end of the school year. I see 8th years in the distance carrying garment bags with what must be their finery for the Leaver’s ball. All of the students around me are vaguely familiar, but I can’t place them. They’re cheering for the Watford team, though, so I cheer along. Time stretches endlessly in this perfect moment until I hear a soft grunt next to me, and then the shuffle of someone finding a seat in the grass. I look over my shoulder.
It’s Lucy.
Lucy’s smiling softly at me, and, as always, her smile pulls my attention away from anything I was focused on before. “This was a great day, wasn’t it?” she says.
“Was?” I ask, “not is?”
“Was, is, will be, it’s all the same, really,” she chuckles. I’m a little confused, but I smile in faint agreement. “Still, it’s a beautiful day, whenever it happens. I wish all our days together had been like this.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I lost myself, Mitali. I lost who I was, subsumed myself to Davy’s needs, Davy’s causes. You never wanted anything but to be there for me, and I failed you.” Her lovely blue eyes are downcast now, and I can’t abide that.I turn and clasp her hands between mine.
“No, Lucy. You were young, and in love, and you made mistakes, of course, but all young people do. Most young people don’t have to lose their lives to repent and correct their mistakes. That’s not on you. You never had a chance to make things better.”
She laughs, loud and bright, and I lift an eyebrow at her in consternation. I’m not sure how my impassioned speech was humorous, but it’s always good to hear her laugh.
“It’s so funny to hear you talk about “young people” like a middle aged woman, when you look like that,” and she gestures to my Watford uniform and, I presume, my eighteen year old face and figure. I’m not vain enough to carry a mirror, but the smooth, unmarked quality of the skin on my arms suggests that the rest of me is equally youthful in this dream.
I smile helplessly. Lucy always could find the humor in every situation. “I am a middle aged woman,” I say wryly. She nods, suddenly sober.
“Mitali, I’m proud of you,” she says, and her eyes are steady, all laughter fled.
“Why?” I realize I’m holding my breath waiting for her answer, and I force myself to relax.
She gazes into my eyes, tired and honest. “You overcame your fear to give my son the last thing he needed. You’ll be a fantastic mum for Simon, Mitali.”
“So would you have been,” I say, forcing the words past a thick knot in my throat. She simply nods, not agreeing exactly, but accepting what I’ve said.
“I wish I’d had the chance. But he’ll get to know me now, through you. My mum will tell him how I was as a child, a daughter. You’ll be able to tell him how I was as a person. I’m grateful for that.” Her head falls forward a bit, golden curls dangling over her eyes.
I reach out and cover her hand with my own again. “You’ll be able to get to know him yourself, someday, Lucy.”
She smiles at me, and it’s through tears. She resembles the painting of her that hangs in the catacombs now. I’ve just seen it the once, but she looked just like this; solemn, wistful. “I will,” she agrees, “though may that time be many years down the road. I want my son to have a full and happy life.”
“If I have anything to say about it, he will,” I vow. She nods, and then the dream is changing, twisting and distorting around us, spinning away from me. In the moments before my brain takes me off to other, unremembered dreamscapes, I hear her sweet voice, one last time:
“Thank you, Mitali.”