I thought …
I thought Davy might do it without me. That he might find a way.
I thought that as long I was there, I could keep him from going too far.
And I thought … that Davy wanted a child. Underneath it all, we were talking about a child. He was asking me to have his child. To change our lives.
I wanted that.
“I’m sure,” Davy said. “I’ve compared the ritual and phrases over three sources; the three accounts complete each other, and the divergence is small.”
“Why hasn’t anyone else tried this?” I asked.
“Oh, I think they have,” he said brightly. “But we haven’t. You said it yourself, no one has studied these rituals like I have. None of these scholars had access to each other’s notes.”
He’d shared some of the spells with me. Beowulf. The Bible. I wrapped my shawl tighter. “So there’s no risk—”
“There’s always risk. It’s creation. It’s life.”
“It’s a child,” I said.
He stood and hopped over his designs to crouch in front of me: “Our child, Lucy, the most powerful magician the World of Mages has ever known.”
* * *
The room was lit by seven candles.
And Davy chanted every spell seven times.
Why is it always seven? I wondered, lying on my back on the cold wood floor.
I wished that we’d brought music. But there was singing outside—the students at the equinox bonfire out on the Great Lawn.
The night was turning out more solemn than I had expected. It had been a lark, sneaking into Watford, finding the hidden room. But now Davy was focused and quiet.
I wondered how we’d know whether the ritual had worked.…
How would we know if our baby was the most powerful mage in the world? Would he look any different? Would his eyes glow?
Davy said we couldn’t talk at all during the ritual, so instead I caught his gaze. He looked happy, excited.
Because he’s finally doing something, I thought—not just shouting at the sky.
I tried not to talk. I lay very still.
And I knew—oh, I knew the moment it happened that magic and luck were on our side.
There was a pull deep in my belly. Like a star had collapsed there. The world around me went white, and all my magic contracted into a tight ball in my pelvis.
When I could see again, all I could see was Davy’s golden face above mine, as happy as I’d ever known him.
80
AGATHA
The gates are open when I get to Watford, and there’s a single set of tyre tracks in the snow. That’s good; that means the Mage is here. I follow them and park the Volvo in the main courtyard right next to the Mage’s Jeep. I won’t get in trouble—this is an emergency.
I’m not good in emergencies. I can’t wait to find the Mage and hand this off to him. I’ll tell him what I know, then I’ll get as far from this mess as I can.
Maybe I’ll go over to Minty’s house. And we can watch Mean Girls. And her mum will make us virgin mojitos. And we’ll do gel manis—Minty’s got her own machine.
Minty doesn’t care about magic.
Minty won’t even read fantasy novels. “I just can’t make myself care,” she says. “It’s all so fake.”
(I tried to do manicures with Penelope once, and she got distracted, trying to come up with a way to do it magickally.)
I run through the snow to the Weeping Tower and up to the Mage’s office. It’s a thousand stairs, I swear. There are elevators, but I don’t know the spells.
I’m worried about knocking at the Mage’s door, but it’s wide open, and when I walk inside, it’s a catastrophe. It looks like Penny’s been in here: There are books everywhere, in stacks and lying open. There are pages ripped out and taped all over one wall. (Not taped—stuck to the wall with spells.) (And this is exactly the sort of thing I’m sick of. Like, just use some tape. Why come up with a spell for sticking paper to the wall? Tape. Exists.) Anyway, the Mage isn’t here. I suppose I could leave him a note, but how would he ever find it? And what if he doesn’t come back in time? The Mage should really have a secretary, given his responsibilities. I close one of his books out of spite and lean against a window frame, trying to decide what to do next.
That’s when I see the lights in the White Chapel.
SIMON
I’m not sure how I know the way to Watford.
I’m not sure I’m really flying anymore. Or if I’m just thinking about being there.
I wonder if this—what I’m doing, the magic I’m using—is enough to tear a new hole, or if it’s just making an old one bigger.
I wonder if they’re all wrong about me, all of them.
AGATHA
I don’t like the White Chapel. Whenever we have assemblies in here, I can’t get the smell of incense out of my hair.
It smells more like smoke than incense today. Smoke and spent magic. Like a classroom after an exam.
I’m just going to find the Mage, tell him what I know, then leave.
(Minty’s house might not be far enough away from this disaster. Maybe I’ll go to university in Scotland. At that school where Kate went to meet William.)
The front hall of the Chapel is empty. I walk deeper in, following the smoke, which seems like an idiotic move—a Simon move—but also seems like the best way to find the Mage.
I keep going, opening doors, making my way deeper into the building. It’s smokier back here. And darker. And I think I hear the Mage chanting. I’m probably interrupting some heavy magic. Maybe he’s searching for Simon.