“So are you, Davy.”
“Only because I was too powerful for them to deny me.”
“Right,” I said. “So now you’re in the club.”
“Lucky me.”
“I can’t tell if you mean that.…”
“Lucky me,” he said. “Unlucky everyone else. This place isn’t about sharing knowledge. It’s about keeping knowledge in the hands of the rich.”
“You mean, the most powerful.”
“Same difference,” he spat. He always spat. His eyes were always glinting, and his mouth was always spitting.
“So you don’t want to be here?” I asked.
“Did you know that the Church used to give services in Latin, because they didn’t trust the congregation with God’s word?”
“Are you talking about Christianity? I don’t know anything about Christianity.”
“Why are we here, Lucy? When so many others are refused?”
“Because we’re the most powerful. It’s important for us to learn how to manage and use our magic.”
“Is it that important? Wouldn’t it be more important to teach the least powerful? To help them make the most of what they do have? Should we teach only poets to read?”
“I don’t understand what you want. You’re here, Davy. At Watford.”
“I’m here. And maybe if I meet the right people—if I bow and scrape before every Pitch and Grimm, they’ll teach me the trickiest spells. They’ll give me a seat at the table. And then I can spend my life as they do, making sure that no one else takes it from me.”
“That’s not what I’m going to do with my magic.”
He stopped spitting for a second to squint at me: “What are you going to do, Lucy?”
“See the world.”
“The World of Mages?”
“No, the world.”
* * *
I have so much to tell you.
But time is short. And the Veil is thick.
And it takes magic to speak, a soul full of it.
12
SIMON
As it happens, I am alone when I see Agatha.
I’m lying out on the Lawn, thinking about the first time I got here—the grass was so nice that I didn’t think we were allowed to walk on it.
Agatha’s wearing jeans and a gauzy white shirt, and she comes up the hill towards me slowly blocking the sun, so there’s a halo for just a second around her blond hair.
She smiles, but I can tell she’s nervous. I wonder if she’s been looking for me. I sit up, and she sits down on the ground next to me.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hello, Simon.”
“How was your summer?”
She gives me a look like she can’t believe how lame that question is, but also like she’s kind of relieved to make small talk. “Good,” she says, “quiet.”
“Did you travel?” I ask.
“Only for events.”
Agatha’s a show jumper. Competitively. I think she wants to jump for Great Britain someday. Or maybe ride? I know jack-all about horses. She tried to get me on a horse once, and I chickened out.
“Simon, you can’t be scared of this horse. You’ve slain dragons.”
“Well, I’m not afraid to slay it, am I? You want me to ride it.”
“Any luck?” I ask now.
“Some,” she says. “Mostly skill.”
“Ah.” I nod my head. “Right. Sorry.”
I sort of hate to talk to Agatha about horse stuff—and not because I’m afraid of them. It’s just one more thing I’ll never get right. All that posh crap. Regattas and galas and, I don’t know, polo matches. Agatha’s mum has hats that look like wedding cakes.
It’s too much. I’ve got enough to deal with, trying to figure out what it means to be a magician—I’ll never pass as to the manner born.
Maybe Agatha would be better off with Baz after all.…
If he weren’t evil.
I must look like I’m fuming, because she clears her throat uncomfortably. “Do you want me to go?”
“No,” I say. “No. I’m glad to see you.”
“You haven’t actually looked at me,” she says.
So I look at her.
She’s beautiful.
And I want her. I want everything to be fine.
“Look, Simon. I know you saw—”
I cut her off. “I didn’t see anything.”
“Well, I saw you,” she says. Her voice sharpens: “And Penelope, and—”
I cut her off again. “No, I mean…” I’m not doing this right. “I did see you. In the Wood. And I saw … him. But it’s all right. I know you wouldn’t—well, I know you wouldn’t, Agatha. And it doesn’t matter, anyway. It was months ago.”
Her eyes are wide and confused.
Agatha has lovely brown eyes. Almost golden. And lovely long eyelashes. And the skin around her eyes sparkles like she’s a fairy. (She’s not a fairy. Fairies who can speak with magic are welcome at Watford, if they can find it, but none have ever chosen to attend.)
“But, Simon, we have to … I mean, shouldn’t we talk about this?”
“I’d rather just move on,” I say. “It’s not important. And it’s just—Agatha, it’s so good to see you.” I reach for her hand.