Baz frowns. He points his wand again. “There’s nothing to see here!”
Nothing happens.
“Sorry,” he says. “I’ve been upset. My magic is … We’ll have Bunce do it.” He’s already walking into the living room. “Penelope—”
Penny and Shepard are leaning against the living room wall, kissing. (I kind of feel like I’ve been cockblocking Penny all these years. As soon as I left her alone, this happened.)
“Spell Simon’s wings away,” Baz says.
She kicks away from the wall. “I thought we weren’t doing that anymore.”
“I changed my mind,” I say. “It’s too hot to hide them.”
Penny fishes her purple gem out of her bra (we need to fix that ring) and holds it out to me. “There’s nothing to see here!”
Nothing happens.
Penny frowns. “Did you already try, Baz?”
“Yeah, I’m too upset to cast.”
“Is that a thing?” she asks. “Maybe Simon moved to a dead spot.” She points her fist towards the sandwich wrappers. “A place for everything, and everything in its place!” The trash disappears. “Hmmm…” She points at me again. “Now you see it, now you don’t!”
Nothing happens.
Baz shoots his wand into his hand and points at my new sofa. “Tickled pink!” The sofa turns pink.
“Hey…” I say.
Baz points at me. “Clean as a whistle! Did that do anything?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I was already clean. Should I feel dirtier?”
Penny has stepped closer to me. Her fist is still out. “Float like a butterfly!”
My feet stay on the ground. “Hey, you guys, slow down…”
“Roses are red!” Baz shouts.
Then Penny—“Violets are blue!”
Baz—“Cat nap!”
Penny—“Cat got your tongue!”
“For fuck’s sake!” I grab her wrist.
“Simon…” she says. Her glasses have slid down her nose. Her eyes are huge. “I think you might be immune to magic.”
* * *
Penelope makes me sit down. Like I’m experiencing a shock. I suppose I am—what does it even mean to be immune to magic?
She sits down next to me, rubbing her chin and staring at my wings. “It’s got to be that spell he cast on you…”
Baz is pacing. “I’m going to murder Smith-Richards. I’m already going to jail for Philippa’s voice. I may as well add this to my crimes.”
“Smith didn’t know this would happen,” I say. “Oh God—we have to tell him.”
“Fuck Smith,” Baz says. “He shouldn’t be casting spells on people if he doesn’t know how they’ll work!”
“The spell works on magicians! He thought I was one!” I lean back on the sofa and fold my arms over my eyes. “I can’t believe this … I’ll never be able to hide my wings again.”
Penelope pats my leg. “You’re having them removed anyway.”
Baz huffs. “Not helpful, Bunce.”
“You’re right, I’m sorry.” She pulls my arms away from my face. “I’m sure it will wear off, Simon. I’ve never heard of a permanent shield. Even temporary shields are notoriously hard to cast.”
“Do you think that spell would have the same effect on any Normal?” Shepard asks. He’s been sitting quietly at the other end of the sofa, leaving us to it.
Penelope twists around to shout at him. “Oh my words, Shepard, I’m not letting you anywhere near that man!”
“I’m just saying, your mom spelled me unconscious five minutes after she met me … I wouldn’t mind a shield.”
Baz stops pacing in front of me. He looks agitated. “Simon … love, I’m sorry. I know this is serious. But I have to catch Philippa before she leaves. I just…” He shakes his head half a dozen times and hitches the bag higher on his shoulder.
“You’re right.” I stand up. “I’ll get a coat.”
“No—you don’t have to come. Especially not now.”
“Baz, I’m coming. This doesn’t really change anything, even if I am immune to magic or whatever. When was the last time you guys cast a spell on me that wasn’t just to hide my wings?”
“We’re coming, too,” Penelope says. “I’m not letting you fall on your sword for this, Baz.”
Baz looks frustrated. He’s licking his bottom lip. “Neither of you are treating this situation with the gravity it deserves.” He glares at us. “I’ve done something really bad, and you’re just shrugging it off!”
“We’re not shrugging it off,” I say. “We’re coming with you.”
Penelope looks unimpressed. “Do you want us to say that you’re bad? Fine, you’re very bad.”
“That’s not—”
She rolls her eyes. “You did something unconscionable because an adult you trusted said it would matter. Join the fucking club, Basilton.”
“You’re not in this club, Bunce.”
“No, but Simon is, and I was right there cheering him on, casting every spell I could to help.”
Baz holds his bag out. “I was trying to hurt Simon with this thing.” His voice is high and desperate. “Shouldn’t you be angry about this?”
Penny folds her arms. “I don’t believe you wanted to hurt Simon. I’ve never believed that.”
It’s true, she didn’t. Even when I was the one trying to convince her.
“Why not?” Baz demands.
“Because if you wanted to hurt him, you would have! You had infinite opportunities! You’ve never cast a dangerous spell on him, Basil. At the height of the Mage’s war with the Old Families, you were tying Simon’s shoelaces together and getting in shoving matches.”
“I pushed him down the stairs!” he says.
“I always thought that was an accident,” I say softly.
Baz wheels on me. “Are you fucking serious? You never shut up about it!”
I touch his arm. “I’m sorry.”
Baz’s grey eyes are wide and shining. He looks completely miserable. “I tried to take your magic, Snow! Your voice! It was supposed to be you!”
This is the confession I always wanted from him, and now that I have it, I just want to tell him that it doesn’t matter. I lived. I lost my magic anyway. But at least now I have him. I know it wasn’t a direct trade-off, but I still feel like I got the better end of the deal.
I touch his cheek. “I forgive you.”
He just barely shakes his head. “How could you, Snow?”
I push my lips together. I shrug. “I just do…” I stroke his cheek. “Do you forgive me? For everything?”
He stares down at me, his mouth twisted to one side. “Yeah. I do.”
We just look at each other for a minute.
“It was an accident,” he says quietly, “when I pushed you down the stairs.”
“I know,” I say. “I always kind of figured.”
“You fucking menace,” he whispers. “You literally never shut up about it.”
I rub my thumb along his cheekbone. “Let’s go help Philippa,” I say. “Yeah?”
Baz nods. He looks smaller than he did a minute ago. “Yeah.”
65
AGATHA
It’s a Saturday, so the clinic is only open for the morning. I haven’t seen Niamh, and Dad’s kept me so busy I haven’t been able to look for her. She said she was going to check on the goats again today. What if the pregnant doe went into labour last night? Niamh didn’t think the goat was that close, but it could have been. Did Niamh leave for Watford without me?
“Is Niamh in today?” I ask the receptionist when I get a chance.
“James Dean?” the receptionist says. “Just showed up. Not sure why. She didn’t have any patients today.”
I walk back towards the exam rooms, poking my head in every open door.
“Agatha?”
I spin around …
Niamh is standing in the hall behind me. Not dressed for the office. She’s wearing jeans cuffed high over br
own work boots, and a green T-shirt that clings to her shoulders and breasts. And … well … and …
She’s cut her hair.
And combed it back.
Like she did at school. When she was Brody. (She’s still Brody…) (Has been all along, I suppose.)
Niamh cut her hair the way I suggested.
Which means …
Well, it means that she knows good advice when she hears it.
Good for her. Good for Niamh. With her whole … face situation. The nose and the, um … chin, like a hatchet. The everything like a hatchet. Sharp. And heavy. I think she blow-dried her hair. Good for her. That’s good. This whole … thing is good for her.
“I’m leaving,” she says. She looks angry—which never means anything useful with Niamh, but it’s honestly still a good look on her.
“You’re…” I already feel ten steps behind this conversation. “What?”
“Are you coming or not?”
“Where?”
“To Watford? To check on the goats?”
“To Watford,” I say, catching up. “To check on the goats.”
Niamh frowns at me.
“Yes—Yes, I’m coming. I told you I wanted to help.”
Niamh frowns even harder. Like she’s really putting her back into it. “Well, I’m leaving now.”
“Then let’s go.”
* * *
My dad needed his Volvo today, so we’re back in Niamh’s stifling Ford Fiesta, with the windows down. We have to shout to be heard over the wind. Well, I’m shouting. Niamh largely ignores me. Are we back to this then, not talking?
We talked last night, plenty—until the pub closed.
Niamh told me about veterinary school. (She likes it.) And living in London. (She doesn’t.) About what she’s learned from my dad, and how she wants to start her own practice, and how she’s going to run for the Coven someday. Niamh has a lot of opinions about how things should be done. And what’s practical.
I have zero opinions like that.
But I liked listening to Niamh’s opinions and telling her when they sounded impossible. (Less often than one might expect.)
I laughed the whole night. At Niamh. And her straight-faced opinions and strange pronouncements. At the way she lets the whole world get under her skin. I never laugh that much.
Niamh never laughs at all, apparently, but I still think she had a good time. She kept sitting there with me, when she could have asked me to take her home. Morgana knows Niamh wouldn’t spend a minute in anyone’s company just to be polite.
We turn off the main road onto the sleepy little lane that leads to Watford, leaving the noise and traffic behind us.
“I was right about your hair,” I say, to break the silence. And also to punish Niamh for the silence, I suppose.
“It’s none of your business,” she replies.
“And yet, you did get the haircut I suggested…”
“I’ve had this haircut before, Agatha.”
“… and I was right about it.”
She pulls her eyebrows down so far that they disappear behind her sunglasses. “Is it important for you to be right?”
“Not usually. But about hair, yes.”
“It’s more practical to wear it this way,” she says.
“And it looks much better.”
She shrugs.
“Hell’s spells,” I say, “you could just say ‘thank you’! ‘Thank you for the compliment and the good advice’!”
Niamh is squinting at the road. A lock of her hair has fallen onto her forehead. It’s intolerable. She’s intolerable. “I thanked the person who cut it,” she says.
* * *
The road outside Watford is lined with cars. Dozens of them. “What’s going on here today?” I ask.
Niamh parks the Fiesta in the grass. “Some sort of ‘Chosen One’ thing,” she says, getting out.
I climb out after her. “What Chosen One?”
“The new Greatest Mage…”
“There’s a new Greatest Mage?”
“Purportedly.” Niamh is getting her gear out of the back of the car. She looks irritated.
“You’re not convinced?”
She slings a bag around her neck. “I’m convinced that most magicians would rather let some mystical saviour solve their problems than do any work.”
“How can there just be a new Chosen One all of a sudden … Do we get to vote on this? We should get to vote on this.”
Niamh harrumphs and swings the hatchback closed. “There’s no voting. It’s prophecy.”
“It’s dogshit,” I say, falling into step beside her.
“I thought you were just now hearing about it.”
“I’ve heard enough about the Chosen One for ten lifetimes. It’s all dogshit.”
When we get to the Watford gates, they’re hanging open. I can’t remember them being open before. They usually swing shut on their own with a heavy clang. We walk through, and I close them behind us.
Niamh is carrying more supplies than usual, just in case the doe is in labour. I try to help, but she shrugs me off.
I’ve been reading about goat birthing online—it would be better if we could get the doe into a barn. Maybe Niamh has a plan. “Have you ever delivered a goat before?”
“No,” she says. “But I’ve delivered a cow. And several dogs. And a gryphon.”
“You did say you wanted variety…”
“I’ve also delivered a baby.”
“What kind of baby?”
“A human baby. A magician.”
“Well,” I say, “aren’t you useful.”
“I’d be more useful if I had wings.”
I frown at her. She’s looking straight ahead.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“It means…” She sighs. “It would be nice to have your—to have Simon here, to help us find the goats again.”
“We don’t need Simon,” I say, striding purposefully ahead of her. “I think the goats are this way.”
“You think?”
“I have a feeling about it.”
“A feeling,” she says.
“You don’t have to follow me, Niamh. You don’t have to listen to any of my suggestions.”
I keep walking.
When I glance over my shoulder, Niamh is a few steps behind me.
66
PENELOPE
The new Chosen One has set up shop in old orphanage, apparently. We’re standing under a sign that says HOME FOR WAIFS.
“Well, that’s dramatic,” I say.
“Wait till you see him,” Baz mutters.
Baz has been hammering on the door with a brass knocker far past the point of politeness. There’s no sign of anyone coming to answer it.
“Maybe everyone’s already left for Watford,” Simon says, trying to look in a window.
Baz drops the knocker in disgust. “Or maybe Philippa went home. Or out for brunch. Or to the moon. She could be anywhere.”
“We could track her,” I say.
Baz lowers an eyebrow. “How? We don’t know her, we don’t have anything that belongs to her…”
“We have her magic.” I fish out my gem.
“Bunce, wait—”
My hand is already over Baz’s duffel. “Find your way home!”
The bag jerks away from his body. “Seven snakes!” he says. “What if you erased the tape?”
“I didn’t erase anything. The spell worked—now follow it.”
His bag bumps against the door.
“She must still be inside…” Simon cups his hands around his mouth and leans against the window. “Philippa!”
“She goes by Pippa now,” Baz says.
“Pippa!” Simon shouts.
Baz’s bag knocks harder against the door. He secures it to his chest with one hand and bangs on the door with the other.
“Honestly. Are you a mage or a mouse?” I hold my gem over the lock. “Open Sesame!”
“Now she’s bre
aking and entering,” Shepard sighs.
“I didn’t break anything,” I say, shouldering Baz out of the way and opening the door. I step inside. “Hello? Is anyone here?”
My voice echoes. The foyer is empty, and it smells old, the kind of old you can never air out. There’s a staircase leading to the next floor. I crane my head to look up.
The rest of them have come in behind me. Shepard moves to my left side and takes my hand. I like that he knows to leave my right free for casting.
“Hello?” Simon calls up the stairs. “Pippa?”
I turn to Baz. “Which way is your bag pulling?”
“I can’t tell.” He’s frowning down at the bag, letting it float away from his chest. “Forward, I think, but also possibly—” His head jerks up, eyes sharp.
The rest of us go still, listening. There are footsteps somewhere deeper in the building. A door creaking.
“Philippa?” Simon says, too soft for anyone but us to hear him.
“Come on,” I say, pushing Baz forward. “Let her magic lead.”
He lets go of the duffel, and it tugs him towards a door at the back of the foyer. Baz opens it, and the rest of us follow him into an abandoned hallway. We hear more footsteps … somewhere. I nudge him to move faster.
“Philippa?” Simon calls, more boldly.
“Hush,” Baz says.
“Why?”
“Because we’re trespassing now. If they wanted to let us in, they would have answered the door.”
“Well, they’ve already heard us.”
“Hush, Snow.”
The duffel bag leads us past closed rooms and empty hallways, up to a wide swinging door. Baz has his wand out. I hold up my gem and push Shepard behind me.
Baz shoves the door open, and we both rush through, ready to cast.
We find ourselves in a big institutional kitchen—long wooden tables, ancient brown wallpaper, tiled floor. The room is empty, but there’s a kettle heating on the stove. Baz lurches forward, the strap of his bag pulling at his neck. He leans over, trying to get his arms around it again.
“Are you okay?” Simon asks.
“I’m fine, Snow.”
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