“Do they think they can fight the Humdrum without us?”
“I think they’re so shortsighted,” he says, looking over at me, “that they don’t care. They just want power, and they want it now.”
“Well, I don’t care about them,” I say. “If the Humdrum takes our magic, we won’t have anything to scrap over. We should be fighting the Humdrum.”
“And we will,” he says, “when the time is right. When we know how to beat him. But until then, my first priority is keeping you safe. Simon…” He folds his arms. “I’ve been consulting with the other members of the Coven, with those I can trust. We think maybe our efforts to protect you have backfired. Despite the spells and surveillance, the Humdrum seems to have the best luck getting to you when you’re here, at Watford. He spirited you away in June without triggering any of our defences.”
It’s embarrassing to hear him say this. It feels like I’m the one failing, not the Mage or the protection spells. I’m supposed to be the only one who can fight the Humdrum. But I finally got a chance to face him, and the most I could do was run away. I don’t think I’d have managed even that without Penelope.
The Mage clenches his jaw. He has one of those chins that flattens out in the middle—with a sharp dimple, like he was nicked by a knife. I’m dead jealous of it. “We’ve decided,” he says slowly, “that you would be safer somewhere other than Watford.”
I’m not sure what he’s getting at. “Sir?”
“The Coven has secured a place for you. And a private tutor. I can’t talk about the details now—but I’ll take you there myself. We’ll leave soon; I need to be back by nightfall.”
“You want me to leave Watford?”
He narrows his eyes. The Mage hates to repeat himself. “Yes. You won’t need to pack much. Your boots and your cloak, any artefacts you want to keep—”
“Sir, I can’t leave Watford. Our lessons start this week.”
He cocks his head. “Simon. You’re not a child. There’s nothing more for you to learn at Watford.”
Maybe he’s right. I’m a hopeless student; it’s not like this year is going to make or break me, but still … “I can’t leave Watford. It’s my last year.”
The Mage rubs his beard. His eyes narrow to slits.
“I just can’t,” I say again. I try to think of why not, but all that comes to me is no. I can’t leave Watford. I’ve been waiting all summer to get here. I’ve been waiting my whole life. I’m always either at Watford or wishing I was at Watford, and next year that will change—it has to—but not yet. “No,” I say. “I can’t.”
“Simon”—his voice is stern—“this isn’t a suggestion. Your life is at stake. And the entire World of Mages is depending on you.”
I feel like arguing that point: Baz isn’t depending on me. None of the magicians who stand with the House of Pitch believe I’m their saviour.…
I grind my teeth so tight, I can practically feel the shape of them. I shake my head.
The Mage frowns down at me like I’m a child who’s refusing to listen. “Hasn’t it ever occurred to you, Simon, that the Humdrum attacks you only when you’re here?”
“Has it just now occurred to you?” I swallow. “Sir,” I add too late.
“I don’t understand this!” he says, raising his voice. “You’ve never questioned my decisions before.”
“You’ve never asked me to leave Watford before!”
His face is hard. “Simon, we’re at war. Do I need to remind you of that?”
“No, sir.”
“And we all make sacrifices at wartime.”