Wayward Son (Simon Snow, #2)(43)

I suppose it doesn’t matter. I’m not a part of that world anymore.

Penny is singing now. Sort of. Her voice is flat and talky: “I once was lost, but now am found.”

Baz sings louder, like he’s trying to fill in her gaps. “Was blind, but now I see. Again, Bunce. Amazing grace…”

Baz hunted just outside of Denver, but he’s as grey as I’ve ever seen him, and his nose is still sooty from those days in the sun. (He went black instead of red.) Penny tried to spell away the skunk spray, but he still smells of brimstone. All his clothes are lost or ruined.… It’s like America is taking bites out of Baz. Taking a swing at him every time it gets a chance.

He makes Penny sing the verse three times. (Her voice gets looser every time.) Then they open their eyes and look at each other. She smiles. “All right, you win. That was cool, even if it doesn’t work.…” She looks around. “Are we supposed to wait?”

“I don’t know, maybe for a minute.” He looks around. “Come on, stuff, find us.”

The forest is quiet. Or, I suppose, it’s noisy like a forest—wind and branches and moving water. This place is probably crawling with dryads.

Then we hear it—something whizzing closer.

Penelope’s mobile drops between us. She laughs. “It worked!”

Her hand darts over the phone, and she casts, “Without a trace!” before picking it up. “Hopefully that’ll keep anything from tracking us.”

Baz stands and looks out in the direction that Penny’s mobile came from.

Penny is checking her texts and missed calls. “No one seems to have tampered with it. I mean, who knows, maybe it’s been sitting in the Mustang this whole time. Or they could have magickally hacked it. Oh—finally, Agatha.” Penny puts the phone to her ear.

Baz is frustrated. “Be fair,” he says to the forest, hands on his hips. “The hymn was my idea.”

“Oh, no. Oh, Simon—”

Baz and I both turn to Penny, who’s let her hand drop to the ground. She looks as pale as Baz.

“What’s wrong?” Baz asks, as his suitcase hits him squarely on the back.



* * *



Penny puts her mobile on speaker, and plays the voicemail so we can all hear it:

“Penelope? It’s me. Agatha.”

She’s whispering.

“Sorry I haven’t got back to you. I know you’ve called … a lot. I mean, I’m not that sorry because I did tell you not to call so much. I don’t even like to talk on the phone. But…”

Agatha’s voice sounds cornered. Like she’s calling from inside a wardrobe. Or a bathroom. Maybe a car.

“I just thought that I’d check in. I’m at a fancy retreat. I think I told you about my friend? Ginger? It was her idea. It’s this group—I don’t know if it’s a group or a programme—they call themselves NowNext.

“I thought it was all self-help bollocks.… Maybe it is.…

“But maybe it isn’t.”

The way she’s whispering, so close to the phone, it’s like she’s right there with us.

“There’s this guy …

“Crowley. Did I really call you to talk about a boy? Never mind, Penny. I’m fine.

“It’s just … There are just days when I wish I had my wand with me. In that security blanket way. I guess today is one of them.

“I hope you’re not on your way to San Diego. I did tell you I’d be gone.

“Anyway—”

A man’s voice cuts her off. He’s not whispering: “Agatha? Are you ready?”

“Braden.” Agatha isn’t whispering anymore. “Just a second.…”

There’s a noise like rubbing fabric. And then the man sounds muffled. “Were you on your phone?”

“No. Of course not.”

“You know the rules.” His voice is moving farther away. “No distractions.”

Agatha is farther away, too: “I just needed a moment to myself.”

“I thought I heard you talking—”

“I was practising my mantras.”

A door opens and closes, and then there’s silence.

“That’s it,” Penny says. “The message goes on like that for five minutes—I think Agatha’s in trouble. Really!”

“It sounds like she’s at some expensive yoga retreat,” Baz says. He’s gone back to looking at his suitcase. His apparently empty suitcase.

Penelope frowns. “Where she can’t have her phone?”

“It’s called a social-media cleanse.”

“No.” Penny’s firm. “I know Agatha. She’d rather kiss a troll than call and talk to me on the phone.”

“Then why do you ever call her, Bunce?” Baz is shaking out his suitcase.

“Because I worry! Because she’s like a lamb who’s wandered away from the flock.”

“Is the flock England?” I ask.

“The flock is magic!” she says. “If one of you wandered away from magic, I wouldn’t just let you go.”

“I’m not a magician anymore, Penelope.”

“You’re still a magician, Simon. Aeroplanes don’t stop being aeroplanes when they’re on the ground.”