Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There isn’t any script for what I’m doing. That’s what I keep telling myself to explain why I’m back at Agatha’s for the hols instead of with Baz at his aunt’s flat in London. (Truth be told, I’m a bit grateful not to be there – I’d get tired of keeping a constant guard up around Fiona.) Being back here, though, makes me think that everything is the same as it was last year, and it definitely isn’t.

At least Dr. Wellbelove seems to have taken it in stride that Agatha and I aren’t together anymore. I think Ms. Wellbelove put up more mistletoe than usual to goad us into some kind of holiday reunion, egged on by the spirit of Christmas or whatever. Hasn’t worked, obviously. She keeps sighing about it. 

I fell asleep in the middle of Doctor Who. Right in the middle of smashing my way through a horde of dream crabs in my own dreams (creepy bastards), I feel something grab my shoulder and shake. 

“Simon?” It’s Aggie, her face half lit by the screen of her mobile. Some of her hair tickles my nose as she bends over me.

“Mm.”

“Baz texted me. Said he wants to talk to you about something.” 

“Now he wants to talk.” I’d sent him several texts this morning to wish him a happy Christmas, and got nothing back. Maybe our phone call had been too awkward and he needed the day to recover. Or maybe his aunt kidnapped him for fun in London among the tourists. I heave myself up out of the blanket nest I’d made on the floor hours before. “All right, fine.” 

Aggie hands me her mobile wordlessly and makes herself comfortable in the blankets while I head back to her room for some privacy. A sprig of mistletoe hangs in the hallway where there definitely wasn’t one before, and I roll my eyes. You’d think Mrs. Wellbelove would get the hint after a week. 

I close the bedroom door behind me and press on Baz’s name in the text log. He answers on the first ring. 

“Baz?” Merlin, I sound like I’ve just come up from sleeping underwater. “Everything all right?” 

There’s a pause. “Not entirely.” I hear the brush of hair against the receiver – he’s nervous if he’s fussing around at this hour. “Listen, Simon, I need to talk to you about something. You’re not going to like it, but I need – just listen. Just give me a chance. Please.” 

As if I wouldn’t give him a chance. I’d give him a million chances. 

I glance at Aggie’s bed and decide she wouldn’t mind if I took her spot, since she took mine in the living room. I shove the mountain of blankets off to one side (she’s a cold sleeper, always) and sit down on the mattress, legs crossed under me. The plush unicorn I gave her a while back is perched on her nightstand, offering me silent moral support. 

“Okay,” I say, hoping I sound significantly less groggy. “Go ahead. I’m listening.” 

“I…” Another sigh. Baz would have made a very good actress in those old black-and-white movies. “I went to see Nicodemus Petty tonight.” 

“Wait, Petty? You mean like Ebb’s brother?” 

“Yes.”

“You saw a vampire alone?” And he didn’t tell me!

“Simon.” I can hear I’m a vampire too, you dolt, remember? without him saying it. “I took Niall with me.” 

“What, for bait?” The question flies out of my mouth before I can stop myself. 

Baz sucks air in through his teeth, and he huffs like he’s trying not to laugh. 

“We can discuss the worthiness of my friends as vampire bait at a later time. What I need to tell you is serious.” 

“Get on with it, then.” 

“Fine. I…” Again with the fucking dramatic pause. “I asked Nicodemus about the vampire attack. The one that killed my mother. He was cagey, and he kept dodging my questions, but I finally got confirmation of who sent them to Watford.” 

“So it wasn’t Nicodemus?” I’d had the thought, not that I’d ever share it with Ebb, that maybe her brother took revenge on the World of Mages who ousted him for making his own choice on how to live his life. Killing the headmistress might be a bit extreme, but then so is snapping a magician’s wand in half. Turnabout is fair play and all that. 

“No. Simon, I really don’t want you to be upset with me about this. Not on Christmas. Maybe I should call tomorrow—”

“Oh, no you don’t. You rousted me out of bed, while I was in the middle of fighting dream crabs—”

“You what?” 

“Watch Doctor Who for once, it’d be good for you,” I snap. “So you’d better tell me what you know right now, or I’ll sit on the line until you tell me. Then I’ll plug in Aggie’s mobile when the battery dies, and I’ll keep waiting. I can be very patient when I need to be.” 

“It was the Mage.” 

I stop breathing. Pretty sure Baz stops breathing on his end, too. The only sound is the hum of the furnace through the vent in Aggie’s floor. 

I hate how much sense it makes. The Pitches have been entrenched in power in the World of Mages for decades, centuries. When Baz’s mum became headmistress, it was probably as natural as autumn shifting into winter: it was just how things were meant to go. But the Mage had ambitions bigger than how things had always been. And when someone is so rooted in place, bound to uphold routine and refuse change…well. Sometimes they have to be taken down. 

But not like that. Not like the way the Mage did it. 

Blood pounds in my ears. The walls of Aggie’s room press in on me, inch by slow inch.

“Simon?” Baz’s voice is so far away, and I need him here, now, more than anything. I’m hurtling out of reality, and he’s the only one who can reach me. 

“Yeah,” I manage to rasp. 

“I know it’s a lot to take in.”

“The Mage killed your mum.” The words fall like lead out of my mouth. It doesn’t feel good to get them out; I feel nauseated instead. “And he’s hid it this whole time.” 

“Yes. Nicodemus wouldn’t confirm it directly, the prick, but he implied—” 

“Are you okay?” 

Baz splutters. “You’ve just found out your mentor killed my mum, and you’re asking me if I’m okay?” 

“He’s not my mentor. Not anymore.” Hasn’t been since he stole Baz’s records for no reason. Hasn’t been since I realized how he only calls on me when he needs something from me. He hasn’t taught me or guided me in years, if he ever did. 

“You don’t have to say that if you don’t mean it.” 

A slice of light stretches across the bed. I look up to see Aggie standing in the doorway, midway through a yawn. 

“Not that I’m discouraging talking to your boyfriend, Simon, but it is, like, midnight.” She squints at the alarm clock on her nightstand, which indeed says it’s past midnight. “I’d like to get my beauty sleep.” 

“Tell Agatha she’s had her fair share of beauty sleep and to leave some for the rest of us,” Baz says in my ear.

“Gotta go,” I mutter. 

“I suppose it would be tactless to wish you a happy Christmas at this point.” 

“Christmas is over now.” 

“Still. It’s the spirit of the thing.” 

“Let’s just say good night and leave it at that.” 

One final sigh in my ear. “Good night, Simon.”

“Good night, Baz.” I hang up and hand Agatha’s mobile back to her. She takes it and flops down on the bed in front of me, flicking through her notifications. 

“Have a good chat?” she asks. 

“Not really. I got some news.” 

Agatha frowns and lowers her mobile. “Bad news, I take it.” 

“Yeah.” I scratch at my cheek. “I don’t really want to talk about it.” Not until I’ve had a chance to talk with Baz some more first, anyway.  

“I’m going to have words with Baz about his sense of timing. No one should get bad news on Christmas.” Her conviction is undercut by another yawn. “’S not right. Now come on and sleep.” 

I don’t try to argue. Agatha’s bed has always been enormous, and the way she curls into my side is purely platonic. I end up flat on my back, staring at the ceiling, almost wishing some of that stupid mistletoe would appear so I’d have something else to focus on. 

The Mage killed Baz’s mum. 

I try not to think about it. 

I’m not ashamed to say that I nearly tackled Baz when I got back to Watford. He was in the middle of tidying up (as if he ever needs to tidy anything up when his side of the room is spotless), and he wrapped his arms around me on reflex. A few times over break, I had this harrowing feeling that maybe Baz had forgotten about the kiss in the clearing, that any chance of whatever this was between us had died after his Christmas investigation. I shouldn’t have worried: Baz never forgets.  

We talked. We ate salt and vinegar crisps on his bed. Marc Bolan crooned in the background when I told Baz I wanted to be his boyfriend. I finally, finally got to slide my fingers into his hair when he kissed me. All in all, a solid homecoming. 

Oh, and I agreed to help him take down the Mage. That was also part of it. 

Now we’re loitering around in the corridor before Greek with our friends and Penny’s using me as a table to write down her homework from her previous class on a scrap of paper (for someone who’s so driven in her classes, it’s amazing how Penny’s never bothered with a planner). Everything feels exactly how it did before break, only not. The world has shifted imperceptibly.

Baz decides to shift things even more by announcing right then and there that we were dating. Followed that up by saying his family knows he’s gay, and they’ll support his choices. I feel Penny tense up behind me. 

“That’s nice and all,” she says, “but will they support this choice?” 

“Yes.” Baz looks like he’s about to snap fire into his hand. “Yes, they will.”

“Baz…” I try to interject. Last thing I want right now is a fight in the corridor drawing attention.

“No, Snow, it’s all right. We’re not keeping quiet because we’re scared of what people will think.” Oh Merlin, here he goes. “I’m not ashamed of Simon. I will tell my family about him, and they will accept him. That’s what families do.” 

Wait, is he setting this up? Am I gonna have to go to some painfully stiff dinner and look tough while Baz gets in a snarling match with his dad? Now I wish we’d discussed this before. 

“It’s no one’s business but ours.” Baz glares at Penny, and I feel her fist uncurl on my back. “If anyone has a problem with that, or with us, they can take it up with me.” 

A heavy silence. Agatha looks ready to burst. Niall is pulling a face like he just swallowed a brick of soap. Finally, Dev speaks. 

“No one here is gonna give you shit,” he says. “Right, Bunce?”

I can’t see Penny at the moment, but I know she nods. “I just don’t want to see Simon get hurt.” 

“Good. Me neither.” Baz still has a hard edge in his eyes, ready for battle. He tugs on the hem of his blazer in a bad attempt at being nonchalant. “Shall we go to class?” 

The Minotaur steps out into the corridor right on cue. I grab my bag off the floor and duck into the classroom, Penny right on my heels. We make our way to the front and slip in behind our usual desks. 

“I knew, you know,” Penny informs me, badly hiding how surprised she still is. She definitely didn’t know. “About you and Baz. I’ve been waiting for you to bring it up since we got back from break, but you never have.” 

“When has that ever stopped you from asking questions before?” 

“This is different, Simon! This has,” she lowers her voice, “political implications. If the wrong people overhear—”

“Pen, I’m aware of the risk. I think about it more than you can imagine. But it’s a risk I’m willing to take.” I pull my notebook and pen out of my bag. “This will work out all right. You’ll see.” 

Penny frowns, just as a pigeon flaps its way onto my desk. It gives me a discerning look before holding out one leg, a tiny scroll tied to it. My stomach flips as I untie the scroll and rub the pigeon on its head with my finger. It coos at me before taking off through the classroom window, leaving a feather behind. 

I unroll the scroll to find the Mage’s handwriting: 

Simon, 

I hope you had a restful holiday break with the Wellbeloves. I have been in correspondence with Dr. Wellbelove, as well as several other magical experts, to determine how best to approach the phobus situation. While the main waves of fear appear to have abated, it is possible that there may be aftershocks which affect the student population of Watford. 

At any rate, this incident has made apparent to me that we need to address your power: more specifically, how to focus your power and close out distractions. Please meet me today in the Wavering Wood at 4:00 PM, at the clearing where you encountered the phobus. There are seven large oaks that circle the clearing. 

See you there. 

I crumple the note, drop it in my bag, flip open my notebook, and start drawing out a game of hangman. 

“What did the Mage want?” Penny asks me. She’s seen enough birds with messages over the years to know what to expect. 

I hold up a finger and tap the notebook. I’ll tell you here.

She rolls her eyes. “Morgana, I wish you could just tell me things in a normal way.” 

“Hangman is fun, Pen. It’s good to play games every once in a while. Stops you from being too serious.” I finish drawing out the blanks and count them out, then slide my notebook over to her. She ponders the page for a moment before writing down the letter A in the margin and sliding my notebook back. 

Baz and Agatha slide into the row of desks in front of us. I rip a new page out of the notebook, scrawl a note to Baz, and toss it gently over his shoulder. The Minotaur starts today’s lesson, but between playing hangman with Penny and passing notes to Baz, I hardly have an idea what it’s about. 

Please be careful, Baz writes in his final note back to me. I reach out to tap him on the shoulder twice for reassurance.

Penny slides my notebook back to me, half of a man hanging from the gallows and the puzzle completed. DO ME A FAVOUR. ASK BAZ ABOUT IT LATER. She spreads her hand over the page, silently asking for further elaboration. I tap the puzzle again, which makes her roll her eyes and go back to taking notes for class. If I tell her the plan now, it’s likely she’ll say no. And I need all the help I can get. 

“You mean there are more of them, sir?” 

“Yes. Living here in these oaks.” The Mage sweeps his arm around the arc of trees surrounding the clearing. “The phobi have been here for decades, dormant, but the increasing anxiety about the Humdrum has agitated them. They’re eager to emerge and feed. The oaks have done their job in keeping them in check, though I don’t know how much longer they’ll keep up.” 

He drops his arm and shakes his head. “I thought you were better prepared to handle a situation like the phobus. A miscalculation on my part.” 

“I’m sorry, sir.” 

“The phobus is not as menacing of an opponent as the Humdrum will be, Simon, yet it is a primer on what you can expect. You cannot hope to explode your way out of every battle. You will need to fight, and to fight, you need to have a clear mind.” The Mage turns to me, a frown turning the corners of his mustache down. “You need to focus your magic.” 

My magic has never been focused, not once in my entire life. It’s like he thinks I enjoy going off, when the truth is that’s the only way my magic will come out properly. Unless it’s through a song, the most notoriously fussy kind of spell there is, but the Mage doesn’t know that. He’d have to really know me first. He’d have to actually care. 

I told Baz when we got back to school that I feel like the Mage doesn’t care about me. Back then, I still had an inkling of hope that I was wrong. Now it’s clear that I was right. 

“We tried grounding techniques some years ago, but it seemed you’d improved in your magic control. I connected that to you maturing and learning from your classes. It’s apparent that you will need additional training.” The Mage strokes his mustache. “From now on, every week we will meet and attempt new techniques to ground your magic. You will face a new phobus each time—”

“Sir?”

“—in an effort to face and conquer your self-doubt.” 

“The phobus drained me, sir! I couldn’t perform magic for a day afterward!” 

“You’ll be exempt from class participation if you do not feel up to spellwork. I’ll inform your teachers.” He waves his hand, as if he didn’t just suggest something absolutely horrifying. 

“I can’t do this!” I shout. “Not every week!” 

“You must,” the Mage insists, irritatingly calm. “And you will. The fate of the World of Mages depends on it, Simon.”

Fuck the World of Mages, I want to say, and fuck you, too. He’s been using that line on me every year for the past six years: the World of Mages is counting on me to fight and beat the Humdrum, so I have to do whatever the Mage asks of me. What has he done to fight the Humdrum, though? What has anyone else done? Why does it all have to come down to me? 

What if I don’t want to fight anymore? 

Of course, I don’t say any of this. I don’t say anything at all. Instead, I jam my hands in the pockets of my denim jacket and try not to cry. The Mage doesn’t get to see my tears, no matter how furious they are.

He reaches a hand out to me to clap my shoulder, like he’s done so many times before, but he hesitates. I must look angrier than I thought: my magic is roiling under the surface of my skin. 

“I don’t want this any more than you do,” he mutters, as if that isn’t the biggest fucking lie he’s ever told. “We begin next week.”

And with that, he heads back toward Watford. With heavy feet and a squeezing pain in my chest, I follow him. What else am I supposed to do? 

The wind bites at my ears as we walk across the grass toward the Weeping Tower. I glance up at the top of the Tower, where the Mage’s office is. Have Baz and Penny gotten in and out yet? Should I send up a warning flare? Can they see us? 

Apparently, they did finish up in the Mage’s office, because both of them are waiting under an archway headed toward the Great Hall. Penny is shaking her head like she just woke up, and Baz looks supremely irritated. There’s also a dazed pigeon lying on the cobblestones. What the hell are they doing? 

Penny asks the Mage how he’s doing, and he barely acknowledges her presence. Instead, he tells me I ought to go eat dinner with my friends, as if that wasn’t what I planned on doing anyway. 

“C’mon, I’m starved,” I say, ignoring Baz asking if I’m all right. “Food? Then I’ll fill you in.” 

We make our way to the Great Hall, and I mindlessly pile my plate with food. I’m not even sure what I’m taking other than roast beef, because I need to gnash my teeth into something. Baz and Penny follow right behind me until we get to the table. I have to invite Baz to sit with us, though I’m not sure whether that’s because he’s a vampire or a twat. 

Baz and Penny start chatting about their investigation. My mind is too full of cotton to follow along too closely—I swear Pen say something about possessing a bird?—so I mostly offer inane comments every so often. I even say something about how I thought the Mage lived in the Wavering Wood, which is true, but sounds really dumb to say out loud. 

“It’s a big coincidence,” Penny says, “the Mage having a house in Machynlleth, right by a dead spot. A dead spot right near where Simon was born.” 

“We know the Humdrum has it in for him,” Baz mutters. “And he is the Chosen One. Kind of makes karmic sense for him to be in the middle of all this.” 

“He is also right here,” I grumble, shoving myself up from the bench. “And he is getting pudding.” 

“Be a dear, get me a tea, love?” 

I slowly turn my head to look down at Baz. His teacup is dangling off of his pinky finger, and he’s barely hiding his smirk behind his other hand as he meets my eyes. Prick. He could very well get up and get his own tea. I snatch the teacup off of his finger, stomping off to the tea table to dump an absurd amount of milk into his Earl Grey. 

When I come back, Penny is leaning over the table like she’s on the verge of telling Baz some major secret. She hushes up as soon as I sit down with my treacle and pass Baz his cup of tea. 

“What did Robin Hood want with you?” he asks. 

“Don’t call him that,” I reply, even though it makes me want to crack a smile for the first time all day. “The usual, really. Wanted to practice. Try some things.” 

Baz sees right through my bullshit answer, of course. Another minute of him and Penny prodding, and the truth comes out. 

“I’m going to kill him,” Baz growls. His fingers grip the table so hard I worry that he might splinter the wood with his vampire strength. “I’m going to fucking—” 

“Baz.” 

“That thing got in your head, and he’s just going to throw you to your fucking fears weekly?!” 

“If I can’t find a way to face my self-doubt, I can’t take on the Humdrum!” I shout back at him. “If we can find a way to fix me—”

“You’re not broken!” Baz snarls. Everyone in the Great Hall is looking over at all the commotion. For once, I don’t care about all eyes being on me, because it’s really all eyes on us. I try to stop him, but Baz sucks down the rest of his tea and stalks out of the Hall, leaving Penny and I behind. Once everyone sees the drama is over, they all turn away to their own lives. 

“He’s right, you know,” Penny says, picking at her roast potatoes. “You aren’t broken. Stupendously powerful and not easily able to control your magic, yes. Broken? No.” 

“I don’t really think I need to be fixed,” I reply. I’m surprised by how much I mean it. “But I can’t say no to the Mage. I tried, actually, and it was like he didn’t hear me.”

“He didn’t want to hear you, Simon. He’s been planning this for some time now.” Penny pops a potato in her mouth. “Remember that book we went questing for in fourth year? I found that in the Mage’s office this afternoon, along with a bunch of other texts.” 

“What kind of other texts?” 

“Scrolls about prophecies. Arcane things about channeling the magic of the seasons, like when magicians used to observe Beltane and Samhain. Knowledge that hasn’t been relevant for centuries.” 

“And he’s been searching for all of this after the phobus attack?” 

“Seems so.” 

I sigh and push my plate away, put off even from eating treacle. “It’s not like I’m scared of the Humdrum, Penny. I used to be, when I first learned about it. But now…I don’t want to say I don’t care. ‘S more like I’ll take whatever gets thrown at me, you know? This phobus training seems pointless.” 

“You’ve resigned yourself to the fight.” 

“I don’t have any other choice.” 

I wait for Penny to finish her dinner, then head back to Mummers Hall. I glance around the room for Baz’s mobile, only to realize he probably has it with him wherever the hell he took off to. I’m not in the mood to shuffle through his vinyl collection, either. 

It’s fine. I don’t think there’s any music that could save me now, anyway. 

“You have to ground yourself!” the Mage reminds me as a clap of thunder rings out overhead. 

It takes all my effort to not yell back at him. We’ve been at this for over an hour, and I’m no closer to repelling the phobus than I was when I started. This week, the Mage smeared me down with some blue clay so I look like an extra from fucking Braveheart, then cut into my left hand again so my blood could be dripped into a copper bowl. At least this time I don’t have to stand: he’s got me sitting in a chalk circle with symbols drawn around the outside. I don’t have the energy to tell him that it looks like he drew a demonic summoning circle rather than a ward. 

You’re never going to do it, the phobus breezes at me. The Humdrum will win. You will fall.

“Doubt it.”

Doubt is the reason you’re here, facing me. It’s because he believes you can’t do it. You’re not strong enough. Better to fail against me than to let everyone down. 

“I am strong. I will succeed. I will make everyone proud,” I chant back. The Mage has been trying plain language affirmations this time around, instead of Latin and whatever other dead language he had me reading last time. I wish I could drop the make everyone proud one, though. Don’t really think that’s doing much to repel the embodiment of fear. 

He doesn’t believe in you, the phobus hisses. 

“I don’t care what he believes.” I’m getting into a pissing match, killing time, and I’m pretty sure the phobus can tell I’m lying. But I am well past the point of caring. 

The rain goes from a spittle to a steady downpour. My patience reaches its end. When I go off, it feels less catastrophic and more like letting out a sneeze I’ve been holding back. The smoke of my magic clears, and there’s a scorch mark in the grass that matches where I’ve smote the other two phobi. No trace of wispy silver in sight. 

The Mage steps out from around the tree where he was leaning. Hiding, more like: he wants the phobus to concentrate its energy on me, not get distracted by him as well. Part of me wonders what fears the phobus would tease out of him. 

“Not the result I was expecting, but better than last week!” he calls, full of false cheer. Bollocks. The only thing I did better this time was keep the phobus at bay for longer without resorting to violence. 

“I’m done,” I reply in a flat voice. Rain is dripping into my eyes now. 

“Well, yes, I don’t think it would do to summon another one tonight—”

“No, I mean I’m done! I need a break!” 

I can barely see him through the rain, but I don’t need to see more than his green fuzzy outline to know he’s disappointed. 

“I can’t keep doing this!” Merlin, please let him understand what I’m saying for once. 

Nothing. Dead silence. 

So I walk away. He calls after me a couple times, but I pretend the thunder is too loud to hear him. A wood nymph is standing near the edge of the Wood when I slosh my way there, her lacy umbrella open and leaned on one shoulder, watching the rain clouds shift overhead. 

“Lovely night for rain, Golden One,” she tells me. 

I pause for a second. I suppose if I wasn’t soaked to the bone, I would enjoy it, too. It’s never a good idea to disagree with nymphs, though. Some think it’s rude. 

“Y’know what? It is.” 

The nymph nods and watches me slog my way across the Great Lawn.

Music is playing from inside our room when I reach the top of the stairs in Mummers. The Kinks. Baz knows I enjoy them, and it makes me crack a tired smile as I open the door. He’s sitting at his desk, doing his best not to look utterly panicked at my appearance. 

“How did it go?” Brave man for asking me that question. 

“Pants.” I’m too tired to even swear like a Normal. I throw my rucksack on my bed and kick my shoes helter-skelter. Then I slump onto the floor, my bones going to jelly. 

The Kinks finish chanting Lo-lo-lo-l-lo-la, and a guitar strums the intro to “Strangers”. Something about the guitar works its way into my brain and pushes me headfirst into relaxation. I close my eyes, a sigh heaving out of me. 

“What did you try this time?” I can hear what did that bastard make you do behind Baz’s more civil question.

“Honestly, nothing too bad.” My magic still hasn’t simmered down, and I’m boiling, so I reach behind me to yank off my jumper. “Meditated inside a circle. Chanted some shit. Had to smear this blue junk on me. Phobus was worse.” 

I hear the scrape of Baz’s desk chair, and a quiet rush of air as he sits down next to me on the floor. When I finally get my jumper off, he’s waiting there patiently. His eyes still have a homicidal glint to them, but I know that’s for the Mage and not for me. 

“Tell me about it,” he prods. I scoot around to put my head in his lap, and his fingers immediately work their way into my hair. He’s a bit obsessed with my curls, I think. Plays with them every chance he can get. 

“Phobus kept saying…shit,” I swallow. “Kept saying I’m fucked. That I can’t take on the Humdrum. ‘S really fucking frustrating to have him stand there and hear all that, you know? He already thinks I’m weak. And he always stays away so the phobus doesn’t get him, but he’s still there.” 

Baz shakes his head above me. “You aren’t weak. You are inhumanely strong, and stubborn, and an absolute pain in the arse to anyone who gets in your way. I speak from experience.”

I snort and wind my fingers around Baz’s ankle. He has really nice, well, everything, but his ankles are also really nice. Delicate and toned from years of football practice. 

“Also, not that I think the Mage’s opinion counts for shit, but he wouldn’t be training you, or attempting to, as the case may be, if he didn’t think you were strong.” 

“I guess.” 

“Does it ever say anything about him?” 

He means whether the phobus has picked up on how the Mage has fucked with my head over the years. “No. Turns out that I’m not really anxious about that anymore. I’ve kinda come to terms with it.” Not entirely true, but I don’t feel like turning this into more of an impromptu therapy session. “He wouldn’t be putting me through all this if he actually cared about me as a person, I figure. I mean, you wouldn’t do it. Penny definitely wouldn’t. Ags wouldn’t, either.” 

“So why are you still going?” 

I sigh, hoping that Baz won’t take what I’m about to say the wrong way. “I’m not ready to give up on him. Not yet. The Mage…he wants me to be able to take on the Humdrum when that time comes, and that’s what this is all about. When it comes down to it, beating the Humdrum is what matters most to me. More than fulfilling some ideal he or anyone else has in their heads about the Chosen One. And,” I pause, “if you’re right, about what he did to your mum? Wouldn’t it make sense to take every chance I can to learn more about him?” 

That’s what’s been keeping me going through these lessons: knowing that each one is an opportunity for me to learn more about the Mage. I don’t think I’ll catch him in a confession or anything, but I keep hoping that one of these times he’ll slip and step into range of the phobus so it turns on him. So far, no luck. 

“Your moral compass allows you to do that?” 

“Being around you has screwed with my moral compass. Doesn’t point true north anymore.” I grin up at Baz, despite pain shooting through my side. “Besides, I’m more into justice these days.” 

I wince as more pain surges through me. Going off doesn’t always come with physical aftereffects, or at least it didn’t before the phobus sessions. Lately I end up with muscle spasms for a day afterward. And major fatigue. Sometimes sound seems to hurt my brain, but music is fine. And no matter how much soap I use, I reek of smoke. 

Baz pulls me to my feet and hauls me into the en suite, all but pushing me into the shower. For a moment, I think he might join me, which would be both exciting and terrifying. I’m not in any state to properly appreciate Baz in any state of undress. Besides, he’d probably give me a lecture on how I wash my hair, citing damage to my follicles or something. Not that I wouldn’t welcome a naked lecture. 

Fuck, I’m so tired. 

He’s sitting on his bed when I come out, wearing one of my jumpers and trying to look cool about it. I grab a pair of pajama pants and tug them on, followed by a faded, stretched-out T-shirt. When I offer to scratch Baz’s back, he all but runs over to my bed. We wedge in together, facing each other. If we fall asleep here together, we’re both going to be bitchy in the morning because of how crowded it is, but I don’t care. I just want him here. 

“I told him to stop,” I mumble after a few quiet minutes. Baz jerks – he must have thought I fell asleep. 

“Hm?”

“The Mage. Told him I needed a break.” I yawn. “None of this is helping. It just hurts. And I’m worried…” 

“About what?” 

“What if the phobus says something about you? And the Mage finds out—”

“That we’re together?” 

“That you were Turned. I don’t want him to find out from me, and I don’t know if I can control it. Stop the phobus from pulling it out of me, I mean.” 

Baz’s chest heaves, and I realize he’s been holding his breath the whole time we’ve been talking. “Are you…?” 

“Am I scared of you? No. I’m just scared of them hurting you.” I think of Nicodemus, who has to lurk at the edges of magical society and lean on Ebb’s illicit kindness to get by. I don’t want to think of Baz in that position. He didn’t choose to become a vampire. And even if he did choose it, like Nico, he doesn’t deserve to be forced into hiding because people can’t handle him being different. 

Baz squeezes his eyes shut. I think he’s trying not to cry. 

“He won’t find out from me.” I grab Baz’s hand firmly. “I’m with you. Whatever it takes. If I have to burn down the Wavering Wood – if I have to burn down Watford – I will keep you safe.” 

“Go to sleep.” His voice is trembling. “You’re delusional when you’re tired.” 

“’M not delusional,” I correct him. “Determined.” 

I drift off to sleep. 

I roll my shoulders, feeling like I’m about to burst out of my jacket. Whenever I’ve had the chance to make battle plans, it usually involves a blackboard and a very intense Penny pacing in front of me, not a pub table and people who would gleefully dance on my grave. I’ve been facing down a phobus every week for the past month, yet this is what has me on edge. 

“What if they eat me?” I say aloud. What I meant to say was ‘what if they try to eat me alive?’, like metaphorically. Of course my brain has decided to duck out of this impending slaughter, and my shit communication skills along with it.  

Baz’s boots scuff on the path. He looks at me like I’ve grown three heads. 

“My family aren’t cannibals, Simon. What the fuck?”

I don’t have an answer for him. He grabs my hand for a quick squeeze before striding off toward the front gates, and I follow behind him. A zing shoots through my side from the bruise I got last night at phobus practice, slowing me up a bit. 

Dev and Niall are waiting at the gates – I wasn’t aware they’d be coming along, though I’m grateful. Maybe they’ll do something ridiculous to diffuse the tension. Leaning up against a shiny black car are Fiona and Baz’s dad. Fiona fixes me with an unrelenting stare. 

“Basilton,” Baz’s dad says with a nod. He has the same drooping eyes as Baz, and the same quizzical yet focused look on his face that Baz gets when he’s revising an essay. Aside from tanner skin and a couple inches in height, he looks exactly how Baz probably will in about thirty years.

“Father,” Baz replies. “Father, Fiona, you remember Simon.” 

“Mr. Snow.” 

“Hello. Sir,” I add on. What do you call your boyfriend’s dad anyway?

Baz and I pack into the back of Fiona’s microscopic car; Dev and Niall get in with Baz's dad. I’ve been jammed into tight spaces before on missions, but this takes the cake. Not the least because Fiona stares at me through the rearview mirror more than she watches the road. I get the feeling that I’m about to pounced on if I make one wrong move. My magic starts leaking out in response to my nerves. 

The pub in Watford village is pretty much bog standard: dark wood beams overhead, faded football pennants on the wall, overwhelming sticky smell of spilled beer. There are a couple smokers at the bar, which covers for my magic smoldering everywhere. We all wedge into a booth. Fiona orders chips for the table, and it takes so much effort for me not to lunge and devour all of them just to have something to do. Dev and Niall get into a minor tussle over some shredded paper. The opening synth and piano of “Baba O’Riley” is playing out of the crackling speaker mounted above us. 

Then finally, Baz decides to break the silence. 

“I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve gathered you all here today.” 

Really, Baz? That’s your opening line?

He casts a silencing charm around the booth, which only slightly muffles Roger Daltrey sing-shouting above us. “Right. I’ll get to it. I have good reason to believe my mother wasn’t killed by the Humdrum, but rather by the Mage.” 

Baz’s dad goes still as a statue. Fiona switches from staring at me to staring at Baz. I think Dev goes a bit cross-eyed. 

Baz explains the memory recording from the sealed-off nursery, and then goes on to tell everyone that he and Niall met with Nicodemus over Christmas. A fact which apparently no one else knew, because the booth devolves into minor chaos. 

“You weren’t to speak to him!” Fiona hisses, over the top of Dev exclaiming “You took Niall to meet a vampire?” Christ, does no one in this family talk to each other?  

“Nicodemus confirmed to me that the vampires were sent by a mage,” Baz goes on. “One mage. The Mage.” 

“Did he say it, though?” Fiona presses. “Did he directly say the Mage did it.” 

“No, he was too afraid. But he confirmed my suspicions. And his sister—”

“You talked to Ebb?” I cut in. He never mentioned this. They must have talked when we visited her before Christmas break. “What did she say?” 

“His sister believes not all is aboveboard with the Mage as well.” 

“Look, Ebb’s got a good gut about most things,” Fiona says, “but she’s emotional as fuck. You can’t take her feelings as strict proof.” 

Oh, no. She is not going after Ebb. “She’s not a liar,” I snarl at her. I don’t give a shit if Fiona is Baz’s aunt, she can take some heat. She snarls back in kind and flips a hand at me. 

“Who the fuck invited him, anyway? Is he here to rat us out to the Coven for treason? Taking notes for the Mage?” 

I’m fucking steaming. If Baz didn’t have his hand on my thigh, in a calm down now sort of way, I’d jump over the table and have it out with her now. 

“Simon is here because he believes me.” Baz is the calm eye of the storm. Fiona is gobsmacked. Baz’s dad reaches over for her pint and starts draining it. “He’s promised to support me if I can find concrete proof.”

“Which you do not presently have,” Baz’s dad speaks for the first time since we’ve arrived. I’m a bit concerned with how quickly he drank down that beer. “You have the recording of a memory, meant to be sealed and inaccessible by Watford students. The noncommittal word of Nicodemus Petty, who has been struck from the Record and is effectively in exile. And your own hunch. It’s a shaky foundation on which to build a case, Basilton.”

“That’s why I need your help.” 

“And what exactly do you need us to do?” 

Baz and his dad gaze at each other over the table, a distorted mirror. 

“You have better connections, Father. If there’s anything you can think of. Anyone else who’d know anything—”

His dad raises a hand to stop him. “If he did this, then he may have done other things. Things easier to trace and prove.” 

“We think he might have something hiding in Wales. In Machynlleth, near the dead spot.” 

Merlin, I was hoping Baz wouldn’t bring that up. I wince, and he squeezes my thigh in reassurance. 

“It would be political suicide to search Llewellyn’s home. I would need cause, and such action would need to be put to a Coven vote—”

“Maybe you can’t search it,” Baz says. “But perhaps, in theory, there could be some trouble. Possibly over the summer. Trouble that makes it so he can’t be near Wales any time soon.” 

I realize what Baz is implying just as his dad leans his head down to rub an eyebrow. “Basilton. Under no circumstances are you to—”

“Save it, Malcolm,” Fiona interrupts. “This is clearly something the boy’s been planning for a while. And you know as well as I do that when he’s got something on his mind, he’ll do what he wants. We ought to stand back and help in any way we can.”

I go from wanting to fistfight Fiona to wanting to shake her hand in an instant. At least we have the backing of one adult, although it’s not necessarily the one we were hoping for. 

Baz’s dad (I can’t call him Malcolm, that’s way too personal) grows as red as the bottle of ketchup next to him. The knuckles on his fingers whiten as he laces them tightly together on the table. “I will need time to consider this,” he finally says. “There are several moving pieces to be accounted for before action can commence.” 

“Of course.” Baz nods. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you about this now.” 

“Mr. Snow, do you believe this is true?” 

It takes a moment to register that Baz’s dad is addressing me. When it does it, a chill dumps down my back. How I respond now will affect whether we have any real support for further investigation. Fiona is fine, but the most she can do is lend us a car or something. As a Coven member, Baz’s dad has the political pull we need to maneuver around the Mage. 

Ultimately, I decide to be honest. “No.” 

Fiona raises her eyebrow. I now know where Baz gets it from. 

“I don’t really care about politics. And I do trust the Mage. Always have.” They don’t need to know how he’s ground that trust into the dirt as of late. Not right now, anyway. “But I trust Baz more. If he can prove this, I’ll stand behind him. I’m not working against him. Or, uh, any of you.” 

Baz grins at me, and his hand slides into mine under the table. Good. Didn’t make a complete ass of myself. 

“I had no idea you two were such good friends,” Baz’s dad remarks. 

“We’re not just friends,” Baz says. “We’re dating.” 

Oh, Merlin and Morgana, why the hell did he have to say that? I look down at my shoes, calculating whether I have enough space to crawl down there and out of this cursed pub. Then, to make it worse, Fiona says she thought Baz was fucking Niall. So of course Niall and I look at each other, and then we can’t look at each other because it’s so ridiculous. 

Because Baz is the only one with his shit together today, he excuses all of us, and we bail out of the pub as quickly as possible. It’s not a short walk back to school from the village, but I’m glad for the chance to blow off some steam. I stuff my hands in my pockets and jog ahead on the road, a bit behind Dev and Niall. So much for their presence diffusing any tension. A pair of bookends would have been more useful. 

Baz catches up to me easily. “All in all, I think that went rather well.” 

“Well?!” I splutter. “You thought that went well?!” 

“You don’t?” 

“Your aunt wanted to eat me alive! And your dad looked like he wanted to drown himself!” 

“That’s because it’s Tuesday,” Baz says breezily. 

“Seriously, Baz.” I stop short on the road. A car rolls by both of us. “I dunno how you can say that was a success. Your dad didn’t agree to help us.” 

“Malcolm said he would think about it. In his world, that’s as good as a yes. Trust me.” He reaches for my hand. “We’ll get the help we need.”

The wind whips by us both, blowing Baz’s long hair into his face. He looks so fit in his leather jacket, so ready for whatever lies ahead. I don’t know how he can be so sure in the face of such vague support from his family. 

But I take his hand anyway, because I trust him. 

I no longer trust Baz.   

I should have known something was up when I came round the corner and he was standing there with Dev, both looking sheepish. The Mage had summoned me up to his office to discuss my academic progress (absolute pants, thanks for asking) and his plans for me for summer (back to a care home, for the last time). I left in a foul mood, and all I wanted to do was go back to Mummers and blast music until I felt better. 

But then Baz says, “Possibelf wants to see you in her office,” and he gives me this wicked smile that makes me weak at the knees. So, like an idiot, I walk into Miss Possibelf’s empty office. 

“Penelope Bunce!” a shrill voice squeaks at me, and sharp claws dig in right under my cheek. 

“What the fuck!” 

“Penelope Bunce! Penelope Bunce! Penelope Bunce!” 

I grab at the tube of fur writhing onto my head, only for it to slide between my fingers and start crawling down my back. I trip backward against Miss Possibelf’s desk. The furry thing bites into my calf, and I scream.

“What the hell kind of creature are you? Biting little sh—ugh!” I feel a creeping wetness on my trouser leg. “You reek!” 

“Penelope Bunce!” 

The creature skitters across the office floor, and I finally get a good look at what it is. Thick body. Wide head that comes to a point. Black tail that looks like a stubby cat’s tail. When it turns round to have another go at me, I see the little dark mask across its face. Polecat. One that can talk to boot. Baz must have stolen it from the weird ferret mating ceremony he got dragged to. 

“All right, we’re making this fair,” I tell the polecat. Now that I know it’s probably not going to kill me, just scratch the shit out of me, I reach behind my neck and yank up on the collar of my jumper. “C’mon, have at it!” 

The polecat growls “Penelope Bunce!” at me and lunges, and I toss my jumper over its head. Before it can dart out again, I jump on top of the wiggling lump. I have no idea what I’m gonna do with this creature, other than bring it back out to the Great Lawn, but I don’t think I can make it—

Oh. Oh. But now I do have an idea. 

I get up to my feet, hugging my jumper and the polecat to my chest. It continues to wiggle until I get halfway down the steps to the Great Hall, and then seems to resign itself to its temporary fate. I jog as fast as I dare toward Mummers, ignoring the weird looks I get from a couple boys in the foyer, and then up the stairs two at a time. The polecat conveniently put a deep enough scratch in my palm that it’s still bleeding, so I can get into the room one-handed. 

“Right. Hiding spot, hiding spot, need a hiding spot…” My eyes land on Baz’s wardrobe. “Brilliant.” 

I set my bundled-up jumper inside on top of a stack of T-shirts Baz wears on the weekends and close the wardrobe doors as quietly as possible. The polecat growls a final time, and I do hear a thump against the doors, but it stays put. Good. Now I have to set the rest of the scene. 

Baz shows up about midway through Here We Stand, which I queued up from his old iPod. I pointedly refuse to look at him and gaze out onto the Great Lawn with a faintly pissed-off expression. It’s fairly easy to do: my stomach keeps growling for lunch, and it hurts enough to make me frown. 

“What happened?” he asks casually. As if he has no fucking clue.  

“’m dating a fucking asshole, that’s what happened.” 

“I can kiss it better.” 

The offer is tempting, and I nearly break my façade considering it. “Don’t bother,” I say. “Let’s go to the pitch. You owe me.”  

He blinks at me, confusion running across his face for a moment. I’ve got him off kilter, exactly how I want it. “Fine. Let me change first.” Just as I predicted, he goes for his wardrobe. 

“Agatha Wellbelove!” the polecat screams when it lunges for Baz’s face. Baz yelps, and I burst out laughing. A hard, full-belly laugh that nearly makes me fall off the windowsill.

“You brought it back here?” Baz snarls. “Why?”

I sober up enough to flash him a grin. “Payback.”

“Yes, yes, turnabout is fair play and all that. But now we have that running around in our room.” He points under his bed, where the polecat has staked itself out and started growling at the world. 

It hits me how I may have not totally thought this revenge plan through to the end. “Ah.” 

“Indeed.” 

“Can’t be that hard to catch him. I did it once before.” At the cost of some bloody scratches and possibly the ruin of a school jumper, but I did it. I jump down and crouch in front of Baz’s bed, sliding a hand tentatively into the dark. The polecat growls right in front of my thumb, so I yank my hand away. I look over my shoulder to see why Baz isn’t helping, only to catch him staring appreciatively at, well, something other than what I’m doing. 

“Quit being a perv and help me out here,” I say. 

There’s a moment’s pause, and then Baz shakes himself (is my ass really that hypnotic?), rolls up his sleeves, and pulls out his wand. “All right, stand back.” 

“No! Don’t hurt him!” 

“You realize I eat things like this,” Baz makes a circle with his wand tip, “on a regular basis, right? They’re pests.” 

“Still, don’t hurt Merlin.” 

“You named him?” 

I actually hadn’t named him until right when I blurted it out, but now that I’ve said it, the name is stuck. Can’t think of a better name for an angry polecat, really.

“We can’t keep him as a pet, Snow, he belongs to the school.”

“Maybe we could. Keep him, I mean.” 

Now it’s Baz’s turn to laugh at me. “What are you suggesting? We let him squat here?”

I shrug. “It’d be easier if we let him trust us first. Get comfortable, get to know us, instead of banging in with insults and such.” 

Baz huffs and kneels down next to me. “This feels like a very pointed metaphor.” 

Merlin growls in agreement. 

“Crowley, this is unsanitary. He’s sleeping on your bed. And when he pisses all over your trackies, I’m giving him bacon.” 

I shove in close to Baz’s face, so he can clearly see how much he’s annoying me. “You started it.” And then I kiss him, because it’s been far too long since we’ve kissed (this morning) and this escapade has pulled me out of my funk. I’d like to make this good feeling last. 

“He’s going to eat your face, and make a nest in your hair.” 

“Christ, you’re so fucking unbearable. Just let’s have something nice, all right?” 

Baz obliges, crawling forward so I’m slid up against his nightstand. The Fratellis roll over into Depeche Mode, and we kiss again and again. Merlin could be shredding the room to bits, and I wouldn’t care. The smell of Baz’s cedar and bergamot soap and the deep, cool scent of his magic, like a river, are all that exist for me now. 

You would think that after I blew up seven manifestations of fear, the Mage would get the idea that maybe trying to ground my magic is an exercise in futility. Well, he did. But now Baz is in on the madness, attempting to get things under control before the end of term. I’d prefer not to knock out people at the care home regularly with heady magical fumes. 

I should be studying for exams right now. That would be less futile than this. 

“Focus,” Baz tells me. He’s trying to be helpful, I know he is. But if it were as simple as just focusing, I think I would have nailed it down by now. My magic is too much.

“You focus.”

My magic is already spilling out everywhere, filling the clearing with the stench of burning green wood. It definitely isn’t coming from the oak trees: I incinerated those at the end of my last phobus session by accident. Mostly by accident. There’s a distinct crackle in the air, like a thunderstorm is just ahead. I warn Baz to back off, but he comes closer. Bad idea. Bad, bad idea. 

“Whatever you’re planning,” I warn him, “don’t—”

“You won’t hurt me.” 

I go fumbling for my iPod, but then I remember that Baz took it from me earlier. Told me I couldn’t lean on music to calm myself down. When that’s the only thing that works, though…

“Baz, I’m serious—”

He kisses me, which is about the last thing he should be doing right as I’m about to go off. Then his hands slide onto my hips, locking his body to mine. The prickling at the base of my neck subsides like someone is turning down the volume knob. My magic in the clearing, too, simmers down a touch. No longer a thunderstorm brewing overhead, but a rumble in the distance.

“I still don’t think—”

“Then don’t think. Shut up and kiss me.” Baz’s teeth grip into my lower lip, followed by his arms circling around my waist. I do as he says, focusing on his kiss and only his kiss. My fists uncurl, and I raise my hands up to Baz’s chest, his heartbeat thudding under my fingertips. Every bit of tension in me is unwinding, releasing—

Wait. My magic is flowing out of me. Into Baz. An electric river. 

Are we supposed to be doing this? Are we supposed to be able to do this? 

Baz breaks away from the kiss, his eyes wider and darker than I’ve ever seen them. He’s gasping for breath. 

“Did…did we…?” I ask. 

“I think you gave me your magic,” he answers. We’re on the same page, then. 

“But that’s not—”

“Not possible, I know.” Baz shakes his head. “And yet…” He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out his wand, and points it at the sky. “Rain, rain, go away!” 

Weather spells are some of the most difficult spells to get right, probably because nature doesn’t like cooperating with the whims of magicians. Yet the clouds that have been rolling by (there was a real thunderstorm coming in, I think) part like stage curtains and move away. 

“Holy shit,” I breathe. “Holy fucking shit.” 

“Kiss me again.” 

Baz doesn’t need to ask. I grab both of his hands in mine and press my lips to his, unable to stop smiling. My magic loops through both of us this time, a closed circuit of fire. For the first time in ages, I feel clear-headed. All the excess magic that the phobi brought to the surface by tapping into my fears has burned off, leaving me with just enough that I feel powerful. I don’t have to carry this by myself anymore. I can share. 

“Cast something,” I urge him. “Anything.”

“Twinkle, twinkle, little star!” 

Of course he goes for a nursery rhyme. Some of the first words you learn, and some of the hardest spells to get right. But Baz makes it look so easy with my magic coursing through him. In an instant, we’re spinning with the stars. I’m not sure if we’re actually in outer space, or in a starry space Baz made for us. 

“This is incredible.” Baz can’t stop giggling. “You’re incredible.” 

“You can use my magic,” I whisper. If I talk too loudly, I feel like this will all slip away. “You can control it.”

He nods at me, and I have to kiss his cheek because he is elated, the happiest I’ve seen him in so long. Then I tuck my head under his chin, my ear pressed to his chest where his heart is still banging away. So very much alive. 

“We could do this,” I murmur. “Together. We might be able to—”

Like a candle gusting out, the stars disappear. 

I hang onto Baz, because he’s the only real thing left and I don’t know what will happen if I let go. The darkness fades away and is replaced with light, far too much light, and we’re in a field covered with scrubby green grass. To the left of us on the hill is a tornado—no, not a tornado, a fuck-off tall metal sculpture. I’ve seen this before. I’ve been here before. 

“Simon?” Baz gasps at me. The air is whipping by us, hot and drier than any air in England has any right to be. 

“Lancashire,” I say, answering his unspoken question. There’s a town below us—Bumley? Burnley?—where I was in care before I went to Watford. On windy days, you could hear the sculpture singing all the way down in town, but it definitely sounded more pleasant. Right now, it sounds like a distorted train horn mixed with a warning siren. 

I know what’s coming. But no fight with a phobus could have prepared me for what I was about to see. 

He steps out from behind the sculpture and walks slowly down the hill toward us. His T-shirt is far too big for him, flapping out to the side in the wind. He’s holding a very familiar red ball. 

The Humdrum. 

The Humdrum is me. 

Chapter Text

“Why do you look like me?” My throat is raw from screaming over the wind, so it comes out more raspy than commanding. 

The Humdrum tilts his (its?) head at me. “I am you. Well,” he shrugs, “I’m what you left over.” 

“What do you mean, ‘what I left over’? Stop wearing my face!”

The Humdrum scowls and bounces his red ball on the grass. “Don’t be rude. You get to have everything. I just want to have some fun.” 

“What d’you mean, fun? What are you doing?” This is ridiculous. I should be hacking the Humdrum to pieces, not interrogating it. But when it looks like me…well, it’d be like smashing a mirror. I’ve got this clawing, nasty feeling that anything I do to him, I’ll feel it too. Maybe that’s part of his mind game. 

“Same thing you do.” Another bounce of the ball. “I take.” 

Blood is running into my eyes – I think it’s seeping out of my pores. I swipe my forearm across my brow. “Why do you take magic? Why do you make dead spots? Why do you send things after me?” 

“I don’t make the dead spots, you do! When you take!” the Humdrum yells at me. “And I send things because I’m hungry, and they’ll bring me something to eat. You get it!” His eyes narrow. “You’re always hungry, just like me.” 

It’s so hot and dry, but his words douse me in ice water. You’re always hungry, just like me. He’s not talking about food. He means the deeper, gnawing hunger that keeps me awake during the summers when I’m away from Watford. I find myself craving magic, missing the sensation of it buzzing around me, needing it like air. Yet when I’m back at school, it never feels like it’s enough. 

I’m taking magic. So is he. A pair of parasites.  

No. I can’t believe this. 

“We need to get out of here,” Baz mumbles from somewhere next to me. His voice sounds weird, but I can’t turn away from the Humdrum to see why. If I blink away even for a second, I think he’ll slip away, and I’ll lose my chance to end this. 

The Humdrum’s face lights up. “Ooh! You wanna see a trick?” His sudden grin makes my stomach flip. “Pull my finger.” 

He holds his hand out, one finger crooked toward the ground. I stare at the finger, then glance over at Baz, then back. This is definitely a trick, but I don’t know how going along with it could possibly make this situation any worse. 

I reach out. Baz jumps in between us. The Humdrum’s finger touches his chest, and Baz crumples like a paper doll. 

“Forget the trick. This is way better!” The Humdrum’s laugh is sickening as he grabs Baz’s wrist. “I’ve never done this with a person before.” 

I reach for my hip and try summoning the Sword of Mages. In justice. In courage. In…in defense of the weak…Nothing. It won’t appear.

Baz straightens up enough to face me, and I see why his voice sounded so strange earlier. His fangs, long, white, and gleaming, protrude halfway down to his chin. I’ve never seen them this long before. His eyes are panicked. 

“Baz?” I try reaching out for him, but he holds up his free hand and shakes his head, like it’s taking all the effort in the world to do it.

“Don’t. Please. I…” Tears start trailing down his cheeks. “I’m so hungry. It’s your magic or your blood. If you…” He sobs. 

The Humdrum. He’s sucked out Baz’s magic and left him with the same hunger I’ve carried my whole life. If only I could get my sword…

Wait. 

My eyes lock onto the Humdrum. If it’s magic he wants, and I have far too much because I’ve taken from everyone around me for years, then there’s really only one answer to this, isn’t there?

I reach my hand out to Baz. “Take it,” I say. “Take it!” 

Baz, terrified, grabs my hand. Instantly, my magic flows from me, through Baz, into the Humdrum. I feel it chase the whole way through the line of our hands. The Humdrum’s eyes go wide, and his grin disappears, replaced by a look of pure awe. I wish Baz wasn’t caught in the middle of this, but I think he’s functioning as a buffer. I’m not sure what would happen if I held hands with the Humdrum directly. 

“This is all I wanted,” the Humdrum says. He looks like a regular excited eleven-year-old boy. “All I needed.” 

“Simon, he’s taking it—”

“Let him have it,” I tell Baz. “Let him have all of it.” 

I mean it. This feels like a more final version of when Baz and I shared my magic. It’s going away, and I don’t have to carry this all by myself. The Humdrum can take as much as he wants. I don’t care. I can finally be free. 

I’m stepping through the door…and I’m floating in a most peculiar way…

“I’m sorry,” I say. I mostly mean it for the Humdrum, but I also mean it for Baz. Sorry you’re caught in the middle. Sorry you starved for so long. Sorry that you felt you had to steal just so you would feel full. 

“It’s okay,” they both reply. The Humdrum starts clipping in and out like bad TV reception. Baz is able to stand up straighter now. 

Something shifts. What felt like an easy flow of water becomes a flood gushing through a too-small pipe. Baz screams at me to turn it off, but I can’t. Not when I don’t know how I turned it on in the first place. He lunges, and his lips are on mine, his fangs pressed between us. Both of his arms wind around me—how? Didn’t the Humdrum—

BANG!

I open my eyes to the slate-gray sky above me. 

“Simon?” Baz shakes my shoulder. “Simon?”

“I’m okay.” I finally get a proper look at him, and holy shit, he’s covered with so much blood. I didn’t think he’d had that much blood in him, being a vampire. “I’m…” Shit, my back hurts. “I’m okay. We need to…”

What do we need to do? I sit up slowly and gaze around. No more Humdrum. Only that hideous sculpture is on the hill. Did we do it? Did we actually beat him? 

“Come on.” Baz is on his feet, and I wonder how he still has any strength left. “We need to move.” 

Move. Yes. That sounds like a plan. 

We hold hands and make our way down to Burnley. If I’m on the brink of snapping Baz’s hand off, he doesn’t say anything about it. Mist trickles down, making the blood that leaked out of my pores streak on my skin. Of all the times to have pissing rain. 

I point out a rabbit munching on the grass just outside town. Baz doesn’t argue about feeding in front of me. Instead, he makes quick, mechanical work of it: snatch, snap, and drink. This feels like it should be a more momentous occasion, him being so vulnerable, but I don’t think either of us can manage being anything but vulnerable right now. 

After he drops the rabbit’s limp body back in the grass, Baz suggests we get to the train station. I ask him if he can spell us clean, and he shakes his head. 

“I’m dry. You?” 

“I…” Oh no. “I…I can’t feel my magic. I’ve never gone dry before. I don’t—” I know this is something that can happen. Many historical magic battles end because someone keels over from exhaustion. But it’s never happened to me, because I’ve never been a normal magician, have I? Oh, Merlin—

“Simon.” Baz pulls me to his side. “Train.” 

He’s right, he’s right. I can’t panic right now. We’ve got to get the hell out of here. 

We dip into the nearest toilet and wash each other off with the scratchiest brown paper towels in the world. Baz pats his pockets and says he has no money for train fare. I tell him I’ll handle it and push my way out of the toilet, grateful to have something to do. 

I don’t make a habit of picking pockets, but I’ve done it a few times over the summer when I’ve been skint. The key is to look like you’re meant to be wherever you are at any given time, even if that’s rubbing up uncomfortably close to some bloke’s backside. I manage to pick a leather money clip stuffed with notes and far too many credit cards, and I’m flipping through it when Baz finally comes out into the station proper. 

“Found money.” I keep the notes and chuck the clip and cards in the nearest bin. 

Baz nods distractedly and pats his pocket again. He reaches inside and pulls out his mobile, then stares at it like it’s the first one he’s ever seen. I stare too. 

“I have a phone,” he announces. 

“We…we should tell someone what happened. Get back to school. Tell the Mage,” I cringe as soon as I say that. “They should know—”

“Simon.”

“Yeah?”

“We beat the Humdrum.”

I blink. “…we beat the Humdrum,” I repeat back.

The widest smile I’ve ever seen cracks his face in two, making his fangs poke out from under his upper lip. Is this why he doesn’t smile that much? Because of his fangs? He ought to smile more often, he looks brilliant. 

“Fuck the Mage. We’re going to London.” He paces over to the automated ticket machine. “We’re going to get properly cleaned up and eat something and go to sleep, and the Mage and everyone else can wait because we beat the fucking Humdrum.” 

The tiny slice of worry that had been eating at my brain, the anticipation that maybe we didn’t do it and the Humdrum would be coming back for a second round, vanishes. “Can we do that?” I ask. 

“I think you can do pretty much anything you want now.” 

Well then. Fuck it. “Let’s go to London.” 

We have to make a transfer at Preston, but for most of the three-hour ride to London, I sleep. I start up my iPod back in Burnley and fade out to Paul McCartney urging us to get back, get back, get back to where you once belonged. When Baz shakes me awake, we’ve pulled into Euston. 

There’s a Nando’s just across the street from the station, but I have absolutely no energy for standing in line with a bunch of pub crawlers looking for a midnight snack. Instead, Baz and I make our way for a few blocks to the flat he shares with his aunt. For a moment, I worry that Fiona might be in there, ready to harangue us with questions. Thankfully, though, the flat is empty. 

Baz gathers towels and turns the water on for the shower while I wait. I still feel numb. The inferno of magic that has lived inside me all this time is nothing but a smoldering pile of ash right now, and I don’t know when it’s coming back. He’s about to leave the bathroom when I catch his wrist. 

“I don’t—I—” I huff at the bathroom floor tiles. “I can’t feel my magic. I don’t know what’s happening. I’m scared.” 

That’s enough explanation for Baz. It should feel a bit more ceremonious, the fact that he’s taking off my clothes, but I’m too exhausted to find anything sexy. We step into the shower, both still wearing our boxers, and stand while all of the blood washes off of us. After a while, I find the energy to wash my hair, then his. Under normal circumstances, he’d complain that I’m being too rough, like after the skank fiasco. This time, though, I think he’s grateful for the touch. 

I’m in the middle of lathering his shoulders down with soap when he starts to cry. I’m not sure if any tears are coming out, or if his body needs to work through the sobs. All I can do is hold him, and I start to shake. Am I crying, too? 

Somehow we manage to rinse, get out, and towel off. Baz wordlessly hands me one of his hoodies, a pair of dry boxers, and a pair of socks with vinyl records knit into them. I tug everything on while he mutters something about needing to eat. Turns out, ‘needing to eat’ was another way of saying he needs more blood. I should probably be more concerned about him possibly mixing up his carton of pig’s blood with my red J2O. 

There’s something comical about standing in a dark kitchen at midnight, watching a daisy-patterned mug of blood go round and round in a microwave. There’s something even more comical about watching a teenage vampire drink down that mug of warm blood in three gulps with a thin rivulet of the stuff dripping down his chin. 

Finally, we end up in Baz’s bedroom. I flop onto his bed, wincing a bit – this one isn’t nearly as soft as his bed at Watford. He shuffles around in his bookcase, and then I hear the soft bump of a needle being dropped on top of a record. A wall of sound, led by a mournful yet triumphant violin, washes over everything. 

I…I will be king

And you…you will be queen

Though nothing, will drive them away

We can beat them…just for one day

We can be heroes…just for one day…

“We beat him,” I echo the song.

“Unexpectedly, yes.” 

“Everything I’ve done. My whole life. I prepared for so long to beat him, and it just…happened.” 

Baz is quiet for a moment, and can you blame him? I can barely believe it myself. All the work I put in, all the missions I was sent on, all the hours of confronting glorified ghosts who spat my fears back at me – in the end, none of it mattered. Because nothing I did could have prepared me to face a younger version of me, so starving for magic that he stole it from the world. And apparently, I was doing the same thing all these years. No wonder I could never get my magic under control: it was never mine. 

“I don’t think things like this happen like they do in movies,” Baz says while Bowie croons about stealing time and being heroes. “No big, dramatic showdown in the final act. I think they just happen, and then we have to deal with them.”

“So what do I do now?” Seriously, what do I do now? What does a Chosen One do when the thing he’s been chosen for gets done? 

“We sleep. We let the World of Mages fuck off for one night and we let it be just us and we sleep.”

Baz pulls a blanket up over us and pushes his nose into my hair. I roll over and tuck into the crook of his neck while Bowie wishes whoever he’s singing about could swim like a dolphin. 

I don’t know what time it is, but it’s far too early for there to be this much yelling. 

I recognize the Mage’s voice first, followed by a woman. Fiona must have showed up at some point during the night. And if Fiona is here, then Baz’s dad is probably somewhere around. Baz is missing from his dip in the mattress next to me, which means he’s out where everyone else is. 

The room spins as I get to my feet. Too much blood loss; I had this happen back in third year when those gates kept blasting me everywhere and I’d inevitably crash into something that’d make me bleed. I’ll need some beef to help me recover. 

“What did it look like?” the Mage demands. Baz is standing in the doorway from the kitchen to the living room, looking defiant even with spectacular bed head. 

“Me,” I answer from behind Baz. “It looked like an eleven-year-old me.” 

Everyone turns to look at me in shock. I flash Baz a half-smile and shift a bit, trying to look more like a hero and less like a seventeen-year-old who just rolled out of bed. 

“He—the Humdrum—he said all this stuff about being nothing. About being what was left behind,” I explain. “Then he grabbed Baz—”

“—and I distracted him,” Baz cuts in. “I distracted him, and Simon went off. Blew up the Humdrum. Major flashing lights, howling wind, and then he was gone.” 

He gives me a very pointed look. Just go along with it. I realize that he deliberately skipped over all the details about magic sharing and draining, partly because we still don’t know exactly what happened, and partly because it’d be better if no one knows I’ve been depleted. I’m still not fully awake yet, but I still can’t feel my magic like I used to. 

I press down the swell of panic and speak up. “Yeah. Like Baz said. That’s what happened.” 

The Mage studies me from head to toe. I’m not sure if he’s entirely buying our explanation, but if he has any doubt, he’s not saying anything.

“This is unexpected,” he says after a long pause. “You’ve done very well, Simon. Very well. I wish you’d called me, though.”

Is he fucking serious? 

“Students aren’t allowed mobile phones, sir,” Baz answers cheekily. If the Mage wasn’t glaring at Baz right now, I’d kiss him for saying that. 

“Well. Come along, Simon. We’ve a long drive back to Watford. We’ll talk more in the car, and then I will bring you back to London tomorrow.”

I tilt my head. “London, sir?” 

“Yes. Term is over, at least for you. I’d hardly think you’re in any state to take exams. Your professors will be notified, obviously, and exemptions made.” The Mage is turning toward the flat’s door, expecting me to follow. “I’ve arranged for you to go into a care home here—”

“He’s not going to any fucking care home,” Baz snarls, at the same time as Fiona says, “The boy isn’t going anywhere, Llewellyn.” 

The Mage stares at both of them, surprised. “I don’t see how any of this is your business.” 

Fiona squares up. “He just killed the fucking Humdrum, and you’re about to stow him away again like he’s some shitty misbehaved kid? Get fucking real, Davy. He can stay here.” 

I have never heard anyone call the Mage by his first name before, and I almost break out laughing. My respect (and fear) for Fiona has gone way up. 

“With all due respect, Miss Pitch, why would I ever permit that? Neither you nor your family have ever demonstrated any kindness toward the boy. In fact, you have actively worked against him. And now you want me to grant you guardianship?” 

“Simon can stay with us,” Dr. Wellbelove pipes up. I startle, because I didn’t even realize he was in here. “He’s like a son to us already, and he’s stayed with us many times over the years during holiday breaks. We love having him around. And David,” he faces the Mage, “you’ve always said you’ve sent Simon away for his safety. If the Humdrum is gone, there’s no imminent threat from which he needs to hide.” 

The Mage puts his thumb under his chin and rubs across his mustache with his finger. “You make an excellent point. I’ve lived so long being concerned with his safety…things are different now…” He chuckles. “Yes, John, that’s fine. Simon can go with you for the summer.” 

Dr. Wellbelove says something about Agatha going to pack up my stuff at Watford, but I barely hear it. I won’t be going back to care after all. I’ll be able to stay somewhere familiar, with people who know me. I can be close to Baz. Am I still asleep?

Then Baz mentions I might want a pair of trousers before I leave. I can’t still be asleep and blush this hard, so that answers that question. I follow him to his room, ready to burst out of my skin. 

“You’re sure you’re okay with this?” he asks, rummaging through his dresser. “If you don’t want to leave, I can make a scene. Start a fight. Fiona will back me up.” 

“’S fine,” I answer, then frown a bit. “We lied about what happened. With the Humdrum, I mean.” 

“Yes, we did.” 

“That’s gonna be our story, then?” 

He hands me a pair of football trackies. They’re going to pool around my ankles, but I don’t mind. “I think the fewer people who know what we know, the better. For now, at least. The Mage said he’s coming round tomorrow, right? Just repeat what we said and it’ll keep him put off.” 

I pull on the trackies, and Baz digs out a pair of his old trainers from his closet, because my shoes from last night are still by the front door, slicked with blood and too gross to wear into the Wellbeloves’ house. I realize I’ve been kitted out entirely in Baz’s clothes, and it makes me feel warm and floaty all over. Secure for the first time in far too long. 

“It’ll be okay,” I say, and Baz looks like he’s about to spin out of control, so I reach up and kiss him fast, before he has too much time to think. “I’ll be okay,” I mumble between us before leaning in for more. 

Even though I don’t want to, I’m the one who has to break us apart. I promise to be in touch, and then I nearly sprint out of his bedroom before I can change my mind. Dr. Wellbelove claps me on the shoulder and guides us both down the hallway, the Mage following us both like a shadow. I can tell he’s bursting to interrogate me further, but it can wait. It’ll all wait. 

When I settle into the front seat of Dr. Wellbelove’s car (I’m rubbish with car names, but it’s one of those low-slung things that makes you feel like you’re riding on your arse), I feel like all the air squeezes out of my lungs. 

“You can sleep as much as you want when we get back,” Dr. Wellbelove informs me with a smile. “No need to get up for anything. Agatha won’t be happy about packing up two people’s rooms, but she’ll have to cope.”

“I don’t have much to pack,” I admit. Because everything I need is disappearing behind us in the rearview mirror. 

“I’m glad you’re okay.” He reaches over and pats my forearm. “Truly, Simon. I’m proud as well, but it’s beyond a relief to know you’re all right.” 

‘All right’ is a relative term, as Baz would say. But if Dr. Wellbelove believes that, then I don’t think there’s any harm in believing it myself. I lean back against the headrest, watching the London traffic give way to the countryside. 

Mrs. Wellbelove is practically levitating when we arrive at the house, half a second away from peppering me with questions, but Dr. Wellbelove waves her off. I shuffle up the stairs to Agatha’s room alone and stay conscious long enough to pull my trainers off so I don’t ruin her fluffy white duvet. Then I collapse into sleep once again. I don’t think I’ll ever get enough sleep to be satisfied. 

I dream of magic, pulsing just past my fingertips. If I could reach out a little more, maybe I could grab it, pull it into my chest, and never let it go like that again. There’s no more Humdrum to devour it anymore. I can keep my magic close, keep it safe. 

It’s another hour, maybe longer, before I get woken up by shouting for the second time today. 

“You have got so much explaining to do!” 

The bedroom door bangs open, and I lurch halfway off the bed. A very harried Agatha, ponytail askew and shoulders hunched, throws three enormous duffle bags on the carpeting and charges over to me. I’m not sure if she’s about to hug me or punch me. Possibly both. 

“Were you going to tell me you and Baz were harboring a rat in your room, or was that meant to be a nasty surprise?” she demands. 

“What are you—oh.” Shit. I forgot about Merlin. 

“Yes, oh. After nearly losing a finger to that thing, I had to fight with Niall Kelly for my right not to bring it home! It came down to a rock-paper-scissors match.” 

“Uh.” I sit up hesitantly. “Did you win?”

Agatha huffs. “Of course I won! And then Niall accused me of cheating with my,” she holds up her hands in scare quotes, “‘feminine wiles’, and I told him to take his lumps or I’d shove him out to the merwolves.”

“Jesus Christ.” 

“The only divine intervention in this mess was from me.” She yanks out her ponytail and tousles her hair. I notice for the first time that she’s got a third set of piercings, with metal bars going through the tops of her ears. Trixie must have done them during exams. Mrs. Wellbelove will have a fit. “I also told him to stop being such an idiot and either tell Dev to buzz off or snog him silly at some point this summer. One of the two.” 

“What?” 

“They’ve been pining after each other for so long, they could grow a forest. Now get off the bed and give me a hug.” 

I can’t really feel my left arm (fell asleep on it), but I don’t feel much like arguing. I haul myself up and reach out for Agatha, letting her close the gap. She tucks her chin over my shoulder and squeezes me tight. Eventually I work up enough feeling in my left arm to close the circle around her too. 

This feels nice. Really nice. Baz and I fell asleep in a heap together, and the pressure of his body on mine was completely relaxing. Maybe I just need to be physically pressed now and again to feel all right. 

“You did it,” she whispers. “You actually beat the Humdrum.” 

“Yeah,” I say, because I still haven’t wrapped my head around it myself. 

“And you’re alive.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t be?” 

Agatha pulls back to look me in the face. There’s an angry red swipe across her face—Merlin must have gotten to her. “The possibility was always there, Simon. No one knew where the Humdrum came from in the first place, and it ate up magic, so no one had any idea how you’d beat it. The chance of you dying…well, it was fifty-fifty.” 

I glance down at the carpet, unsure of how to respond. Of course I’d thought about defeating the Humdrum loads of times. And I’d thought about the scenario where I didn’t come back, but there wasn’t much to think about other than everything going dark. I never got far enough to imagine my funeral or statues erected in my honor or anything like that. The Chosen One who snuffed it. I just never went down that path. Because if I did, it’d make me doubt myself even more than I already did. 

“I used to practice, you know. For when you died.”

I jerk back to reality. “What?” 

Agatha sighs. “When we were dating, I used to think about how I would react if you met the Humdrum and didn’t make it, or if you were out on one of the Mage’s missions. I’d sit in front of a mirror and practice crying. Didn’t want my mascara to run too much, you know.” 

“That’s…massively fucked up, Ags.” 

“Yes, well,” she shrugs, “when you’re dating the Chosen One, and you don’t cry hard enough when he dies, people call you a cold-hearted bitch. Cry too much, and they call you an irretrievable mess. No winning.” 

“Would you have been sad? If I’d died yesterday?” I know the answer, but with how raw I’ve felt for the last day and change, I don’t know if I’m certain of anything anymore. 

“I would have been inconsolable.” She pats my shoulder before spinning around toward the duffle bags. “Are you hungry? I’m sure Mum’s cooked something, but I’ve had my fill of Mum for today. I’ll call Pizza Express.” 

My stomach roars at the suggestion. “I don’t have to go back downstairs?” 

She flicks her hair back behind her ear. “As far as I’m concerned, we can build our own pillow fort up here and do whatever we like. We don’t owe anyone anything.” 

I flop back on the bed while she places the Pizza Express order and queues up one of her playlists through the Bluetooth speaker on her nightstand. Debbie Harry starts breezing on about how this girl will make you go insane and out of your mind, and it makes me smile.

“Oh, I do owe you something,” Agatha says while she’s pulling clothing out of one of the enormous duffle bags. “A mobile. We’ll get you one of your own. I love you, truly, but I’ll be damned if I become the go-between for you and Baz.” Mrs. Wellbelove is yelling downstairs, and Agatha glares at her bedroom door. “What do you want, Mum?! Yes, I ordered pizza, what about it?”

Amazing how quickly I fall into a pattern. My summers in care weren’t structured except for mealtimes, so this is a total change. I get up early, just like at Watford, and after swallowing down breakfast, it’s out to the stables. Mrs. Wellbelove insisted that Agatha had to carry on with her show jumping, and despite her protests, I think Agatha wanted to keep doing it, too. But she didn’t want to spend her entire summer chucking hay bales and cleaning stalls by herself, which is where I come in. I don’t really mind the work: I appreciate having something to do that takes my whole body and concentration. If there isn’t any competition Agatha has to train for, or if it’s too hot, we go back inside for the rest of the day, or out by the pool. 

At any rate, I’d rather spend my days shoveling horse apples than dealing with the Mage. He shows up to the house once a week to take me to lunch. Every time, he tries to wheedle more information out of me about how I beat the Humdrum, asking for specifics. I keep my story short and vague. He doesn’t need to know about how Baz and I made a magical circuit, or how the Humdrum was a sliver of eleven-year-old me. And I definitely don’t tell him about my magic. 

It’s coming back, by the way. In bits and pieces. Agatha is extremely patient with me while I try simple spells: floating objects around her room, lighting bits of paper on fire in her rubbish bin, filling glasses with water. When I cast now, it doesn’t feel like a giant kettle threatening to boil over in my chest. More like quiet electricity flowing up through my arm and into my wand. Sometimes it shorts out if I’ve overdone it with practicing, and the terror I felt right after finishing off the Humdrum surges back. 

“You’ve never had to rest before,” Agatha points out to me more than once. “The rest of us don’t have an infinite draw of magic, either. You’ll have to get used to being typical.”

The peace can’t last forever, though. Baz and I talk every day, and apparently once he got a sufficient supply of blood in his system, he started plotting our next move to investigate the Mage. I wasn’t completely wrong all those years ago when I thought Baz was forever plotting. He’s been coordinating with his dad and other Old Family members to be a nuisance; I can’t be arsed with the details of what that involves. The end goal is to bring the Mage in on a long conference to work out some kind of ceasefire, so he’s occupied. 

I had insisted on going to Wales alone, but Baz wouldn’t hear of it. “We need support,” he told me. “We got by with the Humdrum, but we need more eyes and hands poking around.” 

A world where Baz Pitch asks for help. Merlin, we’ve all really changed. 

So that’s how I end up in the backseat of Agatha’s hatchback on a cracking hot morning, she and Penny arguing while looking for street parking outside of Baz’s aunt’s flat. I just want this to go smoothly, and this is a shit start. 

I knock twice on the door and wait for a beat before walking in. I can see the back of Niall’s head in the kitchen doorway, Baz looking expectantly around him. Dev is slumped over on the table. 

“They’ve been fighting since we picked up Penny,” I inform Baz, even though I’m sure he can hear the girls down the hallway. Then I slip right past him and toward his room, where I can hear the familiar thumps of Merlin against the door. He hates being locked up. 

“Did you miss me?” I ask when I open the door. Merlin latches right onto my jeans in response and claws his way up to my shirt. “’Course you did.” I scoop him up and set him on my shoulder, where he immediately starts sniffing my ear. 

“There’s bacon on the stove,” Baz points out, as though I couldn’t smell it the second I came in. There are soft, round rolls in a bag as well, so I rip one open and start piling on the bacon strips.

The Dead Milkmen start up through Baz’s speaker on the counter: “If You Love Someone Set Them on Fire”. 

“Skip it. Now,” Dev moans behind me. 

“No. It’s Baz’s song,” I reply. 

I can feel three pairs of eyes on the back of my neck. I turn toward the table, half-done bacon roll in hand. 

“It’s, you know. Fire. And…” I glance at Baz. “Remember the time you set me on fire?” 

Baz grins at me, the tips of his fangs peeking out. Dev looks thunderstruck, while Niall acts like I’ve just given a weather forecast. Whatever. They don’t have to get it. 

Penny and Agatha finally show up, and Baz greets them. Dev moans some more. Niall makes the excuse that Dev’s being a cock because it’s too hot (fair enough). I keep making bacon rolls until I realize that I’ve probably made enough to feed an army, so I pile a few on a plate and sit down at the table next to Baz. 

He does a brilliant job bringing everyone up to speed on what the Old Families have been doing and why. And he points out that for three days, the Mage and his Men will be too occupied with a potential compromise to go anywhere near Machynlleth. Penny and Dev catch on right away where this is going. 

“You’re not serious,” Penny says, her fingers going still on top of her purple ring. 

Dev, who I now see looks majorly hungover after he’s taken off his sunglasses, nods furiously. “Bad idea. Awful idea. Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I agree with Bunce. Don’t do it.” 

“I never said not to do it—”

“Are you sure about this?” Agatha cuts in. “You and Simon…you’re, like, untouchable now. If you get caught breaking into the Mage’s house and messing with his stuff…I mean, you can see how badly this could end, right?” 

Niall makes a point about wanting to relax, and doesn’t Baz think we deserve some rest after everything? I can see Baz’s resolve starting to waver. His fingers tremble where he has them pressed lightly against the tabletop, balancing himself as he stands. He clearly expected that he would be more convincing, able to bring everyone over to his side with ease. And maybe he would have, if he’d been proposing practically any other plan. Agatha has a point: if any of us are caught around Machynlleth, the consequences could be severe. 

“Snow?” Baz is trying so hard to be brave. “What say you? Care for a road trip?” 

I meet his eyes, swallowing my last bite of bacon roll. Right. Now it’s come down to me. He has to know my answer already—there isn’t a universe where I would say no to Baz. But he needs me to say it out loud, because he’s too proud to beg our friends for support, even when he really wants it. 

“I’m in. Absolutely,” I say, nodding for good measure. Baz’s instant smile is shaky, and I pretend not to notice as I turn toward our friends. 

“I owe this to Baz, more than the rest of you realize. The official story of how we beat the Humdrum leaves out a few details we don’t want the Mage to know about.” Penny is bursting to interrupt, so I press on. “I’m not going because I want to prove Baz right necessarily. It’s because I want the truth. And lately it seems like the Mage isn’t really interested in letting the truth come to light. So if anyone else wants to come, you’re welcome to tag along. I don’t know what we’ll find, but I hope it’s some answers.” 

The only sound in the kitchen is Merlin scrabbling around on the counter, hunting for bacon pieces. Then Dev pipes up. 

“Last time I got a guilt trip that heavy, it was from my mum. Good job, Snow.” 

“That’s not what I—”

“We’re coming,” Niall cuts in, putting a hand on top of Dev’s head to shut him up. “You can always use more eyes and hands poking around, at any rate. Plus, plausible deniability if there are multiple sets of fingerprints around, you know?” 

“D’you honestly think the Mage is going to give a fuck about fingerprints?” Dev moans. 

“He can’t kick me out of Watford, anyway. I’m Irish.” 

“What the hell does that—”

“I’m coming, too,” Agatha announces, flicking her hair over her shoulder. “I need a reason to get out of the house that isn’t horse-related. Mum has been insufferable, and Dad’s been busy with his practice.” 

That leaves Penny. I kind of figured she’d be the hardest one to win over: she’s always been the one to make me think through everything before heading out on missions, despite always being willing to get in on the action. For as much complaining as Mrs. Bunce does about the Mage, she’s never been one to really oppose him, and Penny inherited her mum’s politics (not that I’d ever say that to her face). Keeping the status quo has always outweighed rocking the boat.

To hell with that. The boat needs to be fucking flipped. 

“You won’t change my mind,” I tell Penny.

“I know.” 

“It’ll be a weekend at most, Bunce,” Baz chimes in. “Machynlleth is four hours away from here, and unless we waste Saturday away driving, we’ll be back on Sunday afternoon.”

“You’ll get to pick music,” I add. Baz looks momentarily scandalized. “You all will.” 

Niall lights up: I’m pretty sure he’s been formulating his perfect playlist of The Killers in his head this whole time. Dev flips his sunglasses back down onto his nose, tapping out of this conversation. Agatha hops off the windowsill to pick up a bacon roll from the stove and say hello to Merlin. Finally, Penny sighs, and I know I’ve won her over. 

“All right,” she nods. “I’m in. But how are we getting there?”

I really don’t know why Baz thought I knew how to read road maps. I’ve pretty much always been pointed in the direction I need to go, or I’ve had a bus schedule with neatly labeled route lines. Once it became clear I had no clue what I was looking at, I was banished to the backseat, with Niall taking my place. 

I wouldn’t mind the backseat so much if it wasn’t so small, and if Dev didn’t keep smacking me in the gut while trying to mold himself into the door. I really, really need to piss, and Baz won’t stop the car, insisting that we “need to make good progress” if we want to make it to Machynlleth by dark. 

Still, I’m having a banger time. Dev has been complaining about Niall’s music choices, so of course Niall threw on “Mr. Brightside” to be cheeky. I’m surprised how much of this song I know from hearing it occasionally on Baz’s playlists. And the MG sounds like it’ll rattle apart with Penny, Agatha, Niall, and I belting out the chorus. I don’t think I’ve stopped grinning since we swapped seats outside of Birmingham. 

This is what regular teenagers do. Pack into a car with their mates and their mates’ mates and blast each other’s ears out with music. I think I could get used to this. 

Penny gets control of the music next, and she puts on some wildly catchy Scottish song that drills into my head immediately. Then she catches sight of a road sign that makes her gasp. 

“Basil! Look!” We get closer, and I squint at the list of local attractions. Bron-Yr-Aur Cottage. “Can we stop?” 

“No sightseeing,” Baz shuts her down. 

“Oh come on, it won’t kill you.” 

“Yeah, Basil.” Merlin, that sounds so weird to say. I lean forward as far as I dare with my bladder threatening to explode, huffing a bit on his cheek. “It won’t kill you.” 

Baz does stop, and I think everyone’s relieved to get out and stretch their legs. (I know I feel relieved, in more ways than one.) We don’t get too close to the cottage, because it turns out it’s a private residence, but we all take a while to bask in the sun and gaze out over the Welsh countryside. When Agatha starts ripping up and tossing grass at me, I can’t stop laughing, and I feel lighter than I’ve felt in ages. 

By the time we make it into Machynlleth proper, it’s nearly dark. I’ve had fish and chips loads of times, but the ones we get at the chippy in town are the greasiest and tastiest I’ve ever eaten. Everything feels like the best it can be right now. 

After Baz makes sure everyone knows what time we have to meet up (seven o’clock – he’s really putting Dev through the wringer), and I make sure we’re eating breakfast before we leave (we are), everyone shuffles off to their rooms. The first thing that hits me when Baz opens the door to our room is lavender, so overpowering it nearly makes my eyes water. The second thing that hits me is there is only one bed. 

“Just one bed,” I point out. 

“Oh no,” Baz says flatly. “Looks like we’ll have to share.” 

“Not if I make you sleep on the floor, you posh fuck,” I mutter to myself before legging it to the en suite. I’m sure Baz heard me; he knows I don’t mean it. 

The soap in the shower is also lavender, so I smell like a nan in church by the time I get done cleaning up. I’m clean, though, and filled with sunshine and greasy chips. Today was as close to perfect as I get in my life. 

When I walk out of the en suite, Baz has his mobile sitting on the bedside table, playing “Perfect Day” by Lou Reed. I know him well enough to know that he queued it up on purpose, the incurable romantic. Reed’s voice is low and buzzy as he sings about how glad he was to spend his day with who he loves. 

“Was nice of you to turn off to Bron-Yr-Aur for Pen,” I tell Baz while I dig around in my rucksack for pants. Why did I put them all the way at the bottom? “She loves Led Zeppelin.” 

“Tragically.” 

Of course he would be a snob about Zeppelin. I finally find a pair of pants and try tugging them on without taking off my towel. It’s not that Baz and I really have anything to hide anymore, but in seven years of sharing a room, we still don’t look at each other while we change. Until now, apparently. Baz is watching me like I’m putting on a circus act. 

“No shirt?” He wrinkles his nose when I walk over to the bed without putting one on.

“’S hot out.” I crawl under the covers and slide in right behind him, pressing my chest to his back. 

“Savage.” There’s no heat behind it, though. He doesn’t mean it. “Why can’t you wear normal pajamas like the rest of us?” 

I ignore the question and focus instead on how close I can get to Baz. The skin on his hip is smooth and cool, and so is his stomach. I brush my knuckles there, over the trail of dark, curly hair that plunges lower than where I am now. Baz tenses, but I don’t think it’s nerves. He wants to know where I’m headed with this. I tease a bit under the waistband of his pajama pants to give him a hint. 

“Aren’t you tired?” he asks. His voice has gone low and rough like it always does at the end of the day. 

“Mmhm,” I answer, nosing along his neck. 

He presses back against me. “Why aren’t you sleeping?” 

I dare to let my hand venture even lower, and I kiss down where his neck meets his shoulder. “Don’t want today to be over yet.”

In a flash, Baz is facing me, arms pulling me in closer and mouth crushed to mine. Then he’s on top of me, pecking at random points on my skin (my moles – he’s fascinated by them). I tell him he smells good (far better than me), and then he tells me I smell like an old lady. That would break the mood for pretty much anyone else, I think, but instead it makes me laugh. And then I can’t stop laughing. 

Baz keeps huffing, at first because we have no idea what the hell we’re doing and his hair is all over the place after I yank his shirt off. He wants this to be perfect, but I don’t need perfect. Not when I have him. 

Kisses give way to sighs. Sighs turn to moans. Awkward shuffling slips into a gentle wave of our bodies moving against each other. This isn’t going off—it’s coming back together. 

If I didn’t know where Baz’s hands were (trust me, I know where they were), I would accuse him of trying to soundtrack our clumsy first time. But no, this was one of those times where the music fits the moment far too well. 

Ooh, I can hear the music in the darkness

Floating softly to where we lie

No more questions now, let’s enjoy tonight

Just you and I

Ooh, just you and I

We fall asleep in each other’s arms, spent and blissed out. 

If only that high had followed us to the morning. 

Baz lets me back into the front seat, which means I’m on music. I cycle through everything I can think of to bring up the mood: Blondie, Talking Heads, The Clash. No one even so much as hums along to the ABBA song I throw on only to get a reaction. After a while, I let Baz’s mobile slip into another quieter playlist and let my hands rest in my lap. 

When we reach the dead spot, my magic coils down somewhere above my stomach, defending itself. I’ve never been inside one of these spots before; it feels like a much weaker sucking sensation than when the Humdrum appeared. Water draining out of a bathroom sink instead of a whirlpool. For a moment, I’m relieved my magic isn’t anywhere near what it once was. 

Penny and Dev moan about being sick. Niall advises them to close their eyes and sit back instead of doubling over. Agatha doesn’t say anything, but I’m sure she feels hideous, too. Any color Baz had in his face after last night is gone now. 

“There,” I say after we ramble on for several uneasy minutes. A set of tire tracks, nearly overgrown with grass, trails out from the main road. I haven’t seen anything else that looks traveled in recent times. Even if I’m wrong, it’s the best place to start. 

Baz parks the car and gives everyone else one final out: they can take the car, leave the dead spot to get a breather, and come back for him when he calls. No one takes him up on the offer. We’ve all come too far now to turn back. 

The tire tracks widen into a rough path that we follow to the top of a hill. To our right, nestled in under the overlooking safety of another hill, is a stone cottage. A gravel driveway runs alongside it, and the border is lined with thick, overgrown rose bushes. Not that I was expecting some dark, nefarious lair to be waiting for us, but this definitely wasn’t what I thought the Mage’s house would be. 

“Charming,” Dev remarks as we walk down toward the front door. I think it’s the first thing he’s said all day. 

“How are we going to open the door?” Penny asks. “We can’t use magic.” 

Oh, Penny. She’s thinking about whether the Mage set any wards or magical tripwires. But if we can’t use our magic here, I don’t think he would have fared much better. Besides, if he never thought anyone else would ever know about this place, why would he bother setting anything like that up? Especially if the dead spot’s been here a while – it would have siphoned away all but the strongest protective spells.

I reach over and pull two bobby pins from Penny’s hair. The door lock looks old-fashioned: I can get into this easily enough if nothing inside is rusted to hell. I kneel down and get to work, feeling for every last pin inside the lock. After a few minutes, I get the sequence right, and the door swings open. 

The inside of the cottage is just as mundane as the outside. Nothing weird in the kitchen, other than dishes set up in the drying rack that prove someone has been here not long ago. The den looks like it was decorated by a charity shop, and no one’s properly sat in here in years. I don’t see anything promising other than the books packed into the shelves around the perimeter. 

“Search here. I’m going upstairs,” Baz whispers. The girls follow him. Niall and I share a look before we start sorting through the bookcases, while Dev meanders into the hallway. 

“Any idea what we’re hoping to find, mate?” Niall asks. “Not like he wrote an encyclopedia about his plans or anything.” 

“He definitely keeps notes,” I answer. The Mage carries a small spiral-bound notebook and pencil in an inside pocket of his cloak all the time, and I’ve walked into his office loads of times before to find him writing in a larger notebook. “He barely uses a computer, so everything’s gonna be handwritten.” 

“Sounds like the Mage, all right.” 

“Plus, he’d have to do research on what he was planning. Maybe we’ll find books on vampires or something.” Except what I’m finding right now are cookbooks – loads of them, along with several histories about famous rugby teams and travel guides. This all seems totally Normal, not at all magical. I start pulling every book off the shelves, tossing them on the carpet behind me. Niall does the same, and soon we’re standing in a pool of books.  

When I go to pull a skinny green guide to magical stones of Wales off the shelf (the first vaguely magical book I’ve seen), the whole bookshelf shudders so loudly I fall back on my arse.  

“What the fuck?” Dev sticks his head in from the hallway. 

The bookshelf slides back into the wall and spins halfway in, revealing a doorway and a short flight of stairs down. 

“Circe’s tits,” Niall mutters in amazement. He bolts right down the stairs before I have a chance to hold him back. 

“What’s going on down there?” Penny calls as she, Baz, and Agatha thunder back downstairs. 

“Found something,” Dev answers. So helpful. 

Baz half-smiles at me before heading down the stairs into the secret room, too. Penny reaches down and pulls me back up to my feet. I’m about to ask her what they found upstairs when I hear Baz yell, “Don’t touch it!” 

I’m down the stairs in a flash. Baz and Niall are standing slightly bowed over a terrarium, with Niall’s hand reaching down to touch whatever’s inside. I pull Niall back, and he’s stiff as a board, eyes widening in panic. 

I whip my head around to Baz. “What’s wrong? What did he do?”

“Unborn dragons have protective magic,” Baz explains. He goes on to describe how the protection works, but I’m barely listening at that point. Instead, my eyes are drawn to the shriveled creature curled inside the terrarium. A baby dragon. But I don’t think it was ever alive to be a baby. The scales on its belly and around its muzzle look underdeveloped, and its tiny wings are folded in tightly to its back, never spread open.

Then I glance at the workbench right behind the terrarium. Six vials, all lined up in a rack, filled to the brims with horribly familiar black liquid. 

I look back down at the dragon’s body, noticing the scales missing. Anywhere there’s exposed skin, there’s a thin, coagulated black line. 

Dragon’s blood. He made me drink unborn dragon’s blood. 

I press my fist to my mouth, willing myself not to vomit. 

Niall snaps out of the trance the dragon magic put him under, the blank look on his face replaced with shell-shock. He bolts from the workshop, Dev on his heels. The rest of us follow after, not wanting to crowd the two of them. In the kindest, gentlest voice I’ve ever heard from him, Dev reassures Niall that it’s all right, and grips his arm. Niall crumples like a paper ball, practically folding in half over Dev. 

After a moment, we all seem to realize that we’re just standing around watching Niall have a mental break, and Dev coaxes him out of the house. The girls follow behind them. 

“So.” I shift my eyes toward Baz, who’s been standing ramrod this whole time. “Are they a thing?” 

Baz’s laugh rattles around in his throat. “Somehow, no.” 

Unbelievable. “Wonder how long it’ll take Niall to pick up that Dev is gagging for him.” 

“What? No. It’s the opposite.” 

I wrinkle my nose. “It’s clearly Dev. Can’t figure out how Niall feels, but Dev is stupidly easy to read.” 

It’s a ridiculous thing to be talking about right now, but we need to talk about something that isn’t what we just saw in that workshop. I may have killed a dragon my first year at Watford, but that one was an adult, and I didn’t know any better that it wouldn’t pose a threat. For the Mage to take its egg and harvest it…and then make me drink in the power…no wonder I felt sick. No wonder I had nightmares. 

“Do we leave it or bury it?” Baz asks. 

I don’t even have to think about my answer. “Bury it.”

He strips off his shirt and hands it to me. We head back into the workshop, and I bend down into the terrarium and pick up the remains with my hands covered in fabric. The smallest surge of magic races up my arms as I cradle the baby dragon. 

“Take those, too,” I point my chin at the vials sitting on the workbench. Baz nods and sets them inside the terrarium with the egg fragments, then hauls the whole terrarium up in his arms. We make a silent procession out to the back garden, where Baz finds a shovel and starts digging next to a half-fallen cairn. 

I feel like apologizing when I put the dragon in the hole, nestled inside its broken egg and vials of its blood circling it. But I don’t think any apology would be enough. I find a second shovel and help Baz finish the burial. Then we go back inside and clean up the books before leaving. 

The walk back to the MG is a lot like after the Humdrum: silent, tense, a destination in mind but no idea of what to do after we get there. I put on Talking Heads as soon as I sit down, and “Road to Nowhere” is the only sound guiding us out of the dead spot. Magic ripples out toward us like a lake lapping up onto shore as soon as we drive out of the sucking nothingness. Penny makes a weird relieved sound, like she’s about to cry. I don’t have it in me to turn back and look. 

Baz stops at Costa right before we get into London. Everyone else bails out of the MG, grateful for the chance to move. I stay put while Baz walks over to the petrol pump and swipes his card. Kind of funny that he stole his aunt’s car, yet he has the courtesy to fill it back up when returning it. 

“Is it illegal to kill dragons?” I ask him through the open window. 

He frowns and shakes his head at me while plugging the nozzle into the petrol tank. 

“Did you find anything upstairs?”

“Nothing illegal.” 

“And nothing about your mum?” 

He winces and does his best to hide it right away. Another shake of his head.

“So we have nothing.” 

“We know he was experimenting. We know he had books on banned magical words and power binding. He was researching the prophecy, too.” 

“That can all be explained. Other people have been researching and writing shit about my prophecy for years. And he was trying to fix…” I trail off. No use in saying any more when Baz knows it already. Instead, I punch at the inside of the car door, and then again with my other fist, yelling. The MG shakes. Baz jumps, along with a man standing at a nearby pump. 

“So we have nothing!” I yell, shoving my hands into my hair. Fuck, my knuckles hurt. “All of that—everything—perfectly fucking legal!” I scrape at my scalp and squeeze my eyes shut. “I just…he’s not…I never thought…”

There’s a thump on the side of the car. When I open my eyes again, Baz is standing at the window, nose inches from mine, with the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen on him. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry he’s not who you thought he was.” 

I bark out a laugh. Of all people, Baz is the last person who needs to apologize to me. He’s been trying to tell me for years that the Mage was shit, that he didn’t have my best interests in mind. And I didn’t listen, because I thought somewhere, between all the times we never spoke and the trials and the missions, the Mage actually cared. But if he cared about me, why was he trying to fix me? Why did he think I was broken? I’d seen the evidence myself at the cottage: an entire workshop dedicated to honing his favorite weapon. The baby dragon, ripped from its mum, lying there alone, a sacrifice for the Chosen One. I’d felt awful for weeks after killing that dragon in first year. Did the Mage even think twice about that? 

“Gonna talk to the Wellbeloves,” I finally say, so Baz doesn’t think I’ve completely spiraled. “And Mr. Bunce. And maybe your dad. When we get back to school, we’ll do…something.”

I have no idea what that something is, but we’ve got to do it. 

Baz reaches in and squeezes my shoulder, about ready to say something else. Then the petrol pump snaps off, and he goes to hang the hose back up. Everyone else piles back into the car with enough coffee and snacks to power us across the English Channel. For the rest of the drive back to London, I can at least pretend that everything is fine.

Most of my summers have dragged on forever. This one seems to pass in a blink.

Being able to bounce between Baz’s flat and Agatha’s house speeds things up, I think. Agatha is more than willing to drive me over most days, though occasionally Baz arrives at the Wellbeloves’ house with the requisitioned MG. We don’t get a ton of alone time at the flat: there’s usually someone else hanging around, whether it’s Fiona, Dev, or Niall. Penny pops in, too, whenever she can pull her head out of research long enough to leave her house.

I wish we knew more than we do. Every day, I look up and down at Penny’s list she tacked up on the dining room wall, all the things we know bulleted out in her scrawl. The dragon blood. The Mage’s weird obsession with binding power and shit. The prophecy that supposedly foretold my epic battle with the Humdrum. All of it feels significant, but I can’t see any connections.

When I can feel my brain starting to overheat from frustration, I quietly ask Baz if we can go to his room and listen to music. So we do that a lot. Sometimes there’s tea. A lot of times there’s kissing. We don’t go as far as we did that night in Machynlleth, but I don’t think we have to. No rush. Nothing to prove.

Suddenly, it’s August. I’ve totally balked on talking to anyone else about what we’ve discovered. I half expected Fiona to snoop through Penny’s notes that she keeps piling up here and start grilling us, but she hasn’t. Merlin seems to have her pretty well distracted, constantly screaming Professor Hollow’s name. Penny’s house is too packed with people for me to get a properly private conversation with Mr. Bunce. And I’m worried that talking to the Wellbeloves might not actually go very far – Dr. Wellbelove is pretty close with the Mage, after all. That leaves Baz’s dad, and that’s too much to think about now.

So I keep quiet. And I watch the days go by. And I wait to get back to Watford.

Chapter Text

“Don’t suppose there’s any way I can convince you to take me with you.” 

“Not a chance.”

Baz looks incredible in his green suit, but the prospect of sitting through an hours-long baby shower with him is, admittedly, not my idea of a good time. Besides, I promised I would talk to Malcolm. I’ve waited until absolutely the last minute (the day I go back to Watford) so I wouldn’t lose my nerve and I wouldn’t have an excuse. Now or never. 

“Just know that the entire time you’re suffering at the club, I’ll be suffering here.” 

“Malcolm isn’t that bad. Use your words, and he’ll listen to you.” Baz grins, the tips of his fangs poking down from under his upper lip. “And if he doesn’t listen, I’ll make him.” 

“You can’t drain your dad!” 

“Menacing behavior is how we operate, Snow. You’ll be fine.” He leans over and presses a kiss to my forehead.

“See you at school,” I murmur against his chin. 

“Goodbye, love.” A quick peck on the lips, and he’s gone out the front door into the blinding sunlight, leaving me in the dark foyer. The staircase yawns in front of me, daring me to walk up to what might potentially be my doom. 

No, not my doom. Mr. Grimm (it’s really hard to call him Malcolm) promised to help us. I only wish I had more to show for our efforts. 

I leave my duffle bag on the carpet and climb up to the second floor, and to the study. Baz told me his dad usually keeps the door closed, so that’s how I pick out which room it is. There’s a gargoyle door knocker (of course there is) with a brassy spot worn on the ring with how many people have grabbed it over the years. I knock four times, wait, and push the door open. 

I expected the study to be a lot like the rest of the mansion: shadowy, full of deep red and brown, ominous. I didn’t expect it to be so bright. Light streams through the windows and radiates from the bookcases like they’re packed with invisible candles. The walls are pale green, with darker green paneling stretching up from the floor up to a rail about chest height. Plants of every size and shape sit on nearly every open surface, some spilling out of their pots toward the floor, others reaching for the ceiling. I swear some of them are moving on their own. 

Mr. Grimm is bent over a wooden stand, poking around with his wand in the middle of a giant fern. He catches my eye and nods. “Mr. Snow. Basilton said you would be up. Have a seat.” 

The only seats available are some stiff-looking armchairs near the fireplace. I pick one and sit down. Some plant with stripy heart-shaped leaves snakes its way across the mantle toward me, and I try not to panic. I don’t think this plant wants to kill me, but I put my hand on my hip to summon the Sword of Mages just in case. 

“Oh, for goodness’ sake. As you were!” Mr. Grimm shouts, pointing his wand at the mantel. The plant freezes for a moment, then slithers backward toward its terracotta pot. Mr. Grimm walks over to the chairs, shaking his head. 

“Epipremnum aureum. Devil’s ivy. Incorrigible,” he explains as he sits down. “Terribly sorry, it’s insatiably curious about anyone who isn’t me. I’ve had to disentangle it from Mordelia who knows how many times. Anyway,” he waves his hand, “you came to talk to me about your expedition to Wales.” 

“Uh.” Can’t find my words. Great start. “Yeah. I mean, yes.” 

“Baz told me he’d found some things of interest, but he’s been cagey about the details, as per usual.” 

“There were some books that belonged to his mum that the Mage had taken a couple years ago and never gave back. I dunno what’s in those books – I’m guessing they came from your house.” 

“Natasha always maintained her own private library. Books handed down through the Pitch family for centuries.” Mr. Grimm crosses his legs and levels his eyes at me. They’re not gray, like Baz’s, but instead a deep brown, like the ground in the Wavering Wood after it rains. I still feel like I’m being looked right through, instead of looked at. “That can’t be all you found.” 

“There were other books we found. Books with forbidden words, according to Penny—sorry, Penelope Bunce—”

“She came with you?” 

“Yes. Along with Dev and Niall. Sorry, I mean—”

“I’m familiar with them.” 

“There were books about binding and other older magical rituals I don’t understand. I guess the books with forbidden words are things the Mage’s Men might have taken during some of their raids. Or maybe the Mage has had them for a long time. I don’t know.” Merlin, this is going worse than I thought. 

“It would make sense that the Mage would spirit away any confiscated materials to a remote location. Especially one that the Coven knew nothing about.” Mr. Grimm rubs a finger under his nose. “Anything else?”

“There was a baby dragon. A dead one.” 

Mr. Grimm sits ramrod straight and uncrosses his legs. His eyes bore into me even more than before. The plants on the mantle shiver, including the one that tried to grab me earlier. 

“Baz said there’s nothing illegal about killing dragons.” 

“Dragons are still a protected species. We as magicians have nothing powerful enough to physically protect a dragon, but we can protect them legally.” Mr. Grimm shakes his head. “One is required to have a permit merely to possess dragon scales or teeth. Even more permits are required if one is to study a live dragon in captivity, assuming both the dragon and would-be biologist live long enough to do so. But to have a dead one in your possession, undeclared? Illegal.” 

“I don’t think this one was ever alive, either. It didn’t look developed.” 

Mr. Grimm’s hands clamp tighter on the armchair. The devil’s ivy curls up in terror. 

“There’s another thing…” I tell him about the vials of black blood, and how the Mage made me train after the phobus attack. I get partway through telling him about the nightmares when he holds up his hand. 

“Mr. Snow. Simon,” he sighs. “I know the vast majority of the body of magical knowledge has been obscured by your would-be mentor. You did not grow up around magic prior to attending Watford, so you do not have the benefit of knowing much about the dangers of this world. By design, I’m sure.” He leans forward and puts his elbows on his thighs. “I need you to know this: what the Mage made you endure by drinking dragon’s blood is torture. It was used as a form of truth serum some centuries ago, and in the worst cases, it was used as poison specifically to induce madness. Magicians have died by drinking it.” 

I swallow hard. 

“I am sorry you had to go through this. You’ve had no reason to trust anyone outside of the Mage’s immediate circle before, I understand, but you should have told someone. Anyone.” 

“I don’t think anyone would have stopped him,” I whisper. 

“We are stopping him. Now.” Mr. Grimm claps his hands down on the armchair. “What you’ve told me is enough evidence to bring before the Coven. Certainly enough to trigger a vote of no confidence, though we may need you to testify again so your words may be recorded. My apologies for that,” he says, and I do actually believe he’s sorry about it. “I know bureaucracy is not how you’ve normally solved things in the past, Simon, but it might be the only way to oust him for good.” 

I don’t ask him what will happen if they do manage to kick the Mage out of the Coven. It’s not like he’ll disappear quietly, not after everything he’s tried to build and do. He’ll continue to push his way back in. 

“Are you gonna search the house in Machynlleth?” I ask. “It doesn’t have an address. There’s this giant magical hole still open over it a mile in every direction, but Penny says her dad says those holes are closing up with the Humdrum gone.” 

“Most likely. We’ll put together a search team after the term at Watford has begun and the Mage is likely to be away. I’m confident we can find what we’re looking for.” 

It hits me all at once that this is what it’s like not to be alone in the fight. To have someone offer help, and know that their help can really do something. A lump rises in my throat. This is what I’ve needed for years. 

“Thank you,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t shake too much. The last thing I need to do is break down crying. 

“It’s the least we can do.” Mr. Grimm gives me a half-smile, and it looks so much like Baz, down to the tiny dimple that forms close to the corner of his mouth. How did it take me until now to realize how much he and Baz look alike? Minus the pepper-gray hair, obviously. 

“I understand you’re heading to Watford today,” he abruptly changes the subject. “Let me drive you.” 

“You don’t need to go through the trouble.” I reach into my pocket and fish out the bus schedule I’d printed off at Agatha’s the night before. “I usually get myself there.” 

“Please. I insist. After all you went through at the end of last term, you deserve to arrive to your final year at Watford with a bit of,” Mr. Grimm rolls his hand, “class.” 

So that’s where Baz gets it from. 

I convince Mr. Grimm to drop me off at the bottom of the hill where the gate to Watford is. One of the Mage’s Men is definitely guarding the gate (though against what, I can’t say, now that the Humdrum is gone), and I don’t feel like answering questions about why I’ve arrived to school in the car of one of the Old Families. The less drama I have to start this year, the better. 

Premal is standing at the gate, like I predicted. He doesn’t say anything, just flicks his wand and lets the gate swing open. I nod at him when I pass through, and he goes back to his staring contest with the nearby hills. 

There are a few students milling around on the Great Lawn already, mostly the ones who come from Scotland or Wales and needed to make a longer trip. Some of the younger students gawk at me as I pass. I guess the rumors about me have only intensified during the summer, now that the Humdrum is gone. Everyone is wondering what I’m capable of next. What I want to be capable of is having a calm school year. 

The walk up to the tower in Mummers is the same as it’s ever been, yet it feels different. Heavier. Something about knowing this is the last time I’ll ever walk up here at the beginning of a school year makes it feel that much more significant, like I should take my time. But I don’t. I take the stairs two at a time, like I always have, and barely stop long enough to prick my thumb and reintroduce myself to the door.

Aside from the coating of dust on our desks, everything looks exactly the same as the day Baz and I got yanked to Lancashire by the Humdrum. I know I’d left my bed in a proper squirrel’s nest that morning, so either Agatha or someone else remade it. My uniform is folded in a neat stack at the end of my bed, like it has been every year. I pick up the stack and move it to my wardrobe. For the first time, I don’t feel like leaping into my uniform. Agatha had pulled me along for a shopping trip last week, so I have proper non-uniform clothes for the weekends and such. 

I hunt around for Baz’s old Bluetooth speaker before finding it stashed under a stack of blankets in Baz’s wardrobe that smells distinctly like Merlin. Wish I could have brought Merlin back. Dr. Wellbelove promised he would be well taken care of at the house, though. I set the speaker up on my desk, plug in my iPod, and start a playlist before flopping back on my bed, grateful to be back. 

About a half-hour passes before there’s a knock at my door. I sit up to open it, only for the door to swing open. The Mage is standing there in his full Robin Hood kit. 

“Simon,” he says, like he’s surprised to see me. The door clicks shut behind him as he steps inside. “You’re here already.” 

“Thought I would come early. Wanted to be here for the Welcome Picnic.” That’s not until tomorrow, and not a complete lie: the only Welcome Picnic I’ve properly been to was my own back in first year.

“I’m afraid there’s no time for that. We have to go.” 

“Go?” I swing my legs over the side of the bed. “What are you talking about? I just got here.”

“I know that, but there’s no time to explain.” 

“I’m not going anywhere—”

“There is danger nearby, Simon, it’s not safe for you to be here.” 

The playlist rolls over to Joy Division. I want to switch it to something else, but I don’t want to break eye contact with the Mage. I watch him closely as I stand up from the bed and move toward the window. 

“There’s nothing around that can hurt me anymore. The Humdrum is gone,” I remind him. “Anything that attacks the school is something I can handle.” 

“It’s not that simple.” The Mage pinches the bridge of his nose. Clearly he expected me to be a lot more compliant, ready to go along at a moment’s notice. Well, fuck that.  

“Really is, though.” 

He draws his hand down over his chin like he’s stroking his mustache, like he’s done so many times before. “I don’t understand—”

“Sir, I don’t understand. You tell me there’s danger—” I glance out the window on the off chance that there’s some creature descending on the Great Lawn. All I see are students and teachers clustered together, catching up on conversation. Nothing there. 

“I’ll explain in the car, but we really need to go, Simon.” 

I narrow my eyes at him. “I already told you, I’m not going anywhere. I’m not comfortable leaving until I know exactly what’s going on. I need to tell people what’s happening.” The last time I left Watford was not by my own choice. Surely he understands why I’d need to let someone else know, right? 

“Your friends will be informed, I promise. Penelope is aware. Her parents are taking measures to keep her safe. The same is true for Agatha and Mr. Pitch.” 

Blood pounds in my ears. He’s lying. If Penny was being kept away from school for any reason, she would have told me. The last I heard from her was this morning when she texted me: If Dad packs the car any more slowly, I’ll go mental. And Baz and Agatha are at that baby shower that’s probably wrapping up about now (Merlin, I hope it is, five hours is excessive). Does he honestly think I don’t talk to anyone? Does he think this is like when I was shoved away in the care homes and I didn’t have a mobile, and I had no contact with the magical world? How stupid does he think I am?

“Safe from what?” I press him. “The Humdrum is dead.” 

“Trust me, I will explain it all, but first we have to go. There’s no time.” 

I check out the window again. Still nothing. I slowly raise my right hand to my hip.

“Simon, I hate to do this, but you don’t have a choice. This is an order. Grab your things, we’re leaving.” 

“No,” I snarl. And in my head, I think as loudly and clearly as possible: In justice. In courage. In defense of the weak. In the face of the mighty. Through magic and wisdom and good. The hilt of the Sword of Mages appears in my fist, just like always. The one spell I can always count on. 

“What are you doing? Put that away.” The Mage’s voice is sharp, his eyes narrowed. 

“No. I refuse to get dragged somewhere without my permission ever again.”

“You’re being childish. Put that sword away. I don’t want to hurt you, Simon, I’m trying to keep you safe.” 

Liar. Liar. Liar.

“Why did you have a dead baby dragon in your house?” I blurt. Maybe I can talk my way out of this if I catch him off guard. “Why did you make me drink its blood?”

The Mage freezes. Right on cue, the playlist clicks over. Hey, ho! Let’s go! Hey, ho! Let’s go! Christ, I hate this fucking song. It’s like the Ramones had a challenge to write the most grating, most cliché piece of shit to soundtrack the most annoying mobile commercial ever. 

“So. You helped Mr. Pitch break into my house.” The Mage draws himself up to full height, almost as tall as Baz. “I had hoped you weren’t involved in that.” 

How does he know Baz was involved? We cleaned everything up!

“I’m extremely disappointed in you, Simon. After everything we’ve been through. Everything we’ve ever worked for. I never thought you would turn on me like this. But I suppose that’s the nature of youth. Unappreciative. Fighting against those who love us.” 

“You don’t love me.” I wrap my fingers tighter around the hilt. “You used me.” 

“Are those your true feelings? Or are those the feelings of Mr. Pitch?” 

“Keep his name out of this! Why kill the baby dragon?” 

He doesn’t answer my question, instead going off about how I was the Chosen One and nothing was done right, because I chose not to trust him and work with Baz. I tune him out, because I’ve heard it all before, and the fucking Ramones keep banging on, and I swear I will start steaming out my ears if this goes on any longer. 

“If you had just let me fix you—”

“I’m not broken!” I scream. 

“Open sesame!” 

The door bangs open. Without thinking, I yank my wand out of my back pocket. The Mage whirls around. Penny and Baz are in the doorway, glaring daggers. The Mage draws his wand as they shove their way into the room.

“Stop in the name of love!” Baz shouts. 

The Mage freezes again, but only for a moment. “Have a nice trip!” he snarls as soon as he breaks through the spell, and Baz drops to the floor, smacking his head on his desk chair. “This is your only warning, Mr. Pitch. It is against Coven law to attack the Mage. It is against Watford rules to attack a teacher.” 

“It’s also against the law to conspire to commit murder, and to hire hitmen to do it.” Baz hauls himself off the floor and up onto his elbows. Blood drips from around the back of his neck onto the white collar of his shirt. “Pretty sure it’s also against Watford rules to depose the headmistress without cause. And generally illegal to send numpties to attack two students. What would the Coven say to that?”

I take in how disheveled Baz looks, the fine gray dust covering his shoulders and arms. There’s a scabbed-over gash on his forehead that’s fresh. What the fuck? Did he get attacked at the baby shower? By numpties, of all things? 

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” the Mage breathes. He’s gone totally pale. 

“Oh, I think he does,” I say. I hoist the Sword of Mages up to striking height. 

“You’ve gotten sloppy.” Baz flashes the tips of his fangs, though not like when he grinned at me this morning. “There are three numpties in Hampshire who failed to kidnap me and Agatha Wellbelove. There’s a vampire who knows what you did to my mother. Not very good at cleaning up after yourself, are you?” 

The Mage turns to me, desperate. “Simon, please. Mr. Pitch is the kind of boy who wants to see everything burn. You’re not like that. I know you. Come with me, and we can—”

“He’s not going anywhere,” Penny declares. She’s got her fist and ring pointed directly at the Mage. I’m not sure if she plans to slug him or cast a spell. Probably both. “Give it up. We know it all. We know everything.”

“I’ve been in your house,” Baz says, pushing back up off of the floor and standing tall. “I know what’s buried in your garden.” 

The Mage whips around to face Baz. All the color drains from his face. I know Baz meant the baby dragon, but that shouldn’t be shocking. The way the Mage is acting, it’s almost like there’s something else in the garden. Something we definitely shouldn’t know about, but that he’s definitely panicking about. 

“Make way for the king!” he screams, and he darts for the door. Penny casts “The lady’s not for turning!”, only for the Mage to shove her out of the way into the desk with a rude spell. He goes tearing down the stairs. 

“Baz!” I shout. I don’t know why I’m shouting when he’s less than ten feet away from me and he’s likely concussed. “Are you okay?” I run over to both of them. Something crunches under my feet, but I don’t pause to see what it is. “Penny, are you—”

“We have to follow him.” Baz leans down, grabs Penny’s hand, and pulls her up. 

“He doesn’t matter. Let him g—”

Baz turns and looks right at me. I flash right back to Lancashire, when blood was oozing out of our pores and neither of us had any clue what to do next, only that we had to do something. He’s terrified out of his mind and so utterly determined all at once. 

“I can’t just let him go.” His voice is barely there, but I can hear the fight left in him. 

I nod. “I’m coming with you.” 

That’s all Baz needs to hear before he tears down the stairs after the Mage. Penny barrels after him, and I bring up the rear, closing the door to our room as if that even matters now. We race down in spirals toward the Great Lawn. One of the other teachers has started the bonfire for the Crucible, and even more students have arrived. Brilliant. We have a proper audience. 

“You left a loose end!” Baz yells. I don’t think he’s walking so much as gliding across the grass toward the bonfire. With his ripped expensive suit and his bloodied face, he’s a whole scene. “Who’s the woman, Davy? The woman in the photo? What did you do with the child?” 

I have no idea what he’s on about. But it makes the Mage stop, fists flexing at his sides.

“Tell them what you did!” 

The next thing I know, a streak of white light blazes toward Baz and catches him in the side. He stumbles, but doesn’t fall. I rush to him. 

“Get away from him, Simon. That boy is dangerous. A monster!”

“At least I’m not a murderer like you,” Baz snarls. “Tell them. Tell them what you did to my mother. What you did to the woman in the photograph.” 

“What woman?” I stare hard at the Mage, who’s refusing to meet my eyes. “What photograph is Baz talking about?” 

“Tell him, Davy.” 

“This isn’t the time!” The Mage shakes his head. “He’s fed you lies—”

“I want the truth!” I point my wand at him. “I want the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth!” 

Penny screams from behind me, but it’s too late. I didn’t even mean to cast that, only say it, yet the magic came out anyway. Compulsion spells are a major violation of a magician’s free will. They warn us about this in our first year so we don’t end up in front of the Coven for use of illegal magic. I think I’m a bit past the point of being worried about a stuffy inquiry now. 

“Lucy understood,” the Mage bites out. His face contorts with the effort of throwing off the spell, but that’s the thing about compulsions: you have to ride out the effects as long as the magic remains. “She always understood. You were the Greatest Mage, the Chosen One. Lucy knew how important you would be.” He falls to his knees. “You were going to save us all. With all your power…and you did. But you were broken, and I—I want to fix you, son. Please, just—”

“No!” I yell. 

“Tell them what you did to my mother,” Baz commands. He’s brilliant, so fucking brilliant, to use this opportunity to get the answer he’s wanted his whole life. I feel like crawling into the deepest hole and never coming out, but I want to hear the answer, too. 

“I…I didn’t mean to kill her,” the Mage confesses. 

Everyone around us starts screaming. 

“She was just meant to be Turned!” he continues, as if it makes any difference now. As if knowing this will soften the blow of learning that one headmaster of Watford killed another. “I wanted her to know what it was like! To be knocked off that high pedestal of hers and out to the fringe of accepted magical society. To know how it felt to have every last privilege stripped, and become the lowest of the low! I didn’t know she would…”

He doesn’t need to finish. We know how it ends.  

“Give it up, Davy,” Baz says. A tongue of flame floats over into his palm as if silently beckoned. “Everyone knows. Give yourself up.” 

“Have a nice trip!” the Mage casts. I jump in front of Baz and call out “Can’t touch this!” An invisible shield springs up in front of us, deflecting the Mage’s spell, but we both still get knocked back. What remains of my magic is tensed like a muscle ready to cramp. One more shot and we could be cooked. 

“What’s going on here?” 

Everyone seems to turn en masse toward the bonfire, or rather who’s standing on the other side of it. I recognize the knobbly staff in her hand, then the blond hair tucked under her toque. Ebb. Holy shit, am I glad to see her. 

The Mage glares. “Stay out of this, Petty. Either help me or go home.” 

“’Fraid I can’t do that, sir,” Ebb replies, leaning on her staff. In the light of the bonfire, she looks exhausted, the bags under her eyes heavy. But the leaning is a ploy—there’s a hidden power to her stance that I don’t think the Mage is picking up on. 

“Mr. Pitch is using illegal magic! He’s spreading lies!”

“You’re the liar,” I say, just loud enough for the people nearby to hear me. “You used me. And you won’t hurt Baz.”

The Mage twitches, gazes around him. For the first time, it seems like he’s registering that he’s physically surrounded by both students and staff that have never seen him like this before. They’ve only ever known the Mage as their headmaster, not a screaming, desperate man. I don’t think he cares much about appearances now, though. 

Baz creeps out from behind me, wand raised. 

“Your mother was an elitist and a tyrant,” the Mage says, “but she faced her death head on, boy. Don’t stop me now!” 

“Momma said knock you out!” 

“Helter skelter!” 

“STOP IT!” I shout. The Sword of Mages appears in my right hand again just as a bolt of purple light shoots over my shoulder. Penny is still behind us, and she’s firing off one spell after another at the Mage, but nothing is landing. That Queen spell must have made him at least slightly impervious. Damn him. 

“Call off your dog, Simon!” 

“You’ll have to kill me first, Davy!” 

There’s a shuffling in the crowd. One of the teachers—Hollow?—shoves his way forward. So does Niall, but Dev yanks him back. And then—

“Dead as a doornail!” 

Not every spell has a physical component. Usually the magician has to push all their intent into the spell for something to appear, and doing that over and over drains magic. The glowing red arrow streaking right toward Baz’s chest tells me everything: the Mage took his invitation seriously. He cast to kill. 

I lunge forward, sword in hand. I don’t think I’ll manage to deflect it completely, but if I die, it’ll be my own choice. 

“Hey! Teacher! Leave them kids alone!” 

I look up to a shining blue dome circling around Baz and me. Ebb has her staff pointed right at us. The red arrow rebounds, catches the Mage in the chest. He sails limply through the air, carried by the arrow, right toward the moat. 

The last I see of him is one damp sleeve and pale hand sliding through the grass as the merwolves snarl and yank him down into the water. 

School is canceled, at least for now. Even if anyone wanted to go to class, I don’t think any learning or teaching would get done, anyway. 

I remember Ebb lowering her staff and rushing over to us as soon as her magical shield dropped. I remember a swarm of faces: students, teachers, other adults I probably should have recognized but didn’t. I remember being bundled off into someone’s car and being driven away at top speed, as if that could erase anything I’d just seen. 

The Mage is dead. Baz nearly died, but didn’t. Ebb saved us. This is what I keep repeating to myself. Just the facts, because if I think any more about any of it, I don’t think I could climb back out of my own thoughts.  

A week passes. I’m in the Wellbeloves’ living room on their stiff white leather couch, Dr. Wellbelove sitting next to me with a hand on my back. Mr. Grimm is sitting in front of us both. He keeps crossing and uncrossing his legs, unsure of what to do with himself. 

“The Coven is conducting an inquiry,” Mr. Grimm announces. “Not only about the concerns you brought to my attention before you left for school, Mr. Snow, but about every bit of investigation you, my son, and your friends may have conducted regarding David Llewellyn. The Coven also wants information concerning your final confrontation with the Humdrum.” 

I nod. It’s the only thing I can bring myself to do. 

“While I have no reason to believe any charges of criminality will be brought against you or anyone else, this information is vital for entry in formal records.” Mr. Grimm folds and unfolds his hands. “I understand some of this will be difficult to discuss. It may take several days to go through everything, and I want to be sure you’re prepared.” 

“I don’t think I’ll ever really be ready,” I say. “But I want it written down somewhere. All of it. People need to know.” 

“That’s the spirit, lad,” Dr. Wellbelove chimes in softly. His hand rubs across my upper back. I almost want to tell him to knock it off, but I know he’s doing it to be kind. I can use all the kindness I can get right now. 

“Am I—do I need to testify alone?” 

“No,” Dr. Wellbelove and Mr. Grimm say at the same time. They share a look, and then Mr. Grimm goes on. 

“Some Coven members expressed interest in obtaining individual testimony from you and Basilton. However, in the interest of your welfare, and in the interest of not dragging this on for longer than strictly necessary, Dr. Wellbelove and I shut down that proposal immediately.”

“No sense in splitting the two of you up,” Dr. Wellbelove adds. “Not when you’ve been through so much together.” 

It’s the nicest thing anyone has done for me in ages, and people have been doing nothing but nice things for me lately. The lump in my throat that showed up when I talked to Mr. Grimm right before this all happened swells up again. I almost want to cry, but I keep it together. That’s where all my energy goes lately: keeping it together so I don’t completely fall apart. 

The inquiry, in my opinion, takes too fucking long. 

The Coven asks us about more than the confrontation between us and the Mage, so we tell them more. Baz meeting Nicodemus at Christmas. All the fucked-up things the Mage made me do back in the spring to supposedly fix me. Everything we uncovered at the cottage in Machynlleth: the baby dragon, the books. The photograph that Baz and the Mage kept yelling about on the Great Lawn, which finally gets presented. All the Coven members get to see it first, passing it down their long bench. When Penny’s mum picks it up, all the color drains out of her face. 

“Let the record show that the photograph now entered as and for evidence, dated June 1997, depicts Lucy Salisbury at an unknown location. The Coven may recall that Ms. Salisbury was reported to the Coven as missing in May 1995 by her mother, Ruth. At that time, there was contradictory testimony provided as to her whereabouts…” 

They finally bring the photograph down in front of Baz and me. Lucy has a big gap-toothed smile, and her striped rugby shirt is stretched tight over her pregnant belly. I recognize the chicken coop and fence behind her immediately. Machynlleth. 

So this is my mum. Lucy Salisbury. I finally have a name for her. But it doesn’t make her any less dead. 

I don’t speak much for the rest of the inquiry. Baz takes the lead in describing what happened when we faced the Humdrum: the magic sharing, how we ended up in Lancashire, what the Humdrum really looked like, how I apologized to him right before it all blew sky-high. For some reason, the Coven insists on asking us about this over the course of three days, as if the story will somehow become more believable and less incredible. By the end of it, Baz is tired of repeating himself, and I’m tired of being expected to chime in. 

At some point in there, the Mage’s will is read out. I end up inheriting everything he ever owned, so I become the Mage’s Heir for real now. Twenty thousand pounds goes to Watford. I tell Mr. Grimm to handle selling the property in Machynlleth and anything inside. Same with the small house the Mage maintained in the village of Watford. 

That’s what pisses me off the most. If the Mage had wanted to, really wanted to, I could have lived with him at the literal doorstep of magic every summer. Instead I got shuffled from care home to care home so he could have the convenience of knowing where I was, but not the inconvenience of dealing with me. Baz was right all those years ago: the Mage never cared a fucking bit about me as a person. 

I try giving away absolutely every last pence, but Mr. Grimm won’t have it. He insists that I keep some of the money, even if it was likely taken through the taxes the Mage imposed on the Old Families. “You don’t have to keep much,” he says, “but you can’t be a pauper, either. I won’t let that happen, not after everything you’ve gone through.” 

I keep two thousand pounds and promise to open a bank account, just to keep him happy. 

One night, after a very long day in front of the Coven, I snap my wand in half. Apparently, magical instruments can’t be repaired, so to do this is absolutely unheard of. Baz and Penny look ready to burst into tears when they see the two halves of cedar in my hands. I wish I could bring myself to care as much as they do. My wand was never mine, anyway. Like everything else in my life, it was meted out to me by the Mage. Now that he’s gone, I want nothing to do with him. And right now, I want nothing to do with magic. 

Agatha ends up snapping her wand, too, that same night. 

The world can’t stop forever. 

Penny’s mum is named the interim headmistress at Watford. She announces classes will resume the first week of October, with any decision about extending fall term to make up for the lost days in September to be determined later. 

I can’t bring myself to go back. A big part of me knows I should. Despite being the one to bring me there, the Mage was not my whole experience at Watford. I have plenty of other memories there, too, and I could take the chance to write my own ending to my magical education. But in a way, I feel like I would have to start all over again in first year. Maybe without the ever-burning furnace of magic in my chest, I’d be able to cast properly. My elocution might still be shit, but I could get the words out without worrying about exploding. 

But I’m not ready. 

Penny decides to opt out of eighth year, too. I’m sure she had a row with her mum about it, though she doesn’t say anything. She claims she can teach herself pretty much anything we would have learned in class, but I also know she wants to be close by to keep an eye on me. I don’t feel much like arguing about her decision. 

After she snapped her wand, Agatha couldn’t really go back to Watford, anyway, but it doesn’t seem to bother her that much. Right after the inquiry, she announces that she’s going to California for uni, and gushes to me about it later. 

“It’s sunny all the time there, Simon. Can you imagine?” she tells me one night after we’ve gone to bed. (I’m still staying with the Wellbeloves, mostly because Penny’s house is so crowded that one more person living there might make it burst). “Sometimes I think people here forget what sunshine is like.” 

“Would be nice to be somewhere warm,” I add. 

“Obviously! I hate bundling up in jumpers ten months out of the year.” She reaches out toward my cot. “You’ll visit me, won’t you? I know you’ve never been on a plane before. I promise it’s not as miserable as it sounds.” 

I reach out and grab her hand in the dark. “Of course. It’ll be brilliant.” 

So Baz is the only one of us going back to school. I know he’s disappointed, but I don’t want to base my decision on whether to go only on him. Besides, he needs to properly focus on his studies, and if I’m around, he’ll spend more time obsessing over how I’m doing than anything else, and he knows that. 

The night before he leaves, we sit together in the Wellbeloves’ garden, watching the stars come out into view. I show him the new gift Dr. Wellbelove gave me just that morning.

“Finally,” Baz says when I pull the new iPhone out of my hoodie pocket. “About fucking time.” 

“I know there’s a ban on electronics at Watford, but maybe—” 

“Do you honestly think that’s going to be enforced anymore? That was one of—” he cuts himself off before he can say the Mage, “a number of nonsensical policies implemented in the name of ‘not corrupting students’ language skills’. But it was really all about control.” 

“That really is what he was all about, wasn’t he?” 

Baz looks me over for a long moment. “Sadly, yes.” 

“We’re free now, though.” 

“Most importantly, you are. Now hand it over, I’ll put my number in for you.” 

A minute later, I have a new contact in my phone that says ALADDIN SANE with a lightning bolt emoji next to it. I change it to BITE ME, and then just to BAZ with a red heart. While I’m faffing around with my contacts, a text comes through. 

You’ll have to learn how to text now, too. 

It takes me about three minutes to reply: At least I’ll get good practice with you.

I make it about three weeks before I break and decide to visit Baz. Penny calls her mum and gets the go-ahead, because visitors aren’t really allowed at Watford except for special weekends. I get the feeling, though, that I’d be allowed to do pretty much anything I wanted even without asking. 

I’ve got my rucksack ready for the weekend and am almost out the door when the front doorbell rings. No one else seems running to answer it, so I do, and I find a short, plump blond woman in a lavender tracksuit (one of the soft ones) waiting on the other side. 

“Can I help you?” I ask. 

“Yes. You’re just who I wanted to see,” the woman beams. “May I come in?” 

I peek at my phone screen to see the time. 9:43. No way I’m making the ten o’clock train to Watford now. “Uh, sure, yeah,” I say, waving her in. 

We sit in the living room, and I make sure not to sit on the sofa. Merlin, that thing is fucking uncomfortable. Why you would buy furniture you can’t sit on is beyond me. 

“Do you remember me from the funeral?” she asks me. 

She means the funeral we had for the Mage, if you could even call it one. Turns out he didn’t have any family to claim him, so his body was laid on a pyre and burned with magical flame. Nobody spoke as we watched his remains crumble and smolder into ash. The pile that was left was whisked into the Wavering Wood by the teachers at Watford. Simple as that. 

“No. Sorry,” I answer. 

“That’s quite all right. You’ve been through a lot in a very short amount of time. Grief has a way of toying with our memories,” the woman shrugs. “My name is Ruth. Lady Ruth Salisbury.” 

I blink hard at her. “Are you—”

“Lucy was my daughter. So that makes me your grandmother.” 

I study Ruth and think about the photograph I kept from the inquiry. Same eyes. Same ruddy cheeks that would push up if she smiled. Same broad shoulders and large hands. 

“You have an uncle, too. Oliver. I tried to get him to accompany me today, but he hung back. Said he didn’t want to overwhelm you with everything.” 

“I…” I shake my head. “I have a family?” 

“Of course you do, love. And I am so sorry we were kept apart all these years.” Ruth’s eyes start welling up. “David…well, normally, I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but I will make an exception now. David was always an outsized presence in Lucy’s life, and when they graduated Watford, he consumed her. Much as he tried to do with you. But luckily, and thankfully, you made it out.” 

I can’t think of a response, so I nod. 

“The Salisbury clan isn’t very large these days, but there are others. They’d love to meet you given the opportunity.”

“This is…a lot,” I manage to say. 

“It would be a lot for anyone.” Ruth gives me a small smile, and she looks exactly like the photograph I have upstairs. “There must be a lot of people after you these days, asking for things, wondering what it is you plan on doing. As if saving the world wasn’t enough doing for a lifetime.” Her smile twitches. “All I wanted you to know is that we’re around, whenever you’re ready.” 

“I, uh—thanks,” I say. “Means a lot, truly. I mean, I’m around, too, but…you know.” 

“Take your time. That’s what matters.” 

Ruth leaves shortly after that, without my asking. I make a mad dash for the train station and finally pull out my phone once I’ve settled onto the seat. Baz has rung me seven times and sent me a string of increasingly panicked texts, and Penny sent me a calm please call Baz, he’s very worried text, too. I decide to wait until we’ve met up in person before explaining anything to Baz, though I send a text to Penny: tell Baz relax, I’m almost there. 

“You’re late,” Baz informs me in a shirty tone. 

“Sorry. Something weird happened.” 

I should have been more specific, because Baz immediately turns into a concerned mother hen. He hustles me into the same pub where we met up with his dad and aunt what feels like ages ago, sets me in a booth, and doesn’t break eye contact until he summons the bartender to place an order. After a minute or two, he comes back with an enormous basket of chips covered in cheese, as well as two ales with generous heads of foam. I take a sip from my ale and dump vinegar on the chips, even though I know that will piss Baz off. Likes salt and vinegar crisps, but can’t stand vinegar on chips. Madman.

“D’you know Lady Salisbury?” I ask him. He pauses with a chip halfway to his mouth, then slowly nods at me. I recount everything she said while he watches me with solemn interest. 

“So…do you want to talk to her? More, I mean,” Baz says when I’m done. He swallows down the chip he’s been holding. 

I sigh until it feels like all the air has pushed out of me. The song playing on the staticky speakers above us beats on: Love, love, love…insanity laughs under pressure, we're breaking... Queen and Bowie. They have a song for every feeling, don’t they? 

“I’m not ready,” I admit. “Feels like I’m not ready for a lot of things lately, and everyone wants me to either be something or do something. Your dad wants me on the Coven—” 

“My father is a twat, don’t listen to him.”

“Dr. Wellbelove thinks I should go to uni. Mrs. Bunce wants me to reconsider going back to Watford. Lady Ruth wants a grandson. The Mage wanted me to be fucking everything, and I…” I wrap my hands around my pint of ale. “I can’t be everything.” 

“You don’t have to be.” Baz gets up and slides into the same side of the booth I’m in, touching the back of my hand with his. “You’re Simon Snow. You get to decide whatever that means or doesn’t mean from here on out. If that means you want to be a layabout, or a swashbuckler with your ridiculous sword, or some punk in a denim jacket, then that’s who you are. And don’t let me or anyone else tell you otherwise.” 

“’M not a swashbuckler,” I mumble into my ale. “I always hated that outfit the Mage wore. Robin Hood lookin’ bastard.” 

Baz snorts into his own pint, which makes me laugh too. Christ, it hurts to laugh after so long of not laughing. 

“What do you want?” he asks me quietly after we recover. “What do you want to do?” 

I think about it. “Right now, I want to devour this basket of chips, because they’re shit once the cheese gets cold.” 

“All right. And then?” 

“And then I want to go back to our room, at the top of a tower, with you.” 

A little pink creeps into Baz’s cheeks. “After that?” 

“We’ll figure it out from there. A little bit at a time.” 

Baz smiles, and I jam six chips smothered in cheese in my mouth at once. 

Most of my weeks are spent hanging about with Agatha while she pores over uni applications and sighs wistfully at photos of the Pacific Ocean (I don’t want to tell her it looks exactly like the Atlantic, only maybe a greener kind of blue). Sometimes I banter with her horse, Rosemary, and clean up her stable. Other days I catch a bus to Hounslow and hang around with Penny. Mr. Bunce is more than happy to let me into his study, and he has me work on updating maps of the holes in the magical atmosphere. He’s delighted by how much progress has been made in their closure in only a few months. 

Going to Watford becomes a weekly routine. Catch a train sometime on Friday afternoon and spend as many hours as possible lingering with Baz until I either have to call for a taxi or someone else to come pick me up on Sunday night. We make a point of seeing Ebb every weekend, and one time she has us help mend part of the fence before the first snowstorm. Most of the time, though, we’re in our room, wrapped up in each other. 

And then, all at once, it’s Christmas. 

I spend Christmas Eve with the Wellbeloves, but as soon as the sun is up on Christmas morning, Agatha insists we crash the Bunces’ celebration. She looks for any excuse to avoid her parents these days, so it’s less about wanting to see Penny and more about getting away. I text Pen to let her know we’re on our way, and we’re in the Land Rover on the way to Hounslow before Mrs. Wellbelove can protest. 

Penny throws open the door before we make it up the front walk and darts out to hug me. She’s wearing a jumper wound all over with gold garland, the most festive thing I’ve ever seen her wear. “Happy Christmas, Simon,” she whispers in my ear. “Thank Morgana you’re here. If I have to play one more game of Cluedo without reinforcement, I may go berserk.” Then she turns and throws her arms around Agatha, making her squirm. 

“Oh, do we hug now? Is this what we do?” Agatha mutters.

“Yes, because it’s Christmas,” Penny says matter-of-factly, letting Agatha go. 

Every time I come to the Bunces’, I’m amazed by how much stuff is packed inside. It’s a bit like the TARDIS; I think Penny once said her parents used some unauthorized charms to expand the whole house when they were expecting Priya. The usual things are stacked everywhere—books, coats, old mail, some of Mr. Bunce’s papers—but now there’s explosions of red and green topping all of it. Absolutely brilliant. 

“There’s mistletoe!” Penny’s youngest sibling (Pip, I think?) shrieks, pointing to the ceiling. Agatha and I look up at the cluster of white berries. Definitely mistletoe. 

“They’re not dating anymore, Pip, you know that,” Penny says.

“But I’m so tired of watching Mum and Dad kiss,” Pip pouts. “I want to see other people kiss!” 

“Kissing is gross,” Pacey chimes in from around the corner. 

“Is not!” 

“Is too!” 

“Take it somewhere else!” Penny snaps. Pacey and Pip scuttle off, leaving Agatha and I to take off our boots in peace. “Hopefully you weren’t looking for a quiet Christmas. You definitely won’t get that here.” 

“My house is a tomb,” Agatha moans. “We had to get out of there.” 

“Only because your mum won’t stop staring at you,” I say. 

“I needed a change!” Agatha yanks her pink hat off and shakes out her new, much shorter and shaggier haircut. Her mum hates it. Keeps making comments about how she had such lovely hair before. “Is that so wrong?” 

I shrug off my coat. “Obviously it is, according to your mum.” 

“She probably thinks you’re a bad influence.” Agatha reaches over and flicks a silver ball in one of my newer piercings. Between that and just coming in from the cold, that fucking hurts. “Starting a hardware collection in your ears there.” 

“Trixie said she’d figured out a better way to do—”

“Come on, Simon.” Penny tugs on the sleeve of my new jumper (made from goat hair—Ebb collects it off the fences and knits it, who knew?). “I need stimulating conversation with someone my own age soon, or my brain may start leaking out my ears.” 

We end up in the living room, where Premal is sprawled out on one of the couches, lying motionless while Pip empties confetti from a Christmas cracker all over his face. I sit on the floor cross-legged next to Penny, where she immediately passes me a heavy square gift wrapped in brown paper. 

“Pen, fuck, I didn’t know we were—”

“Hush. You gave everyone in the World of Mages a major present six months ago. Let the rest of us try to return the favor,” she says, pressing the gift into my hands. 

I tear open the brown paper. “Greatest Hits. Greatest Hits II. And…” I fan out the stack of CDs. “Is this all of Queen’s albums?” 

“All of their studio albums,” Penny corrects. “I tried finding a copy of The Complete Works, but you would not believe the prices people want online—”

“Pen, stop. This is perfect,” I say. Because it well and truly is. I’ve never had any music I could call my own. Every song I’ve ever liked has been secondhand from Baz. But now I have something I can call my own. I lean over and hug Penny tightly with my free arm. “Seriously, thank you.”

“Happy Christmas, Simon,” she beams at me.

“Yes, happy Christmas, Simon,” Penny’s mum says, materializing behind us. She’s wearing a hideous holiday jumper to rival Penny’s, and I think she has waffle batter in her hair. “We weren’t expecting you, but the more, the merrier.”

“I’m also here,” Agatha waves her hand.

“Agatha! I didn’t recognize you with shorter hair! It suits you.” There’s a loud clanging in the kitchen, and Penny’s mum whirls around and dashes off again to see what’s happened.

“At least someone appreciates my taste.”

Penny ends up giving Agatha a stationery set in various shades of pink, a not-so-subtle hint that Agatha needs to write to us when she’s moved to California. A text just isn’t the same, Penny insists, and Agatha argues that a text is still writing, just much faster than the post. They start bickering a bit, but there’s no heat behind it.

Soon we’re summoned to the dining room, where the table has been magically extended to fit everyone. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many stacks of waffles in my life, or so many toppings to pile on. Penny’s siblings make an absolute scene, screaming and tugging bowls of berries and sprinkles away from each other. It’s the most fun I’ve ever had at a Christmas meal.

My mobile buzzes in my pocket, and I duck my head down to look. Baz has sent a photo of a roaring fireplace with three kids flopped down on the rug, fast asleep among piles of presents. Holly jolly indeed, the text says. I smile and tuck my mobile away. There’ll be plenty of time to talk later.

At some point, music starts playing out of the speakers in the living room – I think Premal must have started it up. I recognize the song off of one of Baz’s old playlists. Now we’re there, and we’ve only just begun. This will be our year. Took a long time to come.

I can’t help but agree.

Chapter Text

The text from Penny wakes me up. Two simple words: Bowie’s dead.

It takes a few minutes for it to sink in. I’d reserved a vinyl copy of Blackstar for Baz’s birthday present last week, because he’s actually trying to stay on top of his studies and probably wasn’t keeping that close of an eye on the news. He doesn’t own any albums after Never Let Me Down, anyway. Figured it would be a nice surprise. Now it feels like poor form. 

I text her back: Meet me at Watford. Catch the train. Bring tea. Then I roust Agatha and tell her we need to go shopping. Baltic as fuck outside, but we bundle up anyway and head out. 

Two hours later, the three of us are marching up the hill to Watford, arms loaded with tea boxes, salt-and-vinegar Walkers, and whiskey. No one is guarding the front gate this time, so we push right in, snow sweeping all around us. We get some confused looks on our procession up the stairs of Mummers, but no comments. 

Baz’s eyes are a bit misty when he opens the door of our room. He flinches at the cold air we brought with us, then raises his eyebrow, taking us all in. 

“Thought you might want some company,” I mumble. My lips are freezing numb, but I hazard a smile anyway. The grateful look on Baz’s face could thaw anyone out. 

Dev and Niall show up a few minutes later, arms also loaded with snacks. It becomes very obvious that all of us can’t fit comfortably in here with all this food, so Penny suggests the nursery in the Weeping Tower. I wince at the thought—my last memory of the nursery is not a good one—but I shrug and accept it. Probably the most private space we’ll get on the grounds. So we make our way over there, with me carrying the turntable shoved up under my jacket so the snow and wind can’t get to it.

We set up and sit down. Penny pulls Hunky Dory out of the stack of records and starts it up. The opening piano vamp of “Changes” kicks in, and I relax a bit into Baz’s side. 

“Weird as fuck,” Dev says with a shake of his head. “Wrote some catchy shit, though.” 

“If I had to really focus on magic, I thought of “Space Oddity”,” I confess. Feels really weird to say it out loud, but it’s true. While I couldn’t pretend to strike a match in your heart or draw up from a well or whatever, music was real. I could think my way through a song, and so I could push my way through a spell. Not the most conventional way to do it, but so what? 

“Have you seen what people have been saying about him, though?” Agatha whispers. “Apparently, he has sexual assault allegations against him from the ‘70s.” 

“What?” I turn to Baz. “Did you know about that?” 

Baz swallows. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d heard something about that.” 

“Fuck.” I lean back on my hands and stare up at the stars and rabbits painted on the ceiling. “Is no one—why is no one who you thought they were? Does everyone you love have to do something fucking hideous? That makes it so you can’t…” I lose my words and trail off. They’re accusations, sure. But the last time I ignored accusations against someone I admired, I nearly died, and so did Baz. 

“You can love people who do bad things,” Baz says quietly, and I roll my head toward him. “You can’t force your heart into being logical. When someone finds a spot in your heart, it’s not weak to be unable to cut them out.” 

He knows I wasn’t talking about Bowie. I know he isn’t talking about him, either. Everyone else is stock still, knowing exactly who we’re talking about. 

With not a lot to do at the Wellbeloves’ house during the winter, I spend way too much time in my own head. Sometimes I think I should write it all down, but seeing all my thoughts laid out in black and white, where anyone could stumble across them, makes me shiver. Nobody needs to know my thoughts. Especially not when I keep thinking about whether I should hate the Mage. 

Do you ever consciously decide to hate someone, or is it a slow walk down the stairs? 

“Hear, hear,” Niall cuts in. He sloshes a bit of whiskey-tea down his sleeve when he raises his teacup. “Hard to be objective about dead people, honestly. My gran, God bless her, might have had a problem with the drink. Doesn’t mean I still don’t love and miss her.” 

“I think my mum might have been species-ist,” Baz replies. 

Niall, in the middle of a sip, snorts some liquid up his nose and starts coughing. Dev ignores him and raises his own cup. 

“To Natasha Grimm-Pitch and Moira Kelly. May we honor both their names and questionable decisions,” he toasts. 

Everyone raises their teacups, including me. I think Baz and I were the only ones who passed when the whiskey bottle went round the circle of us. 

“To David Bowie: the complicated, courageous, crazy fuck who made me gay,” Baz says with a smile. 

“And to David Llewellyn.” 

I whip my head around to Penny, who blinks at me before putting a hand on my knee. 

“He was an awful person,” she continues, “and a terrible teacher. I will hate him until the day I die, and longer than that if I can manage it. But he did do one good thing. He gave us Simon.” 

Everyone toasts to that. Shit, I think I’m gonna cry. This was supposed to be Baz’s day for crying, not mine. 

“No more of this album bullshit,” Dev announces. “I’m taking over and taking requests.” 

“Put on “Rebel Rebel”,” I say. Sitting up suddenly feels like too much of a chore, so I set my tea aside and plop my head in Baz’s lap. He obliges and immediately winds his fingers into my hair. “I’ve always thought it was a Baz song.” 

“As you wish, mate.” Dev finds Diamond Dogs and squints at the vinyl uncertainly before placing the needle right at the end of the reprise of “Sweet Thing”. Then the guitar starts in, and I close my eyes, quietly singing along. 

You’ve got your mother in a whirl

She’s not sure if you’re a boy or a girl

Everyone else is singing along, even Agatha, who claims not to like Bowie very much. This is one of his more irresistible tracks. 

You like me and I like it all

We like dancing and we look divine

I don’t have to choose right now whether I hate or love the Mage. I think if I make a hard decision on my feelings, it gives whatever remains of him, ghost or otherwise, some kind of satisfaction. And he doesn’t deserve that. I deserve to move on, though. That would be the worst thing I could possibly do, in his opinion: push aside every expectation he ever had for me, and go on my own path. And I’ve got a lifetime to figure that out. 

Bowie is ramping up into the chorus. Niall sounds properly smashed right now by how much he’s slurring the lyrics, and Dev doesn’t sound too far behind. I grin and look up at Baz.

“Hot tramp, I love you so,” I sing up to him.

He flicks me in the ear and doesn’t hide his grin. 

“Should I go to uni?” 

“That feels like a question you need to answer for yourself,” Penny says from where she’s perched on her bed. Normally, I’d be sitting up there with her, but all of her uni documents are scattered around and I don’t want to move any of them. Don’t want Merlin messing any of those up, either – he loves shredded paper, and he’ll make his own if none is available. 

“You’re going.” 

“Yes, but I’ve known that I was going to uni since I was six,” Penny replies. “I don’t really remember deciding I was going, only that I knew that was next.”

Merlin is squirming around in my hoodie pocket, so I pull him out and set him on my stomach. He nibbles on my finger before nosing his way up to my face to sniff out what I had for lunch. I like bringing him over to the Bunces’ house. When the staff enchanted the polecats, I think they imbued them with the knowledge of Watford’s student roster. But with Penny dating Micah, an American, Merlin has no name he can squeak out when he looks at her. When he’s here, I can almost believe he’s a regular, non-magical polecat. 

“I’ve never really thought that far ahead, though,” I tell Penny. “The Humdrum’s old news by now, I know, but even right after that…I never thought the Mage would let me go to uni. I didn’t know what would come next. I figured I would be dragged around by him until…” I shrug. 

Penny leans over the edge of her bed. She re-dyed her hair to violet, and it clashes perfectly with her red-framed glasses. 

“You never made plans because you never thought you’d be able to act on them,” she says with a frown. 

I nod up at her. I thought this was obvious; it’s not like the Mage ever sat me down and walked me through how to write a personal statement. I don’t think he even knew how to get onto a university’s website. 

“I fucking hate David Llewellyn,” she sighs. 

“I know.” 

“Right then. You can’t wait around for the future, Simon. You have to make it.” Penny beckons at me. “Come up, let’s go.” 

“But you’ve got papers—”

“Please, I got done with my applications before Christmas. I was just exploring other options. Now come on. If you want to start classes in the fall, you don’t have a lot of time left.” A pile of papers goes flying off of her bed, along with a rather heavy welcome brochure that clunks when the spine hits the floor. “We’ll start with City, University of London.” 

I collect Merlin and get up next to Penny on her bed. “Is that where you want to go?” 

“It’s just one place I applied. As you were!” Penny says, pointing her wand at her laptop screen. Some tabs shuffle around in her browser, and the blinding white homepage of City, University of London pops up in front of us. 

“You could have just clicked on that,” I mutter. Merlin growls in agreement. 

“I could have,” Penny admits. “But it doesn’t have the same flair.” 

“Since when do you care about flair?” I ask, but she’s already navigating to the admissions policy page with flicks of her wand. A document pops up, and she begins to pore through it. 

“Looks like you’ll have to get a certified transcript from Watford – Mum can help you with that. She could also write a letter explaining the state of last year’s marks—”

“I don’t know the state of last year’s marks,” I groan. “I didn’t even sit my exams.” 

“Seeing as how you were busy with defeating the greatest threat known to the World of Mages, I think you can be forgiven.” 

“But this school is run by Normals, Penny! Your mum can’t put that in a letter.” 

Penny turns and blinks at me slowly, like a cat.  

“Simon. Magicians have been making the transition from a total-magic education to functioning right under the noses of Normals for hundreds of years now. Thousands, if you consider some of the earliest known magical settlements.” She puts a hand on my shoulder. “If you want this, we can make it happen. If you don’t, that’s okay, too. Whatever you want.” 

I let out a breath. “That’s the thing, though. I don’t know what I want. But…if I sit around forever wondering about it, I’ll never get anything I want. Better to be wrong than do nothing.” 

“That’s the idea,” Penny smiles at me. She wraps an arm around me, and I lean into her hug. “We’ll still get a flat together for autumn, don’t worry.” 

I open my mouth to ask how that’s going to work, but I stop myself. Figuring things out as I go has worked out fairly well for me all these years – what’s different now? One step at a time, not miles ahead. 

I stare at Penny’s laptop screen while she scrolls through City’s dizzying number of degree programs, trying to pick out my next move.

“Don’t jump in too fast, now. She knows what to do.” 

I watch with a mix of disgust and awe as a giant bubble, along with a pair of tiny hooves and a snout, emerges from the back end of the nanny goat I’m kneeling behind. She’s standing there chewing on hay as though nothing miraculous is happening. Ebb is just as casual, leaning on her staff and watching the way other people might watch a football game they’re not too invested in. I’ve got a towel spread over my lap, and my hands are trembling with wanting to help. 

The nanny closes one of her eyes and flutters her wings. More of the bubble pushes out, along with a full pair of forelegs. Another push, and another, and another. Then, all at once, a very slippery kid tumbles headfirst onto the pen floor with a soft thump. 

“Ah, there’s a good show!” Ebb beams. She nudges me. “Go make sure the little one is breathing. Remember what I taught ya.” 

I scoot forward on my knees and scoop up the kid, who’s immediately tried standing up but can’t quite manage it with all the gunk. I towel them off with gentle rubs, then find a long piece of hay to poke up their nostrils. The kid twitches and shakes their head their whole time, but I feel their belly heaving with their first breaths of outside air. Then they blink at me and wriggle out of the towel over to their mum, who’s still chewing the same bit of hay she was during the whole delivery. 

“Nicely done, Simon. No need to make them spic-and-span: the mums take care of the rest, and you’ll never get the kids clean to their standards anyway.” 

“Their third eye isn’t open,” I say, pointing at the kid, who’s nosing their way to the nanny’s udder. 

“Give it a week. Sometimes that won’t pop open for a month yet. Their wings will stay folded up, too,” Ebb explains, “until they’re about three months old. Good thing, because usually I’m knackered from the birthing and need a break. Could you imagine chasing newborn flying goats everywhere?” She laughs, long and hard. I can’t help but laugh along with her.

“Now we can take a walk,” she says after wiping her eyes with her tattered sleeve. “Usually she’ll take a bit to recover before pushing out the placenta. Might be that she’ll have the other kid while we’re out, and that’s fine, too. Go wash your hands.” She gestures to a bucket of water by the barn door. “Wind’s up. Don’t want to chap your skin.” 

I get up and go to wash my hands, grateful to get the muck off. After all the years of being sent all over the place, getting covered in mud and seaweed, blood and woad, I’ve gotten tired of being too dirty for too long. Once I’m done, Ebb and I step out into the yard. She latches the barn doors to keep any curious billy goats from wandering in and bothering the other does waiting to give birth. 

“’m glad you’re here to help this year, Simon,” she says as we walk down the hill into the yard proper. “After Samhain, the herd really got to work. Think this is the most pregnant does I’ve had since before Natasha died.” 

“Why do you think that is?” I ask. 

Ebb pauses to pick up a kid that had been gnawing at her trouser leg and puts it over her shoulders. “The goats can detect instability,” she answers quietly. “Instability within Watford. Within the World of Mages. They didn’t like it when Davy was in charge. The Humdrum didn’t help, neither. All the atmospheric holes made them tetchy.” 

“So with him gone, they feel safe.” 

“They feel like they can properly protect the school now.” Ebb shakes her head. “Davy never respected magical creatures unless he could get something out of them, and only if that something was obvious. He let me keep the herd out of a sense of tradition. And also because it would look funny if Watford had a three-eyed flying goat as its mascot but had none on the grounds.”

“I never thanked you, by the way,” I say. 

“For what? The Christmas jumper? You sent me a lovely card, I’ve got it on my fridge.”

“Not that. For what you did to stop the Mage.” 

Her shoulders tense up for a moment, making the kid draped around her neck look around with concern. Her fingers flex around her staff. 

“I did what anyone should have done a long time ago.”

“You didn’t have to—”

“Someone had to!” I’ve never heard Ebb raise her voice like this. “You didn’t see, because you and Basilton were fighting for your lives, but do you know what I saw when I walked up that hill, after Mr. Grimm and Mr. Kelly came and got me? Every teacher in that school standing around, frozen in terror, unwilling to intervene on your behalf. I could see you and Basilton were ready to collapse! Anyone could see that! But none of them stepped in.” 

“I…” I’m struggling to find my words. I didn’t know Ebb could shout. She’s never been a shouty person. “You could have died.” 

“That’s a price I would have gladly paid.” Ebb’s eyes are watery, but the ferocity shines through. “No one should have gone through what you had to endure for seven years, Simon. You were a child. To expect you to stand up to an adult, especially one as powerful as Davy, is madness. And I was no better!” She lets out a hollow laugh. “Here I am, on the grounds of Watford itself, pretending I’m removed from everything. All those years, I could see how you were struggling under all you had to carry on your shoulders. Took you nearly getting offed before I got directly involved.” 

She sighs. The kid on her shoulders spreads their wings and flutters down to the ground. “I didn’t stand up for Nico when I had the chance. I knew I had to stand up for you.” 

“Ebb.” I reach out for her hand. She reaches back and takes it with a squeeze. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t help you sooner.” 

“No, Ebb, seriously.” I squeeze her hand back. “You’re the last person who has to apologize to me for anything.”

She sniffles.

“I could have come to you for help any time, but I didn’t. I mean, I didn’t know you were that powerful.” I wince. “Sorry, that came out wrong. What I mean is—”

“The muddy goatherd doesn’t look like she can cast her way out of a Greggs bag,” Ebb finishes. 

I shrug in response, making our hands come apart. 

“It’s understandable. A bit by design, really. Natasha knew about my skills. She saw my marks. Knew I could cast without speaking if I wanted. Only a few magicians every generation have that ability. The funny thing about power, though, is everyone’s got an idea of what it looks like. So you can convince people you either have it or don’t, and then surprise them. Natasha knew that well. The Pitches have turned out their share of duds over the centuries, just like any other magical family. Only difference is they learned the art of appearances, so people let them do anything.” Ebb gives me a small smile. “I did the same thing in the opposite direction.” 

“But why?” 

It’s Ebb’s turn to shrug. “I didn’t want to be a warrior. A lot of people think that power has to be shown off by fighting, but that isn’t true. There are other ways it can come out.” She waves a hand around her. “Caring for a goat herd, for instance. Caring’s the best power we’ve got, Simon. Not everyone thinks to use it.” 

I can’t think of any response. Instead, I look down at the kid that’s now tugging on my trouser leg. Might be the same one that was bugging Ebb before. Kind of hard to tell them apart when they’re so little.

“That’s what being punk is, by the way.” 

I snap my head up. “What?” 

“Fiona and Nico thought they were punks. Listened to all the music, wore all the clothes. Doesn’t mean much if you don’t act the right way to back it up, though. Caring and looking out for people, in the face of a world that won’t look out for anyone and often cares the least? That’s what being punk is.” Ebb winks. “Just thought I’d mention that.”

The kid is yanking hard on my trousers. I bend down to pick her up, only for her to skitter away, bleating. I feel like I’m being laughed at. 

“Come on.” Ebb taps her staff against the soft ground. “We’ve got a bit more time to walk before we head back.”

We walk together through the herd of goats, not saying much else. 

Dev is having a crisis, and he’s making it mine and Baz’s problem. 

“I just think it’s weird, that’s all. I don’t like it,” he says for the third time. Baz looks over his bowed head at me, eyebrows furrowed. He’s about five seconds away from telling his cousin to shove off and leave us in peace. As much as I want some alone time with Baz (I really, really do), it doesn’t feel right to kick Dev out when he’s clearly dealing with something. 

“It’s not Niall’s fault you didn’t get into Oxford,” Baz points out. 

Dev scowls at him. “Thanks for the reminder.” 

“Wait, so are you pissed that Niall is going to Oxford without you?” I ask. This has been confusing me for the last twenty minutes. Posh kids act like they’ve won the fucking lotto if they make it into Oxford. 

“No! I mean, yes. Maybe?” Dev sighs and rakes his fingers through his already disheveled hair that looks like Robert Smith chewed on a power cord. “Honestly, I’m thrilled. Only like three mages a year get into Circe College. And if he wants to study fucking demonic possession, there’s no better place to go.” 

“So what’s the problem?” Baz snaps. At the same time, I crunch into another salt-and-vinegar crisp. Wasn’t really keen on them before, but they’ve grown on me.  

“The problem is I thought Niall and I would always be together!” 

I raise my eyebrow at Baz, who squints back at me. We’ve been going back and forth about this since our trip to Machynlleth. Baz insists that Niall is gagging for Dev, and I argue it’s Dev that has it bad for Niall. Aside from what music to play next, it’s the only argument we really have these days. Sometimes I think Baz brings it up just to get me steamed. He likes it when I get steamed. 

We should have taken bets on this. I could have won. 

Baz informs his cousin that Circe College is an hour away by train, and that it’ll probably take just as long, if not longer, for him to get from the London School of Economics over to the flat I’m getting with Penny. Dev isn’t having a bar of it.

“We’ve shared a room for eight years!” Dev protests. The acceptance letter he brought with him gets lobbed out the open window and falls down into the moat. At least there aren’t any merwolves to be annoyed by that ball of paper. “Now I’ll have to, like, make plans if I want to see him.” 

Baz says something in French that sounds rude. “You could try, you know, talking to other people. Making friends. Get a girlfriend. Ask yourself whether you really need a giant Irishman looming over you every hour of the day.” 

Dev hugs his knees and mumbles something into his thighs. 

“Beg your pardon?” 

“I said I don’t want friends.” Dev lifts his head. “Don’t want a girlfriend. I’ve got friends, anyway. And Niall is the only person…he’s the only one I want to be around. He gets me. I’ve found my person. Why do I need more?” 

I nearly drop the bag of crisps on the floor. Merlin and Morgana, I was right. I was so fucking right. 

“You should tell him,” I say. 

“What?” Dev and Baz say at once.

“You should tell him how you feel.” 

Dev bites his lip, and his cheeks darken. “I don’t think that’ll go over well.” 

“When the hell did you realize you were gay?” Baz demands. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“Because I’m not! Gay, I mean. It’s…ugh.” Another bout of raking his hair. “I don’t think of most people like…that. Romantically. Niall is, like, the only person I want to be around. I could be okay with him. And he’s so bloody nice, he’ll go along even when he doesn’t totally get it. Right?” 

“Oh, now you have to tell him,” Baz says. “Truly. I will disown you as my cousin if you’re a coward about this.” 

“But I can’t just walk up and tell him! He has Craig Stainton!” 

“Actually, I don’t think him and Craig Stainton have had each other for a while now,” I chime in. “Craig’s also a bit of a prick, isn’t he?” 

Dev grins at me. “Truer words have never been spoken, Snow.” Then he slumps. “Still, Niall probably thinks of me as a brother, though.” 

“I promise he does not,” Baz assures him. 

“Then how do I go about telling him? You and Snow only got together because something tried to kill you. How did you and Niall get together?”

“I fucking knew it!” I yell. Dev startles and falls over into Baz’s lap. 

“We were never together,” Baz says simply. He looks ready to shit himself. 

“Not what Niall said.” 

“We had a very short teenage fling, which we both acknowledged was a means of soothing ourselves while we were both depressed and besotted with other people. Does that satisfy you?” 

“No,” Dev and I say at once. 

Baz rolls his eyes. “Just open your mouth and say ‘I’ll miss you’. Think you can manage that?”

“I cannot just fucking say that.” Dev reaches up to the ceiling in exasperation. “I am not a fountain of emotional bullshit.” 

I jam a wad of crisps in my mouth. “Then do something nice for him,” I suggest. “Like, something with music.” 

“But he likes awful music,” Dev moans. “Do you know I really, truly hate “Mr. Brightside”? It’s such a shitty song, and he plays it all the goddamn—” He stops and sits up, looking around the room. “Baz? What was that spell you used in first year? The one Fiona taught you?” 

I gulp down the crisps, concerned about where this is going. I’m especially concerned about the sharp grin on Baz’s face when he’s been so dour this entire conversation. 

“Devlin,” he says, still grinning. “I believe this might be the smartest idea you’ve ever had.” 

My theory is, if I keep pounding down scones, I won’t completely lose my shit and spoil the plan to Niall, even though there are only ten minutes left to tea and Dev was supposed to start by now. For his part, Niall isn’t really paying attention: he has his nose stuck in a book titled Purposeful Possession: Nightmare or Fantasy? Baz is leaning on one fist and stirring a spoon around in his tea despite the sugar definitely dissolving long ago. We’re both waiting for the needle to drop. 

And then, it does.

“Do you hear music?” Niall says after a couple seconds. 

“What?” I say with a mouthful of scone. 

“Someone is playing music in the courtyard.” 

“Now why would someone be doing that?” Baz says coyly, sipping from his tea. 

“…is that The Killers?” Niall asks. He snaps his book shut and drops it on the table. “I’ve got to check this out.” 

He gets up and heads toward the doors of the Great Hall. Baz and I give him a small head start before following. Niall isn’t the only one who’s noticed: everyone who was done with tea and was just lounging around has piled out into the foyer. At the front of the crowd, I see Niall’s red head bobbing toward the main doors before throwing it open. The wall of sound is crushing. 

“And I just can’t look, it’s killing me! And taking control…” one of the gargoyles sings. 

“Jealousy! Turning saints into the sea!” the whole chorus of six gargoyles starts in. 

“No fucking way,” I breathe, stepping out into the courtyard with Baz. Niall is turning in a circle, taking in the chorus of six giant gargoyles belting out the verse of “Mr. Brightside”. Some students are still utterly confused, while others start singing along and dancing. For them, and for everyone, it’s the perfect end-of-term distraction. 

Then something clicks in my brain. The gargoyles sung like this once before, in our first year. And I’m reasonably sure I know who did it.

Before I ask Baz, I join in on the chorus. The line “But it’s just the price I pay! Destiny is calling me!” has always been a favorite of mine, even though now it hits a little close to home. Weird how living makes music change its meaning. 

I slide in and hook my chin over Baz’s shoulder, hugging him from behind. “That was you with the gargoyles first year, wasn’t it?” 

Baz grins. “You should have known. I literally told you it was going to happen.” 

“You did, didn’t you?” I squeeze him around his waist. “You know…first year was awful. It was so much all at once. I learned I had magic, loads of it, and I couldn’t fucking do anything with it. I could barely get a full sentence out to you, remember?” Baz nods. “Then the gargoyles happened. And I remembered that I really love magic. Despite everything. I’d forgotten how much I love it.” 

“I love you.” 

I hold still for a moment. This feels like it should be a bigger deal. We’ve been saying I love you to each other for months now, just not in so many words, because we’re both pigheaded and probably wanted to see which of us would crack first. Not that it really matters who said it first. All that matters is we keep saying it, and meaning it, and never stop.

“I know. I love you,” I respond. He leans back a little, and I press the side of my head to his. 

Niall turns and yells something at Baz. Baz shakes his head and points to the other end of the courtyard, where Dev is standing against the wall, broody and uncertain with his hands jammed in his pockets. 

The song ends, and Dev waits until the crowd of students calms down a bit before he calls out Niall’s name. 

“Wait, does he have a plan?” I ask Baz. Less than an hour ago, we were up in our room coaching Dev through his crisis. Did he think about anything past the song? 

“I don’t think so.” 

“Yikes.” 

“Niall, I…” Dev shifts his hands around his pockets, looking ready to crawl out of his own skin. “I’m sorry we’re not going to Oxford together. And I’m sorry I’m such a grumpy prick all the time. And I’m sorry my music taste is shit. But most of all, I’m sorry I haven’t told you before now that you’re my best friend.” 

“I dunno about this, it’s not very confessional so far,” I whisper. 

“He’s working up to it, hush.” Baz reaches behind him to pinch me in the side, making me jump.  

“In the fourth year, you…you told me I saved you. But you got it wrong. It’s the other way round.” Dev finally exhales and stands up to full height. “Niall Kelly, you’re the only person in my life who makes any sense, and you’re my person, and I’m completely mad for you.” 

A collective gasp bubbles up in the crowd, something I only thought happened in movies. Someone screams – I have no idea who. Before Niall can say anything, Dev grins and raises his wand. 

“Anyway, here’s Wonderwall.” 

The gargoyles start humming the opening of the song. Now, Dev and Niall are the ones who are statues, staring at each other with expectation and terror. Nobody is singing along, because everyone is waiting to see what happens next. Then, Dev hunches, Niall sprints, and all at once they’re wrapped up in a kiss. 

“I don’t believe that anybody feels the way I do, about you now,” the gargoyles croon. I mean, really, talk about perfect timing. 

“Well, that turned out properly fucking romantic,” I say. The crowd transitions from wolf-whistling and cheering to singing along with Oasis.

“Us Grimms are sentimental bastards.” Baz turns around in my arms and kisses the tip of my nose. “You should know that by now.” 

“Maybe I need a reminder.” 

Baz rolls his eyes and leans into my lips. 

“What do you mean I have to get a suit?” 

“Everyone wears suits to the Leavers’ Ball, mate,” Niall answers from the other end of the video call.

The top of Dev’s head pops into frame. “You’ve got to look classy for once in your life, Snow.” 

“Piss off.” 

“We’ve convinced Baz to wear a gray tie!” Niall cries. “Do you know how hard that was? Do you know how much that man loves floral print?” 

“He wasn’t going to wear a floral suit and a floral tie,” Dev points out. 

“Mixing different sizes of print is very fashionable today, Dev.” 

“Do I have to go get measured or what?” I snap. 

“Wellbelove has all the details,” Dev says. “It was her idea, actually. I think she likes dressing you up—OW!”

“You’ll look great, Simon,” Niall grins, pretending he didn’t just smack his boyfriend behind the head. “Just go with it.” 

“Jesus Christ.” I hang up the call and am about to text Agatha that she’s a complete traitor when the doorbell rings. I’ve never heard a doorbell chime as long or grand as the one that the Wellbeloves have. Maybe Baz’s house sounds like Dracula’s pipe organ. 

The postwoman hands me an envelope and a box as long as my forearm, then thrusts a clipboard and pen at me. I scribble out a signature and hand it back to her before staring at my delivery. The return address on both things is for an address I don’t recognize. I head back upstairs to Agatha’s room and sit down on the bed before opening up the envelope. Inside is thick stationery paper, like the kind my university acceptance letter came on. 

Simon, 

I know my mum came to visit you recently. I would have come along, but I know what it’s like to be overwhelmed and have everyone want to offer their kindness and advice, when all you want to do is be left alone. You’ve gone through a lot lately, not that you need me to point that out. Besides, I’m better at expressing myself in writing than out loud. 

This is my way of saying: welcome to the family. 

It’s not every day I learn I have a nephew, just like it’s not every day you learn you have an uncle. I wish we could have gotten to know each other sooner, but as it is, we’ve got the chance now. When you’re ready, and only when you’re ready, I would love to meet you in person. You can come by the house, so you have an escape route if it all gets to be too much. 

You may not know this, but I’m a dud. No magic in me whatsoever. It happens every so often in every magical family, and I’ve made my peace with it after nearly forty years. Still, Mum gave me a wand, back when she believed I was simply a late bloomer and would eventually be able to cast. Now I’m sending it to you. 

My eyes dart over to the long cardboard box. I grab it and tear through the packing tape. Inside is a smaller case made of deep red wood that looks older than anything I’ve ever owned. I open the lid, and inside, on the velvet, is a wand about six inches long from tip to the top of the handle, made of some light, pale wood that’s gained scrapes and scuffs with age. The handle is about four inches long and is textured like a tree trunk. 

I set the box with the wand aside and go back to the letter. 

As you might know, magical artifacts and instruments work best when passed along in a family. There’s this belief that it’s because you end up “carving out unique channels” with every spell or some such, but I think it’s more that you care about the thing you’re holding because it came from love. And when you care about what you’re holding, your magic will come through that much stronger. A lot of good and great magicians throughout history have been stymied because they’ve had the wrong instruments. Maybe this one will work better than anything David Llewellyn ever gave you. 

I would say I cannot wait to meet you, but that would be putting you under pressure. So for now, I will say: I will wait to meet you, eagerly. 

Yours truly,

Oliver Salisbury

I look back over at the wand lying there in its case. He doesn’t even know me. He probably heard that I’d snapped my old wand after the Coven inquiry was over (Mrs. Wellbelove gossiped to someone for sure), and he feels bad. No magician should go without their instrument, even if they’ve sworn off of magic. 

And yet…

I pick up the wand and roll it around in my palm. It feels as light as it looks, nowhere near as heavy as the one the Mage gave me. That one always felt cumbersome, too long and too much. Maybe he thought that I needed a wand as big as my power. But maybe, just like every cast-off shirt or pair of shoes I’d had in my life up to the age of eleven, it was the wrong fit. 

I take a deep breath and raise the wand. “Let there be light!” 

My magic rises from somewhere in my belly, glides up my arm, and out of the wand tip. Every light in Agatha’s bedroom turns on, including the little porcelain unicorn on her vanity that she rarely uses. It all happens so smoothly, without straining to keep the magical flow contained or to bring it up at all. A clean, electric connection from intent to action. 

Holy shit. 

I point the wand at Agatha’s clock radio. “Turn it up!” 

The radio crackles and comes to life, playing through a Sainsbury commercial. I’ve never been so excited to hear a Sainsbury commercial before. My magic buzzes in the palm of my wand hand, ready for whatever I choose to cast next. This must be what Baz feels like when he’s holding fire: full of potential, ready for anything. It’s how I was supposed to feel when I first started at Watford all those years ago. 

“As you were,” I whisper. The radio clicks off, and so do the lights. I’ve never, ever been able to do that spell properly. Kinda funny to be the Chosen One, destined to fix the world, and not be able to cast a spell that could put the dishes away. Now that I don’t have that obligation, I can set things right. 

My mobile starts ringing in my pocket. It’s Agatha, calling from out by the barn, wondering how I haven’t appeared in the passenger seat of her hatchback to go suit hunting. I tuck my wand (I have a proper wand now, one I can actually call mine!) into my back pocket and go out to meet her. 

Niall whistles at me when I walk up to his car the night of the Leavers’ Ball. “Lookin’ good for once, Snow!” 

Dev scowls at me before turning a jealous glare at Niall. I shake my head and duck into the backseat. No matter how many times I swing my arms around, this suit jacket still feels like my shoulders are going to burst out of it. Agatha swears the slim fit is on purpose and promises it’s very fashionable, but I’ve never cared about being fashionable. Baz does, though, which I suppose is the point. It’s about surprising him, after all. 

We set off on our way to Watford, Niall merging onto the M25 and promptly coming to a stop in traffic. After about three minutes, he turns around to me. 

“Wanna listen to the ceremony?” he asks. 

I blink. “We can do that?”

“No, c’mon, nobody wants to listen to that shit,” Dev protests. 

“Not your call, mate. Your boyfriend isn’t speaking.” Niall cocks his head toward the radio. “Well? Yes or no?” 

“Yeah, why not?” I’d read a draft of Baz’s speech a couple weeks ago, back when he asked me not to come to the ceremony. Said I would be too big of a distraction, but I think it was mostly to spare me from feeling obligated to show up. He’s good like that. 

Niall whips around again to lurch his car forward in traffic. When everything’s stopped again, he points his wand at the radio, says “Invisible airwaves crackle with life! Fine-tooth comb: Watford.”, and twiddles the tuning dial until a very familiar voice comes through the speakers. 

“--honor to speak before you all today.” Baz clears his throat. “When my mother graduated from Watford, she was also top of her class, so she also made a speech like I am today.” 

“Preening a bit, isn’t he?” Dev mutters. 

“She made a list of her favorite things about this place. About magic, and all the wonder that comes with it. I’ve been fortunate enough to see some of the greatest wonder magic can offer first-hand.” He must mean me. I’m not physically at the ceremony, but he brought me there anyway with his words. “So I thought I’d talk about all of my favorite things about Watford, and about magic, and about family. Because if I’ve learned one thing while I’m here, it’s this: you’re born into a family, and then you get the chance to find the rest of it. When we all leave here, the people we take with us in our hearts and memories, our chosen family, will outlive any other magic lessons we learned. No offense to the faculty, of course.” 

Laughter breaks out in the White Chapel - I can hear it echo a bit off the walls. When it dies down, Baz launches into his list. He talks about all of his classes, because he is a proper magical scholar and all that. He talks about our teachers, and what he learned from each of them. He talks about a magical boy falling from the sky, which makes both Dev and Niall look back at me, and the singing gargoyles. Even though this would have been the perfect opportunity to trash the Mage, with a captive audience and everything, Baz doesn’t do it. Probably because he doesn’t think the Mage is worth anyone’s time or words anymore, and I have to agree. 

“Finally,” Baz says a few minutes later, “my favorite thing about Watford is this.” 

“If he says it’s Snow, I’m going to piss,” Dev moans.

“Not on my car floor, you’re not,” Niall snaps. 

“My favorite thing Watford gave me is love. A deep, abiding love for everything magic. A love for the people who have magic, which is all of us in some way or another. And a love for everything magic can do. Sometimes magic can save the world. But I think love is what actually saves us all. Thank you.” 

Applause bursts through the car speakers, sending Niall diving for the volume knob. Dev starts muttering against the window about Baz being a sentimental git. And I really, truly feel like I’m about to burst out of my suit now, but in the best possible way. 

It takes another eternity to get to Watford, or at least it feels that way. By the time we arrive, the Leavers’ Ball is in full swing. Dev and Niall hustle me in quickly so my appearance doesn’t cause a minor riot, and as soon as they deposit me with a very surprised Baz, they disappear.

Baz looks stunning in his suit, but then, he looks stunning in everything. When he draws me in close to dance, I realize that his jacket is textured: little velour flowers rising out of the black fabric. So this is what Dev and Niall meant by a floral suit. It’s still perfectly punk. 

I recognize the song playing off of one of Baz’s playlists: “Into My Arms” by Nick Cave. He puts it on when he’s feeling extremely soft. We sway in a slow circle in time to the music. 

“Meant to get you a graduation present,” I tell him when he presses his face to my neck. “Got a bit distracted, though. What do you want?” 

“Just this,” he answers, and I can feel him smile. “Truly. You being here is enough.”

He asks if I’m staying the night. I nod, because I really didn’t think that far ahead, but I also didn’t plan on a ride back to Agatha’s or Penny’s. I still don’t plan much; I keep working on instinct. As we keep dancing, my mind drifts back to last summer, in Machynlleth. Almost an entire year has gone by since then, and so much has changed. 

Baz can sense I’m thinking too hard, though, so he pulls me out of it by pulling away from my neck and facing me. “What do you want, Simon?” 

I tell him I’m thinking about Wales, and I can see sadness shift into his eyes. Shit, that was the wrong thing to say. He’s thinking that I’m sad about being here at the Leavers’ Ball, on a day when, in any other time, I might have been here for the whole ceremony. Properly leaving school with him. But that’s not what I mean at all. 

“I meant when we drove in,” I explain. “The stop at Bron-Yr-Aur. The bed-and-breakfast. I wish…I wish we could go back.” 

“Back to Wales?”

“Back to how we felt that day. After the Humdrum, but before everything else happened.” I don’t think that needs more explanation. “We were so happy and light, or I was, anyway. And I keep trying to get that feeling again. Sometimes I come close, but…sometimes I feel like I need to walk away from this, if I can. Away from everything I have to do.” 

I know I’m talking in circles, because Baz looks more concerned and confused than before. So I tell him about Oliver’s letter, and the wand stowed in the inside pocket of my suit jacket. Baz does his best to keep his face calm, but I can see his excitement bubbling under the surface. Out of everyone, I think he was the most devastated when he saw me snap my old wand. More than magic binds us together, obviously, but it was like I’d walked away from magic the second I didn’t have an instrument of my own. Now that I do…well, the possibilities are endless, aren’t they? 

“You don’t have to do anything,” Baz says. “You know that, right? Your time is your own now.” 

“I still need to talk to them. They’re…” I stop short of calling the Salisburys my family. I mean, they are, but I haven’t stopped long enough to figure out what that means. I did it all backwards from Baz: I was born into nothing, found my friends here at Watford, and then found more family later. How am I supposed to put this together? 

“They’ll wait for you. They’ve waited this long.” 

“I want to see them. I need to. And I want you to come with me when I do.” 

Baz smiles and pulls me in closer for another spin. Nick Cave croons on. “Of course. Just say when.” 

“Tomorrow?” I smile back at him, too, halfway. The first day of the rest of our lives, and I want to send him on another road trip. 

“What if we take our time getting there?”

“What do you mean?”

“We take the long way. The scenic route.” Baz leans in and kisses my forehead. “Maybe stop in a completely different country along the way. And when we’ve had our fun, we go see the Salisburys.” 

“We can do that.” I meant it to come out like a question, but it comes out flat instead. We can do that. No permission needed. 

“Who’s going to stop us?” Baz asks. And he’s right. 

We requisition the MG again. Baz tells me it’s fine: Fiona is spending the night with Professor Hollow, of all people, and she won’t even notice the car’s gone until morning. Obviously, we’ll be gone much longer than twelve hours, but he doesn’t seem to care about inciting Fiona’s wrath, so I don’t either. 

It’s the wee hours of the morning when we pull up to the hunting lodge Baz’s family has just outside Burnhead. He said the lodge was in Scotland, but he failed to mention how far into Scotland it actually is. I can’t bring myself to tease him about the fact that his family has a hunting lodge at all, let alone one that doesn’t get used. I’m just too tired for it. 

We sleep, and sleep, and sleep. It’s a lot like after we beat the Humdrum, only with no one around to interrupt us. We wander into a nearby hamlet when we’re hungry in the afternoon and eat at the pub, and I goad Baz into eating black pudding so he isn’t totally starved for blood (he tops it off later with a few squirrels he catches outside the lodge, just to prove a point). Then we go back, and Baz puts on one of his playlists, and we sleep some more. 

Our days pass slowly, at our own pace. Sometimes we go off to look at nearby castles, and sometimes we walk through the woods. Some days we stay in the lodge, especially if the midges are out (Baz wasn’t kidding, they’re awful), and listen to music. One night, Baz pulls out his violin and plucks thoughtfully at the strings while he tunes it. 

“Didn’t know you still had that thing,” I say. 

“It’s a family heirloom,” Baz answers. “Of course I still have it.” 

“You haven’t played it in a while is all.” I frown. “Didn’t you used to be in orchestra or something, when we first started at Watford? What happened to that?” 

Baz looks up from his violin, his brows furrowed. “I…don’t really know. I suppose I just stopped going to practice one day, and then after a while, I put it out of my mind that I even had to go.”

“You forgot?”

“No, I was distracted.” He fixes me with a pointed stare. “Guess who might have been the cause of that?”

“Oh right, blame me for derailing your future career with the London Symphony.” 

Baz rolls his eyes and picks up his bow. He saws through a few classical songs I don’t recognize, and then he starts with the opening strains of “Heroes”. It’s weird, hearing a song with such a big wall of sound stripped down to a single instrument, but it’s beautiful, too, in a haunting way. 

“Can’t believe Bowie wrote that about an affair,” I mutter. “I always thought it was about imagining you can be better than what you are, and maybe even being better, even if it’s just for one day. That’s what I thought when you put it on after we beat the Humdrum.” 

Baz pauses, bow still hovering over the strings. “I think you can take whatever you want from the song. That’s the beauty of any art: it starts out meaning one thing to whoever made it, and then it means something different to everyone who experiences it. That’s what Bowie would have wanted, I think. He wouldn’t have wanted to tell you how “Heroes” should make you feel.” 

I nod, and let Baz play on. 

A week passes before I bring up Machynlleth. I figured Baz wouldn’t be keen: he’d driven me this far away from our lives, and going back to a place full of bad memories would break our content little bubble here in Scotland. But I feel like I have to go back, for one thing. 

“Your dad hasn’t sold the house yet,” I tell Baz, trying to cushion the blow. Knowing Malcolm, he hasn’t actually tried selling it and is secretly holding it in trust or something to give back to me later. “It’s not like we’d be trespassing.” 

“Hasn’t stopped us before, has it?” Baz says with a grin. I can tell he’s still a bit nervous, though. 

The hole in the magical atmosphere over Machynlleth is almost gone now. I can still feel it pulling slightly at my magic, but all it does is make my stomach flop a bit. Baz casts a spell on the MG so it can crawl through the grass and we can drive right up to the cottage this time around. He’s trying to stay calm, but I can see the tension in his hands clutching the steering wheel and the way he keeps running his tongue over his fangs inside his mouth. 

I don’t know why I expected the cottage to look any different. The Coven did send a group up here to clear out the inside - there was a big meeting where some Old Families were reunited with books and objects that had been confiscated years ago - but they didn’t do anything to the outside. The same quiet stillness remains.

“Where do you think she is?” I ask as we get out of the car. 

“Who?” 

“Lucy. My mum.” 

Baz visibly stiffens. “The Veil won’t thin for a while, Simon. If you’re expecting to see a ghost, she won’t appear.” 

“I know that. I just…I want to know where she’s buried. Say hello.” 

His shoulders relax. “We might be able to find her. No promises, though.” He pulls out his wand and points toward the garden. “The good is oft interred with their bones.”

For a moment, nothing happens. Then, a golden glow emanates from one corner, out from underneath a massive rosebush. Baz and I slowly walk over to the spot, and the glow dims slightly, like someone adjusting a lamp. 

“This must be it,” I whisper. 

Baz says nothing, only tucks his wand away. He clasps his hands in front of him, and his face goes stony. 

“Right. Er.” Should I talk to the dirt? Feels weird talking to the dirt. “Hi, Mum. It’s me, Simon. I…I don’t know if we ever got to meet each other, or if we just kind of passed each other by, but I’m here now. I mean, I was here before, last year, but I didn’t know you were here, you know? So I guess in a way we passed each other by again.” 

I scratch the back of my neck and gaze up at the sky. How are you supposed to do this? 

“Uh. David is dead. Your husband. I know that means he’s supposed to be my dad,” I see Baz flinch out of the corner of my eye, “but for what it’s worth, he was a shit dad. I didn’t even know he was my dad until he died, so then it’s kinda useless to know about it, right?” I turn to Baz. “I’m fucking this up, aren’t I?” 

“There’s no way to fuck it up. There’s no script, love.” 

Right. No script. I pull out my phone, and while I’m scrolling through my music, I keep talking. 

“I saved the world. Baz did, too. Turns out all the power I was given was stolen, but I made it right. Everything’s back in balance. And…” Tears sting the corners of my eyes. “I wish that meant you could be alive. I wish you could come with me to meet my uncle after this, but…” I shake my head and sigh. “Maybe I should let the music talk.” 

Freddie Mercury’s voice is the only one around for miles. It’s a beautiful day! The sun is shining. I feel good. And no one’s gonna stop me now, oh yeah…I love this song, and I think my mum would, too. 

I let the song play out. When it’s done, I reach down and pluck one rose off the bush - pink, and not all the way open - and I tuck it in the top buttonhole of my denim jacket. I take Baz’s hand, and we say goodbye. 

Then we walk back to the car, and toward the rest of our lives.