I let my grin free. “Hunting the Humdrum?”
“Fuck the Humdrum,” she says.
We both laugh, and I kind of grimace, because the Humdrum looks just like me—an 11-year-old version of me. (If Penny hadn’t seen him, too, I’d think I’d hallucinated the whole thing.)
I shudder.
Penny sees it. “You’re too thin,” she says.
“It’s the tracksuit.”
“Change, then.” She already has. She’s wearing her grey pleated uniform skirt and a red jumper. “Go on,” she says, “it’s almost teatime.”
I smile again and jump up off the bed, grabbing a pair of jeans and a purple sweatshirt that says WATFORD LACROSSE. (Agatha plays.)
Penny grabs my arm when I walk past Baz’s bed on the way to the bathroom. “It’s good to see you,” she whispers.
I smile. Again. Penny makes my cheeks hurt. “Don’t make a scene,” I whisper back.
4
PENELOPE
Too thin. He looks too thin.
And something worse … scraped.
Simon always looks better after a few months of Watford’s roast beef. (And Yorkshire pudding and tea with too much milk. And fatty sausages. And butter-scone sandwiches.) He’s broad-shouldered and broad-nosed, and when he gets too thin, his skin just hangs off his cheekbones.
I’m used to seeing him thin like this, every autumn. But this time, today, it’s worse.
His face looks chapped. His eyes are lined with red, and the skin around them looks rough and patchy. His hands are red, too, and when he clenches his fists, the knuckles go white.
Even his smile is awful. Too big and red for his face.
I can’t look him in the eye. I grab his sleeve when he comes close, and I’m relieved when he keeps walking. If he didn’t, I might not let go. I might grab him and hold him and spell us both as far away from Watford as possible. We could come back after it’s all over. Let the Mage and the Pitches and the Humdrum and everyone else fight the wars they seem to have their hearts set on.
Simon and I could get a flat in Anchorage. Or Casablanca. Or Prague.
I’d read and write. He’d sleep and eat. And we’d both live to see the far end of 19. Maybe even 20.
I’d do it. I’d take him away—if I didn’t believe he was the only one who could make a difference here.
If I stole Simon and kept him safe …
I’m not sure there’d be a World of Mages to come back to.
5
SIMON
We practically have the dining hall to ourselves.
Penelope sits on the table with her feet on a chair. (Because she likes to pretend she doesn’t care.)
There are a few younger kids, first and second years, at the other side of the hall, having tea with their parents. I notice them, children and adults, all trying to get a look at me. The kids’ll get used to me after a few weeks, but this’ll be their parents’ only chance to get an eyeful.
Most magicians know who I am. Most of them knew I was coming before I knew myself; there’s a prophecy about me—a few prophecies, actually—about a superpowerful magician who’ll come along and fix everything.
And one will come to end us.
And one will bring his fall.
Let the greatest power of powers reign,
May it save us all.
The Greatest Mage. The Chosen One. The Power of Powers.
It still feels strange believing that that bloke’s supposed to be me. But I can’t deny it, either. I mean, nobody else has power like mine. I can’t always control it or direct it, but it’s there.
I think when I showed up at Watford, people had sort of given up on the old prophecies. Or wondered if the Greatest Mage had come and gone without anybody ever noticing.
I don’t think anybody expected the Chosen One to come from the Normal world—from mundanity.
A mage has never been born to Normals.