say.
âHello, Simon.â
âHow was your summer?â
She gives me a look like she canât believe how lame that question is, but also like sheâs kind of relieved to make small talk. âGood,â she says, âquiet.â
âDid you travel?â I ask.
âOnly for events.â
Agathaâs a show jumper. Competitively. I think she wants to jump for Great Britain someday. Or maybe ride? I know jack-all about horses. She tried to get me on a horse once, and I chickened out.
âSimon, you canât be scared of this horse. Youâve slain dragons.â
âWell, Iâm not afraid to slay it, am I? You want me to ride it.â
âAny luck?â I ask now.
âSome,â she says. âMostly skill.â
âAh.â I nod my head. âRight. Sorry.â
I sort of hate to talk to Agatha about horse stuffâand not because Iâm afraid of them. Itâs just one more thing Iâll never get right. All that posh crap. Regattas and galas and, I donât know, polo matches. Agathaâs mum has hats that look like wedding cakes.
Itâs too much. Iâve got enough to deal with, trying to figure out what it means to be a magicianâIâll never pass as to the manner born.
Maybe Agatha would be better off with Baz after all.â¦
If he werenât evil.
I must look like Iâm fuming, because she clears her throat uncomfortably. âDo you want me to go?â
âNo,â I say. âNo. Iâm glad to see you.â
âYou havenât actually looked at me,â she says.
So I look at her.
Sheâs beautiful.
And I want her. I want everything to be fine.
âLook, Simon. I know you sawââ
I cut her off. âI didnât see anything.â
âWell, I saw you, â she says. Her voice sharpens: âAnd Penelope, andââ
I cut her off again. âNo, I meanâ¦â Iâm not doing this right. âI did see you. In the Wood. And I saw ⦠him. But itâs all right. I know you wouldnâtâwell, I know you wouldnât, Agatha. And it doesnât matter, anyway. It was months ago.â
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 sheâs a fairy. (Sheâs 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.)
âBut, Simon, we have to ⦠I mean, shouldnât we talk about this?â
âIâd rather just move on,â I say. âItâs not important. And itâs justâAgatha, itâs so good to see you.â I reach for her hand.
She lets me take it. âItâs good to see you, too, Simon.â
I smile.
She almost smiles back.
Â
13
AGATHA
It is good to see him, itâs always good to see him.
Itâs always such a relief.
I think about it sometimes, what it will be like the time that he doesnât come back.
Someday Simon isnât going to come back.
Everyone knows itâI think even the Mage knows it. (Penelope knows, but she doesnât believe.)
Itâs just ⦠Itâs 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 canât keep surviving; thereâve been too many close calls.
Nobodyâs that strong.
Nobodyâs that lucky.
Someday he wonât come back, and Iâll be one of the first people they tell. Iâve thought it out because I know that however I react, it wonât be enough.
Simonâs the Chosen One. And he chose me. And even though I love himâwe grew up together, he spends every Christmas at my house, I do love himâit isnât enough. Whatever I feel isnât enough; it wonât be enough, when I