“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.
She lets me take it. “It’s good to see you, too, Simon.”
I smile.
She almost smiles back.
13
AGATHA
It is good to see him, it’s always good to see him.
It’s always such a relief.
I think about it sometimes, what it will be like the time that he doesn’t come back.
Someday Simon isn’t going to come back.
Everyone knows it—I think even the Mage knows it. (Penelope knows, but she doesn’t believe.) It’s just … It’s impossible for him to live through this. Too many people want him dead. Too many things worse than people. Dark things. Creatures. Whatever the Insidious Humdrum is. They all want him gone, and he can’t keep surviving; there’ve been too many close calls.
Nobody’s that strong.
Nobody’s that lucky.
Someday he won’t come back, and I’ll be one of the first people they tell. I’ve thought it out because I know that however I react, it won’t be enough.
Simon’s the Chosen One. And he chose me. And even though I love him—we grew up together, he spends every Christmas at my house, I do love him—it isn’t enough. Whatever I feel isn’t enough; it won’t be enough, when I lose him.
What if it’s like that time our collie got hit by a car? I cried, but only because I knew I was supposed to, not because I couldn’t help it.…
I used to think that maybe I was holding back my feelings for Simon as some sort of self-defence. Like, to protect myself from the pain of losing him, the pain of maybe losing everything—because, if Simon goes, what hope do any of us have?
(What hope do we have? Simon isn’t the solution to our problems; he’s just a stay of execution.) But it isn’t that—it isn’t self-defence.
I just don’t love Simon enough.
I don’t love him the right way.
Maybe I don’t have that sort of love in me—maybe I’m defective.
And if that’s the case, I may as well stand by Simon, shouldn’t I? If that’s where he wants me? If that’s where everyone expects me to be?
If it’s the only place I can make any difference?
14