Текст книги "Carry On"

Автор книги: Rainbow Rowell

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

49

SIMON

Agatha wants to talk to me after our Magic Words lesson.

She hasn’t said a word to me since we broke up—she hardly even looks at me—so when she approaches me now, my initial response is to look at the floor and try to walk around her. She has to grab my sleeve to get my attention, which is awkward for both of us.

“Simon,” she says. “Could I talk to you?”

She looks so nervous; she’s biting her bottom lip. I have to admit, my first thought is that Agatha misses me. That she wants to get back together.

I’ll say yes, of course. I won’t even make her ask. We can go right back to how we were. Maybe I’ll even tell her what’s going on with Baz—maybe she can help.

Then I think about Agatha being in the close quarters of our room, close enough that Baz can smell her pulse—and decide that I won’t tell her about everything, not right away.

But I will take her back.

This has all been such shit. Ignoring each other. Sitting apart. Acting like enemies when all we’ve ever been is friends.

I’ll take her back. Just in time for Christmas.

I’ve been thinking a lot about Christmas lately. I always spend it with the Wellbeloves. I have since I first came to Watford.

I think at first it must have been a philanthropic thing for her dad, Dr. Wellbelove. That’s exactly the sort of thing he’d do—open the house up on Christmas to orphans.

It’s how Agatha and I got to be friends. I’m not sure she ever would have talked to me if she hadn’t been trapped with me in her house every year for two weeks.

It’s not that Agatha’s stuck up—

Well … She is a bit stuck up. I think she likes being prettier than everyone else and having better clothes and being luckier.

I can’t blame her for that.

But also, she’s just not that social. Especially at school. She used to be really involved in dance, before Watford, and she’s still all caught up in horses, and I think she’s closer to her summer Normal friends than anybody here.

Agatha’s not like Penny. She doesn’t naturally care about magickal politics. And she’s not like me, she doesn’t have to care.

I don’t think Agatha cares that much about magic, full stop. The last time we talked about the future, she was thinking about becoming a veterinarian.

Dr. Wellbelove is all about Normal–magickal equality, and how it doesn’t serve mages to think of ourselves as better than Normals. (“I get what Welby’s saying,” Penelope’s mum will say, “but we can do everything the Normals can do, plus magic. How is that not better?”)

Her dad’s never pressured Agatha to choose a magickal career. I think she could probably even date a Normal, if she wanted. (Her mum might mind that; Normals aren’t allowed at the club.)

Anyway, I love being at the Wellbeloves, so long as they’re not throwing a posh dinner or dragging me through event season. Everything in their house is brand new and top of the line. They have a TV that takes up an entire wall, with giant speakers hidden behind paintings of horses, and all their couches are made of leather.

Agatha’s mum’s always out, and her dad’s usually at the clinic. (He’s a Normal doctor, too, but most of his patients are mages. He specializes in acute abNormal ailments.) They’ve got a maid-type person, Helen, who cooks for Agatha and drives her around. But nobody treats Helen like a maid. She dresses in regular clothes, not any uniform, and she’s obsessed with Doctor Who.

They’re all good to me, Helen included. Agatha’s mum gives me nice clothes for Christmas, and her dad talks to me about my future like I’m not going to die in a ball of fire.

I just really like them. And I like Christmas. And I’ve been thinking about how weird it’s going to be to sit around the dinner table, talking to Agatha’s parents, knowing that we’re broke up.

Agatha and I stay in the Magic Words classroom after everyone else leaves.

She’s still biting her lip.

“Agatha…,” I say.

“It’s about Christmas,” she says.

She pushes her hair behind her ears. She has perfectly straight hair that parts in the middle and naturally frames her face. (Penny says it’s a spell. Agatha says it is not. Penny says beauty spells are nothing to be ashamed of.)

“My dad wants you to know that of course you’re still welcome at our house for Christmas,” Agatha says.

“Oh,” I say. “Good.”

“But I think we both know how uncomfortable that would be,” she goes on. She looks very uncomfortable, just saying it. “For both of us.”

“Right,” I say. It would be uncomfortable, I guess.

“It would ruin Christmas,” she says.

I stop myself before I can say, “Would it? Would it really, Agatha? It’s a big house, and I’ll stay in the TV room the whole time.”

“Right,” I say instead.

“So I told him that you were probably going to stay with the Bunces.”

Agatha knows I can’t stay with the Bunces. Penelope’s mum can only take about two or three days of me before she starts treating me like a Great Dane who can’t help knocking things over with its tail.

The Bunces’ house isn’t small, but it’s full of people—and stacks and stacks of stuff. Books, papers, toys, dishes. There’s no way not to be underfoot. You’d have to be incorporeal not to knock anything over.

“Right,” I say to Agatha. “Okay.”

She looks at the floor. “I’m sure my parents will still send gifts.”

“I’ll send them a card.”

“That would be nice,” she says. “Thank you.” She pulls her satchel up over her shoulder and takes a step away from me—then stops and flips her hair out of her face. (It’s just a gesture; her hair is never in her face.) “Simon. It was amazing how you beat that dragon. You saved its life.”

I shrug. “Yeah, well, Baz did it, didn’t he? I would’ve slit its throat if I could have figured out how.”

“My dad says the Humdrum sent it.”

I shrug again.

“Merry Christmas, Simon,” Agatha says. Then she walks past me out the door.

50

SIMON

“You should really just let me stay in your room,” Penelope says. “It would make things easier.”

“No,” Baz and I say at once.

“Where would you sleep,” I ask, “the bathtub?”

The chalkboard is still taking up the open area at the end of our beds, and there are stacks of books around it now. Every useful book in the Watford library has made its way to our room, thanks to Baz and Penelope—and not a one of them properly checked out, I’m sure.

We’ve been working here every night, though we don’t have much but a mess to show for it.

“I don’t mind sleeping in the bath,” Penny says. “I could spell it squishy.”

“No,” Baz says. “It’s bad enough sharing a bathroom with Snow.”

“Penny, you have a perfectly good room,” I say, ignoring the jab.

“Simon, a perfectly good room wouldn’t have Trixie in it.”

“That’s your roommate?” Baz asks. “The pixie?”

“Yes,” Penelope says.

He curls his lips up and down at the same time. “Imagine you’re a pixie,” he says. “I know it’s distasteful, but imagine—you’re a pixie, and you have a daughter, and you name her Trixie. Trixie the pixie.”

“I think it’s kind of cute,” I say.

“You think Trixie’s kind of cute,” Penny says.

“Trixie is cute.” I shrug.

“Snow,” Baz says. “I’ve just eaten.”

I roll my eyes. He probably thinks pixies are a lesser species. Half-sentient, like gnomes and Internet trolls.

“It’s like being a fairy named Mary,” he goes on.

“Or a vampire named Gampire,” I say.

“Gampire isn’t even a proper name, Snow. You’re terrible at this game.”

“In Trixie’s defence,” Penelope says, and you can tell it pains her to say it, “the pixies probably don’t go around calling themselves ‘pixies.’ I mean, you could be a human named Newman or a boy named Roy, and no one would think twice.”

“I’ll bet your room is covered in pixie dust,” Baz says, shuddering.

“Don’t get her started,” I say. “Good-night, Penny.”

“Fine,” she says, climbing to her feet and picking up the book she was reading. It’s a bound copy of The Record; we’ve all taken to reading them straight through, looking for clues. We’re becoming experts in decade-old current events.

It’s all so weird.…

Not just to be working with Baz, but to have him around all the time when I’m hanging out with Penny.

He still won’t talk to us outside of the room.

Baz says it would confuse his minions to see him consorting with the enemy. He actually called them that—“my minions.” Maybe he was taking the piss.…

I can’t always tell when Baz is mocking me. He’s got a cruel mouth. It looks like he’s sneering even when he’s happy about something. Actually, I don’t know if he ever is happy. It’s like he’s got two emotions—pissed off and sadistically amused.

(And plotting, is that an emotion? If so, three.)

(And disgusted. Four.)

Anyway, Penelope and I still don’t tell Baz everything. We never talk about the Mage, for example—it turns immediately into a fight if we do. Plus Penny doesn’t want Baz to know that her family might be on the outs with the Mage. (Even though Baz’d probably sympathize.)

Penny keeps reminding me that Baz is still my enemy. That when the truce ends, he could use everything he’s learned against me.

But I’m not sure I’m the one who needs reminding. Half the time we’re together, I’m just sitting on my bed reading while Penelope and Baz are comparing their Top 10 favourite spells of the 1800s or debating the magickal worth of Hamlet versus Macbeth.

The other day, he walked her over to the Cloisters on his way to the Catacombs. When he came back, he reported that there weren’t any clues about how she gets into Mummers House. The next day, she told me he didn’t acknowledge at all that he was on his way to suck blood out of rodents.

“You going my way?” she says to him now, from the doorway.

“No, I’m in for the night,” he says.

So fucking weird.

“See you guys at breakfast,” Penny says, closing the door behind her.

If Baz isn’t going hunting tonight, I may as well take a shower and go to sleep. We tend to fight more viciously when it’s just the two of us.

I’m getting my pyjamas together when he speaks up:

“So what’s your plan next week? For the holidays?”

I feel my jaw tighten. “Probably go home with Penny for a few days, then spend the rest of it here.”

“Not celebrating round the Wellbelove family hearth?”

I slam my wardrobe shut. We haven’t talked about this yet. Me and Baz. About Agatha.

I don’t know if the pair of them’re talking. Or meeting. Agatha doesn’t even come to dinner anymore. I think she eats in her room.

“Nope,” I say, walking past his bed.

“Snow,” he says.

“What.”

“You should come to Hampshire.”

I stop and look at him. “What? Why?”

Baz clears his throat and folds his arms, lifting his chin to emphasize how much he looks down on me.

“Because you’ve sworn to help me find my mother’s killer.”

“I am helping you.”

“Well, you’ll be more help to me there than you are here. The library at home is far too big for me to cover myself. And I have a car there—we could actually investigate. You don’t even have the Internet here.”

“You’re suggesting I go home with you.”

“Yes.”

“For Christmas.”

“Yes.”

“With your family.”

Baz rolls his eyes. “Well, it’s not like you have any family of your own.”

“You’re mad.” I move again towards the bathroom.

“How is it mad?” he demands. “I could use your help, and there’s nothing here for you—you’d think you’d appreciate the company.”

I stop at the door and turn back again. “Your family hates me.”

“Yes, and? So do I.”

“They want to kill me,” I say.

“They won’t kill you—you’ll be a guest. I’ll even cast the spell if you want. Be our guest.”

“I can’t stay in your house. Are you kidding me?”

“Snow, we’ve lived in the same room for seven years. How can you have a problem with this?”

“You’re mad!” I say, closing the door.

Completely off his nut.

*   *   *

“Your mum doesn’t trust me?” I say.

We’re walking down the hall, and Penelope immediately starts shushing me with her hand. “She does trust you,” she says. “She trusts you completely. She knows that you’re honest and forthright, and that if you hear something you shouldn’t, you’ll go right to the Mage with it.”

“I wouldn’t!”

“You might, Simon.”

“Penny!”

“Shhhhh.”

“Penny,” I try again, more quietly, “I’d never do anything to get your mother in trouble with the Mage. And I can’t imagine she’s done anything that would get her in trouble with the Mage.”

“She’s sent his Men away again,” Penny says. “Premal says the Mage himself is coming to the house next time.”

“Then I should be there,” I say. “He’d never hurt her in front of me.”

Penny stops in her tracks. “Simon. Do you really think the Mage would hurt my mother at all?”

I stop, too. “No. Of course he wouldn’t.”

She leans in. “Mum’s filing an appeal with the Coven; she thinks this will work itself out. But you know I need to research the Watford Tragedy while I’m home, and there’s no way Mum will let you into our library with everything that’s happening. She calls you Mini-Mage.”

“Why doesn’t she like me?”

“She likes you,” Penny says, rolling her eyes. “It’s him she doesn’t like.”

“Your mother does not like me, Penny.”

“She just thinks you attract trouble. And you do, Simon. Possibly literally.”

“Yeah, but I can’t help it.”

Penelope starts walking again. “You are preaching to the head of the choir.”

It’s not that I mind being alone at Watford—I don’t mind it much. But nobody’s here on Christmas Day. I’ll have to break in to the kitchen to eat. I guess I could ask Cook Pritchard for the key.…

We get to my next lesson, and I intentionally slam my shoulder into the wall next to the door. (People who tell you that slamming and bashing into things won’t make you feel better haven’t slammed or bashed enough.) “Is that what we’re calling it now?” I ask. “‘The Watford Tragedy’?”

It takes Penny a second to backtrack in our conversation. “It’s what they called it at the time,” she says. “What does it matter what we call it?”

“Nothing. Just. We’re doing this because somebody died. Baz’s mum died. ‘The Watford Tragedy’ makes it sound like it happened to people far away who don’t matter to us.”

“Tell the Mage you’re staying here for Christmas,” she says. “He’ll want to spend it with you.”

That makes me laugh.

“What?” Penny asks.

“Can you imagine?” I say. “Christmas with the Mage?”

“Singing carols,” she giggles.

“Pulling crackers.”

“Watching the Queen’s speech.”

“Think of the gifts,” I say, laughing. “He’d probably wrap up a curse for me just to see if I could break it.”

“Blindfold you, drop you in the Hell of the Wood, and tell you to come home with dinner.”

“Ha!” I grin. “Just like in our third year.”

Penny pokes my arm, and I slide away, along the wall. “Talk to him,” she says. “He’s a mad git, but he cares about you.”

*   *   *

Baz is one of the last students to leave for break. He takes his time packing his leather trunk. He’s got most of our notes in there.… He still hasn’t decided whether to talk to his parents about all this, but he’s going to find out what he can. “Someone has to know something about Nicodemus.”

I’m lying on my bed, trying to think about how nice it will be to have the room to myself—and trying not to watch him. I clear my throat. “Be careful, yeah? I mean, we don’t know who this Nicodemus is, and if he’s dangerous, we don’t want him to twig that we’re looking for him.”

“I’ll talk only to people I trust,” Baz says.

“Yeah, but that’s it, isn’t it—we don’t know who to trust.”

“Do you trust Penelope?”

“Yes.”

“Do you trust her mother?”

“I trust her not to be evil.”

“Well, I trust my family. It doesn’t matter whether you do.”

“I’m just telling you to be careful,” I say.

“Stop showing concern for my well-being, Snow. It’s making me ill at ease.” He closes the lid of his trunk and snaps the latches. Then he looks at me, frowning, and decides something. I’m familiar with that look. I put my hand over the hilt of my sword.

“Snow…,” he says.

“What.”

“I feel like I should tell you something. In the interest of our truce.”

I look over at him, waiting.

“That day you saw Wellbelove and me in the Wood…”

I close my eyes. “How can this possibly be in the interest of our truce?”

He keeps going: “That day you saw me with Wellbelove in the Wood—it’s not what you think.”

I open my eyes. “You weren’t trying to pull my girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Sod off,” I say. “You’ve been trying to get between me and Agatha since the day she chose me over you.”

“She never chose you over me.”

“Get over yourself, Baz.”

He looks pained; that’s a new one. “No,” he goes on. “What I’m saying is—I’ve never been an option for Wellbelove.”

I push my head back into my pillow. “I shouldn’t have thought so, but apparently, I was wrong. Look, you’ve got a clear shot at her now. She’s done with me.”

“She interrupted me,” he says. “That day in the Wood.”

I ignore him.

“She interrupted my dinner. She saw me. I was asking her not to tell anyone.”

“And you had to hold her hands for that?”

“I only did that bit to piss you off. I knew you were watching.”

“Well, it worked,” I say.

“You’re not listening.” He’s looking very pained now. “I’m not ever going to come between you and Wellbelove. I was always just trying to piss you off.”

“Are you saying you flirted with Agatha just to hurt me?”

“Yes.”

“You never cared about her?”

“No.”

I grit my teeth. “And you think I want to hear that?”

“Well, obviously. Now you can make up with her and have the best Christmas ever.”

“You’re such an arse!” I say, jumping to my feet and charging at him.

“Anathema!” he shouts, and I hear him, but I almost plant my fist in his jaw anyway.

I stop just short. “Does she know?”

He shrugs.

“You’re such an arse.”

“It was just flirting,” Baz says. “It’s not like I tried to feed her to a chimera.”

“Yeah, but she likes you,” I say. “I think she likes you better than me.”

He tilts his head and shrugs again. “Why wouldn’t she?”

“Fuck you, Baz. Seriously.” I’m standing so close, I’m practically spitting in his face. “She was carrying around your bloody handkerchief, that whole time you were gone. Since last year.”

“What handkerchief?”

I go to the drawer where the handkerchief is shoved in with my wand and a few other things, then I wave it in his face. “This one.”

Baz pulls the fabric out of my hand, and I pull it right back because I don’t want him to have it. I don’t want him to have anything right now.

“Look,” he says. “I’ll stop. I’ll leave Wellbelove alone from now on. She doesn’t matter to me.”

“That makes it worse!”

“Then I won’t stop!” he says, like he’s the one who should be angry. “Is that better? I’ll damned well marry her, and we’ll have the best-looking kids in the history of magic, and we’ll name them all Simon just to get under your skin.”

“Just go!” I shout. “Seriously. If I have to look at you anymore, I won’t even care about the Anathema. If I get kicked out of Watford, at least I’ll finally be done with you!”

51

BAZ

I was trying to do Snow a favour.

A favour that doesn’t serve my interests at all—at all.

I bloody well should marry Wellbelove. My father would love it.

Marry her. Give her the keys to whatever she wants keys to. Then find a thousand men who look exactly like Simon bloody Snow and break each of their hearts a different way.

Wellbelove isn’t very powerful, but she’s gorgeous. And she’s got a great seat; she and my stepmother could go riding.

Then my father could stop wringing his hands about the Pitch name dying with me. (Even though the Pitch line already died with me; I’m fairly certain vampires can’t have babies.) (Crowley, could you imagine vampire babies? What a nightmare.) (And why doesn’t Aunt Fiona pass on her bloody name? If my mother gave me hers, Fiona can surely provide the world with a few more Pitches.)

I think if I got married, to a girl from a good family, my father wouldn’t even care that I’m queer. Or who fathered his grandchildren. If the idea of passing on my mother’s name that way didn’t turn my stomach, I’d consider it.

Snow would probably find a whole new way to hate me if he knew I thought this coldly about love and sex and marriage. About his perfect Agatha.

But what does it even matter if my intentions are never good? My road to hell isn’t paved with good intentions—or bad—it’s just my road.

Go ahead, Snow. Forgive your girlfriend. I’m not standing in your way. Go stand on bloody hilltops together and watch the sun set in each other’s hair—I’m done being a nuisance. I’m done. Truce.

I didn’t expect to mend any fences with all this … co-operating. I didn’t expect to convince or convert Snow. But I thought we were making progress. Like, maybe when this was all over, he and I would still be standing on either side of the trench, but we wouldn’t be spitting at each other. We wouldn’t be spoiling for the fight.

I know Simon and I will always be enemies.…

But I thought maybe we’d get to a point where we didn’t want to be.