I keep it up. “What was that?”
“You don’t know?”
“Penelope.”
“She got a Visiting. Lucky kid.”
“What?” I sheathe the blade. “What kind of visiting?”
“Simon, the Veil is lifting. I know you know about this. We studied it in Magickal History.”
I make a face and sit down again, trying to decide whether I’m done with my lunch.
“‘And on the Twentieth Turn,’” Penny says, “‘when the year wanes, and night and day sit in peace across the table—the Veil will lift. And any who have light to cast may cross it, though they may not tarry. Greet them with joy and with trust, for their mouths, though dead, speak truth.’”
She’s using her quoting voice, so I know it’s from some ancient text or another.
“You’re not helping,” I say.
“The Veil is lifting,” she says again. “Every twenty years, dead people can talk to the living if they have something that really needs to be said.”
“Oh…,” I say, “I guess maybe I have heard of that—I thought it was a myth.”
“One would think, after seven years, you’d stop saying that out loud.”
“Well, how am I supposed to know? There isn’t a book, is there? All the Magickal Things that Are Actually True and All the Ones that Are Bollocks, Just Like You Thought.”
“You’re the only magician who wasn’t raised with magic. You’re the only one who would read a book like that.”
“Father Christmas isn’t real,” I say, “but the Tooth Fairy is. There’s no rhyme or reason to this stuff.”
“Well, the Veil is totally real,” Penny says. “It’s what keeps souls from walking.”
“But it’s lifting now?” I feel like getting my sword out again.
“The autumnal equinox is coming,” she says, “when day and night are the same length. The Veil thins, then lifts—sort of like fog. And people come back to tell us things.”
“All of us?”
“I wish. People only come back if they have something important to say. Something true. It’s like they come back to testify.”
“That sounds … dramatic.”
“My mother says her aunt came back twenty years ago to tell them about a hidden treasure. Mum’s kind of hoping she’ll come back again this time to tell us more.”
“What kind of treasure?”
“Books.”
“Of course.” I decide to finish my sandwich. And Penny’s boiled egg.
“But sometimes,” she says, “it’s scandalous. People come back to reveal affairs. Murders. The theory is, you have a better shot of crossing over if your message serves justice.”
“How can anyone know that?”
“It’s just a theory,” Penny says. “But if Aunt Beryl comes to me, I’m going to ask her as much as I can before she fades out again.”
I look back across the hall. “I wonder what that girl’s granny told her.”
Penny laughs and stacks her dishes. “Probably her secret toffee recipe.”
“So these Visitors … they’re not zombies?” It doesn’t hurt to be sure about these things.
“No, Simon. They’re harmless. Unless you’re afraid of the truth.”
10
THE MAGE
I should make him go. I could.
He’s not a child anymore, but he would still take an order.
I promised to take care of him.
How do you keep a promise like that? To take care of a child, when the child is the greatest power you know …
And what does it mean to take care of power? Do you use it? Conserve it? Keep it out of the wrong hands?
I’d thought I could be of more help to Simon, especially by now. Help him come into his power. Help him take hold of it.
There must be a spell for him.… Magic words that would fortify him. A ritual that would make the power itself manageable. I haven’t found it yet, but that doesn’t mean that it isn’t out there. That it doesn’t exist!
And if I do find it …
Is it enough to stabilize his power, if I can’t stabilize the boy?
This isn’t in the prophecies; there’s nothing about headstrong children.
I could hide Simon from the Humdrum itself.
I could hide him from everything he isn’t ready to face.
I could—I should! I should order him to go away—he’d still do it. He’d still listen to me.
But what if he didn’t.…
Simon Snow, would I lose you completely?
11
LUCY
Hear me.
* * *
He was the first of his family at Watford, the first with enough power to get past the trials. He came all by himself, all the way from Wales, on the train.
David.
We called him Davy. (Well, some of us just called him daft.)
And he didn’t have any friends—I don’t think he ever had any friends. I don’t even think I was his friend, not at first.
I was just the only one listening.
“World of Mages,” he’d say. “What world, I ask you—what world? This isn’t a school; schools educate people—schools lift people up—do you understand me?”
“I’m getting an education,” I said.
“You are, aren’t you?” His blue eyes glinted. There was always a fire in his eyes. “You get power. You get the secret password. Because your father had it, and your grandfather. You’re in the club.”