Текст книги "Carry On"

Автор книги: Rainbow Rowell

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“Stuffing?” Baz asks, handing me a platter. It seems like their servants have the day off. (I’ve counted at least four since I’ve been here: Vera, two women cleaning, and a man out front shovelling the walks.)

I take a big scoop of chestnut stuffing and notice that there’s almost nothing on Baz’s plate. The platters and boats go around twice, and he just passes them to me—I wonder if he has an eating disorder.

I eat enough for both of us. The food here is even better than at Watford.

*   *   *

“Did you ever believe in Father Christmas?” Baz asks. He’s laying out blankets and pillows for me on his couch. His stepmother brought them up after Baz explained that I didn’t want to sleep in the guest room. “He’s afraid of the wraiths,” he told her.

That made his little sisters giggle. They were eager to get to bed, so that Father Christmas could get here. “Did you tell Father Christmas that you’d be here?” Mordelia asked me. “So that he can send your presents?”

“I didn’t,” I told her. “I should have.”

“I don’t think so,” I tell Baz now. “I mean, sometimes the home would get somebody to dress up like Father Christmas and hand out crap gifts, but I don’t remember believing in him. What about you?”

“I believed in him,” Baz says. “And then, the year after my mother died, he didn’t come.…” He throws me a pillow and walks over to a tall wooden chest of drawers. “I thought I’d been very, very bad. But now I think my dad was probably just depressed and forgot about Christmas. Fiona showed up later that day with a giant stuffed Paddington.”

“The bear?”

“There’s nothing wrong with Paddington Bear. Here.” He’s holding out some pyjamas, his pyjamas. I take them. Then he sits at the end of his bed and leans against one of the posts. “So … you came back.”

I sit next to him. “Yeah.”

He’s still wearing his dark green suit. He slicked his hair back for dinner—I wish he wouldn’t do that. It looks better when it’s loose and falling around his face.

“We can go talk to the numpties tomorrow,” he says.

“On Christmas Day? Do numpties celebrate Christmas?”

“I don’t know.” He cocks his head. “I didn’t really get to know them. According to the books, they don’t do much but eat and try to stay warm.”

“What do numpties eat?” I ask.

“Rubble,” he says, “as far as anyone can tell … maybe they just chew on it.”

“Do you think Penny is right? That it was your mother’s murderer who hired the numpties?”

Baz shrugs. “It would make sense—and Bunce is usually right.”

“You’re sure you can handle going back there?”

He looks at his knees. “I’d rather talk to the numpties than go back to Nicodemus, and those are our only two leads.”

“I still wish we had a motive…,” I say. “Why would someone want to hurt your mother?”

“I’m not sure they did want to,” Baz says. “What if the target was the nursery, not my mother? There was no way of knowing that she’d be the one who came. Maybe the vampires wanted to take the children—maybe they wanted to Turn us all.” He’s rubbing his hand along the top of his thigh. His legs are longer than mine; that’s where all his height is.

“I’m not a very good boyfriend,” I say.

Baz’s hand settles on his trouser leg and tugs. He sits up straighter. “I understand, Snow. Trust me. I’m not planning our next mini-break—I’m not even going to tell anyone about us.”

“No,” I say, turning slightly towards him. “That’s not what I mean. I mean … I’ve always been a terrible boyfriend. That’s why Agatha broke up with me. I basically just did what I thought she wanted me to, but I always got it wrong, and I never put her first. I never once felt like I was getting it right in three years.”

“Then why did you stay together?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to break up with Agatha. It wasn’t her fault.”

He’s smoothing his hand along his leg again. I like everything about Baz in this suit.

“I’m just saying,” I say, turning a bit more, “that I don’t know how to be your boyfriend. And I don’t think you’d want that from me.”

“Fine,” he says. “Understood.”

“And I know that you think we’re doomed—Romeo-and-Juliet style.”

“Completely,” he says to his knees.

“And I don’t think I’m gay,” I say. “I mean, maybe I am, at least partly, the part that seems to be demanding the most attention right now.…”

“No one cares whether you’re gay,” Baz says coldly.

I’m sitting sideways now, facing his profile. His eyes are narrow, and his mouth is a straight line.

“What I’m saying is…” My voice fades out. I suck at this. “I like to look at you.”

His eyes shoot over to me, and he lowers his eyebrows but doesn’t turn his head.

“I like this,” I go on. “All of this that we’ve been doing.”

He ignores me.

“I like you,” I say. “And I don’t even care that you don’t like me—I’m used to it, I wouldn’t know what to do if you did. But I like you, Baz. I like this. I like helping you. I like knowing that you’re okay. When you didn’t come back to school this autumn, when you were missing … I thought I was going to lose my mind.”

“You thought I was plotting against you,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say. “And I missed you.”

He shakes his head. “There’s something wrong with you—”

“I know. But I still want this, if you’ll let me have it.”

Baz finally turns to look at me. “What’s this, Snow?”

“This,” I say. “I want to be your boyfriend. Your terrible boyfriend.”

He cocks an eyebrow and stares at me, like figuring out what’s wrong with me is something he’ll never have enough time for.

There’s a soft knock at the door.

Baz stands up, straightening his suit, and walks to the door. He opens it and leans over, picking up a tray, then brings it back to his bed. There’s a pitcher of milk and a heavily laden plate from dinner.

“Who’s that from?” I ask.

“My stepmother.”

“Why didn’t you just eat at dinner?”

“I don’t like eating in front of people.”

“Why not?”

“Why do you ask so many questions?”

“Is it anorexia?”

“No, Snow, it’s not anorexia—do you even know what that means?” He sits on the far side of his bed and takes the napkin off the tray, shaking it unfolded. “My fangs pop when I eat,” he says. “It’s noticeable.”

I crawl across the bed to sit next to him. “I didn’t notice the other night, when you ate in front of me.”

“Well, you’re not very observant, are you.”

“Or maybe it’s not as noticeable as you think.”

Baz looks up at me, and his cheeks look fuller than normal. He smiles then, and I see them—long white fangs, trying to push out over both his lips.

“Wicked,” I whisper, trying to look closer. He pushes me back, but not far. “Open your mouth again,” I say. “Let me see.”

He sighs and pulls back his lips. His fangs are huge. And they look so sharp. “Where do they even come from? Like, where do they go when you’re not using them?”

“I don’t know.” He sounds kind of like he’s wearing braces.

“Can I touch them?”

“No. They’re sharp. And toxic.”

“I can’t believe there’s a part of your body that grows when you need it. You’re like a mutant.”

“I’m a vampire,” Baz says, “and can you hear yourself?”

I sit back. “Yeah.”

I expect him to look aggravated, and he does, but he’s also kind of smiling. Around his fangs.

I hand him his plate—turkey, stuffing, bacon, lashings of gravy. He takes it.

“Are you still hungry, Snow?”

“I could eat.”

“Come on, then.” He hands me the fork and keeps the spoon for himself. The turkey’s so tender, the spoon works fine. He takes a huge bite, and I see the full length of his fangs. “Wicked,” I say again.

Baz shakes his head. “You’re an idiot,” he says with his mouth extra full. He looks down at his plate. “But you can have … this. If you want it.”

I do.

68

AGATHA

It’s a three-hour drive back to London. Penelope casts, “Time flies!”—but neither of us are having any fun, so it doesn’t work.

I’ve half a mind to drive straight to Watford to tell the Mage everything, but my parents were expecting me ages ago—and, honestly, I don’t relish the thought of talking to the Mage by myself. He’s not exactly approachable. He’s always dressed like Peter Pan, and he carries a sword. Like, all the time. Once he showed up at our door in the middle of the night with his ear in his hand. Dad had to sew it back on.

I’ve known the Mage since before I was in school; he and Dad have been on the Coven together forever. But I’m not sure the Mage even knows my name. I’ve never heard him say it. He never really speaks to me.

Penny says he’s sexist, but the fact is that the Mage hardly talks to anyone at Watford. Not even Simon. I don’t get why he wants to be headmaster—does he even like kids?

Maybe that’s why Lucy broke it off with him.

Or maybe he’s such a prat because she broke up with him, and he never got over it.

I still have that photo in my handbag. I hope Penny’s mum doesn’t realize I stole it. I really hope she doesn’t tell my parents.

I went through a shoplifting phase when I was 14 and got grounded for an entire summer when my parents found my stash of unopened eyeliners and nail varnish.

“We wouldbuyyou cosmetics,” my father said.

“You didn’t use magic?” my mother asked. “You just took it?” And then she said, “Oh, Agatha, purple varnish. How common.”

Penny only lets me ignore her for twenty minutes or so before she bursts. “I thought you’d want to be included, Agatha!”

“You didn’t,” I say.

“I did! I could tell you missed Simon. I could tell you were sad. Are you really saying you’d rather we just left you out and ignored you for the rest of the year?”

“No!”

“Then what, Agatha? What do you want?”

“I want to be friends,” I say, “but I don’t want to be, like, comrades-in-arms. I don’t want to have secret meetings! I just want to hang out! Like, make biscuits and watch telly. Do normal friend stuff!”

“We’re supposed to watch telly while Simon fights the Humdrum? And Baz gets kidnapped by numpties?”

“No!” I lean forward, squeezing the steering wheel. “In the scenario I’m describing, none of that would be happening!”

“But it is happening.”

“Well, then, yeah, I think I would rather just stay home. Because I can’t actually do anything to help. When have we ever been any help, Penelope? Like, real help. We’re just … witnesses. And hostages. And, like, future collateral damage. If we were in a movie, one of us would have to die while Simon watched. That’s all we’re good for.”

“Speak for yourself!” she shouts.

“I will!” I shout back.

But neither of us speaks for the rest of the trip.

*   *   *

I drop Penny off at her house, and she’s still so pissed off that she slams the car door. I’m really late, but my parents are busy getting ready for their party, and hardly notice when I walk in.

They do a travelling party every Christmas Eve. It starts at one house, then moves on to the next house, then the next … until everyone’s so trolleyed, they have to spell the cars to drive them home.

Simon and I are always expected to say hello when the guests get here; then we hide in the lounge and watch telly and eat hors d’oeuvres until we fall asleep by the fire.

Except for once, four years ago, when we snuck out on Christmas Eve to track werewolves through Soho. They’d stolen some key—or maybe a gem, I can’t bloody remember. I’ve never been colder in my life! We nearly died outside Liberty, and then, after it was finally over, Penny made us stay out and collect werewolf fur, so that she could make these grotesque premenstrual talismans. I gave mine to the cat. Wait—the moonstone. That’s what it was, the werewolves stole the moonstone. What a load of rubbish. Thank magic we were back before my parents got home.

(Should I tell Mum now? What I know? What Simon is up to?) (No. Simon will be fine. Simon is always fine. And Penny will love bragging to me about their adventures with the numpties. Maybe Baz is their new third wheel. Have fun hanging out with a vampire, Simon! Good job making your life even more stupid and dangerous.)

“I think you can come along with us tonight,” my mother says. She and Helen, our housekeeper, are getting things set up. Our house is first on the party circuit this year. “Since you don’t have Simon to entertain.”

“Mum.”

“Don’t whine, Agatha,” my father says, plucking a crab claw from a platter. He’s on the phone with a patient. “No, no, I’m listening, Balthazar, but it all sounds quite normal. No, I don’t mean Normal—I mean normal.”

I sigh and follow my mother into the kitchen. “But I’m not dressed for a party.”

“Then get dressed.”

“Mum, I’m knackered.”

She’s leaning into the refrigerator. “You’ll get your second wind. Is Simon coming round tomorrow, then?”

I frown and fidget with a tray of prawn cocktails. “I don’t think so.…”

I already told her that Simon was spending Christmas at Watford, but somehow Mum got it in her head that he would still stop by here on Christmas Day. It’s tradition, I suppose.

Maybe I should feel guilty for disinviting him, but I don’t—I tried to take it back tonight.

Mum stands up, holding a sparkling tiered jelly. “I think it’s good that he’s spending the holidays with the Mage,” she says. “As far as I can tell, the Mage usually spends Christmas alone at Watford. He told me once that the holidays were too auspicious to waste on festivities.”

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“Oh, who knows,” she says, handing the jelly off to Helen. “I hope Simon doesn’t end up fasting by moonlight. We’ll have to stuff him with sweetmeats tomorrow.”

“Auspicious…,” I say. “Why is the Mage such a weirdo?”

“Hush, Agatha. Don’t be treasonous.”

“I’m not, I’m just saying—was he always like this?”

“I wouldn’t know,” she says. “We certainly never travelled in the same circles. I can’t even remember him from school.”

I reach for a prawn, but Helen takes the tray away. “Do you remember Professor Bunce?” I ask Mum. “From school?”

“Which one?”

“Either.”

“Martin and Mitali were a few years behind me,” Mum says. She’s getting out another pudding—a huge stacked trifle. “But don’t they have a son even older than you? They started popping them out awfully early—that’s the Bunce influence, I think. I went to Watford with a litter of Bunces, not a one of them powerful enough to be there. That happens, you know, in big families: The magic gets watered down.”

My mother is obsessed with power—who’s got it, who doesn’t. She doesn’t. At least not much. She blames her own mother for marrying down. “My father couldn’t light a match in a rainstorm.”

I’m adequate, magickally speaking. I’m no Simon. Or Baz. Or Penelope. But I get through my lessons just fine.

I know that’s why my parents never had more kids after me; they didn’t want my magic to be diluted—even though Dad says it’s an old wives’ tale that siblings split magic.

I also know my parents are hoping I’ll marry someone more powerful than I am, to get the family back on course.

Before I started dating Simon, I had a secret Normal boyfriend—Sacha. If my mother had known, she would have locked me in a tower. (She probably would have taken away my horse.) I wonder what Sacha is doing these days.…

“So, you wouldn’t have known their friends?” I ask. “Professor Bunce mentioned someone named Lucy, she showed us a photo—”

“Lucy Day?”

“I’m not sure.…”

“Lucy McKenna?”

“She was Professor Bunce’s best friend,” I say. “Butterscotch blond, hair down to her waist. Sort of a boho nouveau look.”

“Darling,” Mum says, helping Helen lift the trifle, “that was everyone in the ’90s.”

“She looked like Baby Spice,” I say. “But with big shoulders.”

“Oh, Lucy Salisbury. Hell’s spells, I haven’t thought of her in years.” Mum stops in front of the fridge and puts her hands on her hips.

“Did you know her?” I ask.

“Of her, yes. She was five or six years younger, but her family went to the club. Darling, you know Lady Salisbury. She plays Black Maria with me. She’ll be here tonight.”

I do know Lady Salisbury. She’s probably my grandmother’s age, but she hangs out with my mother’s set. She tells bawdy jokes and always encourages everyone to eat more cake.

“Would she tell me about her daughter?”

“Dear magic, Agatha, no. What a thing to ask. Everyone knows her daughter was a scandal. And her son was a dud!”

“What kind of scandal?”

“Lucy ran off, just a few years out of Watford. She was the Salisburys’ pride and joy, then she ran off with some man. I heard it was a Normal. Maybe even an American. Ruth—Lady Salisbury—broke down at a charity do, a lawn-bowling tournament for stutterers—and confessed to Natalie Braine that she was worried there might be a child involved. An illegitimate child. That’s the last Ruth’s ever spoken of it. And no one’s seen Lucy, not in our realm, since school.”

“Lucy disappeared?” I say.

“Worse,” Mum says. “She ran away. From magic. Can you imagine?”

“Yes,” I say, then, “no.”

My mother brushes nonexistent crumbs from her hands. “Get changed, darling—the guests will be here any minute.”

I start to walk out of the kitchen, and Mum hands me a stack of hand-embroidered napkins to give to Helen on my way through the dining room. I hand them to Helen without saying anything. I’m too busy thinking.…

“I knew Lucy Salisbury,” Helen says. “We went to school together.”

It’s quite like Helen to wait until my mother isn’t in the room to speak to me. My mother prefers a more formal relationship, but Helen has always treated me like family. (Not close family, more like a niece; I think she prefers Simon.)

“Lucy was a few years older,” Helen says. “All the girls in my year went mad when we heard she’d run away. We thought it was so romantic. And terrifying!”

“Did she really run away?”

“That’s what we heard. Met a man and took off—for California.”

“California!”

“I used to think of her,” Helen says, “with that long, blond hair, lying out on the sand.”

*   *   *

I climb into bed without changing into my party clothes and pull out the stolen photo, holding it up above me.

Lucy Salisbury ran away from magic.

She was dating the most powerful living Mage, the guy who was about to take over the world—and she just ran away.

Professor Bunce said Lucy was a powerful magician in her own right. She could have been the First Lady of magic. Or maybe she could have ruled beside the Mage. And she walked away.

Was there a baby? Did she take the baby with her?

Maybe she’s raising him in the Normal world. Maybe that’s the gift Lucy Salisbury gave herself and her child—not to have to grow up with all this shit. Not to have the Mage as his dad, and a world at war for its inheritance.

That kid got off.

And Simon got stuck with it instead.

69

LUCY

I was happy.

I loved him.

And he was always more good than bad.

He’s still more good than bad, I think. It just goes to show how much of both a person can hold.

We were together by the time we left Watford. Davy had a cottage he’d inherited from his grandmother, and I followed him there. I lied to my parents—they never liked Davy.

He spent most his time reading in those days, and writing letters and pamphlets that he’d send to magickal scholars.

He never felt like seeing friends or just going out. I remember we went to London once to have dinner with Mitali and Martin, to meet their little boy—I wore a long peasant skirt, and I’d spelled flowers into my hair, and I was so happy to see them. To see Mitali.

At first it was good. We were drinking red wine, and I was curled up in a big Papasan chair. And Davy started talking to Mitali about the Coven—she was campaigning for a seat.

“You won’t change anything,” he said. “Nothing will change.”

“I know you think so,” she said. “I’ve read your papers.”

“Have you?” That perked him up. He leaned forward in his chair, dangling his wineglass between his knees. “Then you know that the only answer is revolution.”

“I know that things will only get better if good people fight for what’s important.”

“And you think the Coven cares about ‘good people’ and ‘what’s important’? You think Natasha Grimm-Pitch cares about your idealism?”

“No,” Mitali said. “But if I’m on the Coven, I’ll have as many votes as she does.”

Davy laughed. “The names on the Coven haven’t changed in two hundred years. Only the faces. They might as well carve ‘Pitch’ onto the headmaster’s chair at Watford. All they care about, all any of them care about, is protecting their own power.”

Mitali wasn’t cowed. In her wide-legged jeans and her wine-coloured velvet jacket, her hair falling to her shoulder blades in messy dark curls, she’s the one who looked like a radical. “They’re protecting all our power,” she said. “The whole World of Mages.”

“Are they?” Davy said. “Ask Natasha Grimm-Pitch about suicide rates among low-magicians. Ask your Coven what they’re doing to fight pixie sticks and every other magickal disease that doesn’t affect their own sons and daughters.”

“How is a revolution going to help the pixies?” Mitali huffed. “How is throwing aside centuries of tradition and institutional knowledge going to help any of us?”

“We’ll build better traditions!” Davy shouted. I don’t think he realized he was shouting.

“We’ll write new rules in blood?”

“If need be! Yes! Yes, Mitali—does that frighten you?”

We left shortly after that. I said I had a headache.

Davy was still flushed from the wine, but he wouldn’t let me drive. He didn’t notice me casting Stay the course on him from the passenger seat.

*   *   *

We never went back to London after that.

We rarely left the cottage. We didn’t have a phone, or a television. I bought chickens from the farmer down the road and spelled them not to wander away. I wrote long letters to my mother. All fiction. Davy stayed inside most days with his books.

I called them his books, but they were all stolen from Watford. He’d go back and take more whenever he needed them. He was so powerful, he could make himself nearly invisible.

Sometimes Davy would go away for a few days to meet with other magickal activists. But he always came back more dispirited than when he’d left.

He gave up on a revolution. No one read his papers.

He gave up on everything except the Greatest Mage. I think Davy must have been the greatest Greatest Mage scholar in the history of magic. He knew every prophecy by heart. He wrote them on the stone walls of our cottage, and diagrammed their sentences.

When I brought him his meals, he might ask for my opinion. What did I think this metaphor meant? Had I ever considered that interpretation?

I remember a morning when I interrupted him to bring him eggs and oatmeal. Crowley, we ate so much oatmeal—which I was also feeding to the chickens.

You can extend food with magic, you can make food out of pillows and candles. You can call birds down from the sky and deer in from the fields. But sometimes, there’s nothing.

Sometimes, there was just nothing.

“Lucy,” he said. His eyes were lit from inside. He’d been up all night.

“Good morning, Davy. Eat something.”

“Lucy, I think I cracked it.” He wrapped his arm around my hips and pulled me closer to his chair—and I loved him then.

“What if the oracles kept having the same visions because they weren’t prophecies at all? What if they were instructions? Lucy—what if they’re meant to guide us to change, not foretell it? Here we are, just waiting to be saved, but the prophecies tell us how to save ourselves!”

“How?”

“With the Greatest Mage.”

*   *   *

He left again. He came back with more books.

He came back with pots of oil and blood that wasn’t red. I’m not sure when he slept—not with me.

I went for long walks in the fields. I thought about writing letters to Mitali, but I knew she’d fly here on a broom if I told her the truth, and I wasn’t ready to go.

I never wanted to leave Davy.

So much of this is his fault—I want you to be angry with him. But I never asked to leave. I never asked him to let me go.

I thought … I thought that whatever was coming would be better if I was there with him. I thought it helped him to be tied to me. Like a kite with a string. I thought that as long as I was there, he’d never get carried away completely.

*   *   *

He killed both my chickens.

*   *   *

He crawled into our bed one night, smelling of mud and burnt plastic, and lifted my hair to kiss the back of my neck. “Lucy.”

I rolled over to see him. He was smiling. He looked young, like someone had wiped the bitterness from his face with a warm cloth.

“I’ve got it,” he said, kissing my cheeks, then my forehead. “The Great Mage, Lucy. We can bring him.”

I laughed—I was so happy just to see him happy. I was so happy to have his attention. “How, Davy?”

“Just like this.”

I shook my head. I didn’t understand.

He pushed me onto my back, kissing along my neck. “The two of us. We’ll make him.”

He kept kissing my neck down into my nightshirt.

“Are you talking about a baby, Davy?”

He pulled his head up and grinned. “Who better than us?” he said. “To raise our saviour?”