The Mage turns to me and grabs both my wrists. “Now, Simon, give it to me. He’s right here.”
“When did you get wings?” the Humdrum asks. “I’ll never have wings. Or a sword. I’ll never even have a proper ball—I’d like a football.”
The Mage jerks on my wrists, still staring at the Humdrum. “Now, Simon! We’ll end this once and for all!”
“Do it,” the Humdrum says. “He’s right. End everything. All of the magic. All of it.”
The Humdrum tosses the ball to me, and I push the Mage off me to catch it.
“Simon!” the Mage says.
I tuck the red rubber ball in my suit jacket—I’m not sure when I thought up this grey suit—and I look down at the Humdrum. It’s the only way.
I take the boy by his shoulders.
He laughs. “What’re you gonna do—hit me? Go off on me? I’m pretty sure that won’t work.”
“No,” I say. “I’m going to end this. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?”
“I’m sorry that all the good stuff happened after I left you.”
The Humdrum looks confused. I close my eyes, and then I imagine myself unlocking every door—opening every window, turning every tap—and pouring it all into him.
He doesn’t flinch or pull away. And when I open my eyes again, he’s still looking up at me, less confused now.
The Humdrum puts his hands over mine and gives me a small nod. His jaw is set, and his eyes are flinty. He looks like a little thug, even now.
I nod back.
I give it all to him.
I let it all go.
The Mage tries to push us apart—he’s shouting at me, cursing—but I’m rooted to the centre of the earth, and the Mage’s hands pass right through the Humdrum. The boy’s disappearing—it’s getting harder for me to keep my hands on his shoulders.
I don’t think I’m hurting him. The Humdrum. He just looks tired.
He’s a hole. He’s what’s left when I’m done.
And sometimes holes want to get bigger, but Baz was wrong—sometimes they just want to be filled.
I give him everything, and then I feel him pulling at me. Before, I was pouring the magic, but now it’s being sucked out. Spilling into a vacuum.
My hands slip through the Humdrum’s shoulders, but my magic keeps rushing into him.
I fall to my knees, and it rushes out faster.
My fingertips tingle. I smell fire. Sparks chase themselves over my skin.
This isn’t going off, I think. This is going out.
83
BAZ
I can’t imagine we’re not too late.
And on top of everything else, on top of abject failure, I’m so thirsty, I could drain a Clydesdale.
I should drain that yappy spaniel and put it out of its misery.
Maybe I should put Bunce out of hers.
We come up over a hill, and we can see the school ahead of us. I’m ready to tear through the wide-open gates, but the Jag gets stuck in the snow. Bunce and I get out and start running across the Great Lawn.
It’s a shock when we see Wellbelove running towards us like a panicked rabbit from the opposite direction.
PENELOPE
Agatha’s weeping and panting—and running like she’s Jessica Ennis, even through all this snow. It’s too bad Watford doesn’t have a track team.
She doesn’t stop when she sees us, just grabs my hand and tries to pull me with her. “Run,” she says. “Penny, run—it’s the Mage!”
“What’s the Mage?” I grab her other hand, and she runs in place around me, spinning me in a circle.
“He’s evil!” she says. “Of course he is!”
Baz tries to take her shoulder. “Is Simon here?”
Agatha pulls away from him, jogging backwards, then back towards us. “He just got here,” she says. “But the Mage is evil. He’s fighting the goatherd.”
“Ebb?” I say.
“And he tried to hurt me. He was going to do something, take something. He wants Simon.”
“Come on!” Baz yells.
“Come with us,” I say to Agatha. “Come help us.”
“I can’t,” she says, shaking her head. “I can’t.”
And then she runs away.
BAZ