Wayward Son (Simon Snow, #2)(7)

That was … months ago. The girl with the nose ring. Us holding hands. It was snowing.

I think about taking Baz’s hand now—I reach out, but he picks up a magazine and starts flipping through it.

Eight hours in the air. Penny says we can watch films. And that they’ll bring us food constantly. She says we’ll forget we’re over the ocean after a few minutes, and it’ll just be boring.

We’re flying into Chicago, so that Penny can see Micah. She’s hoping he’ll decide to come along with us on our road trip. “He says he has to work. But maybe he’ll change his mind.”

Baz’s knees are pressed up against the seat ahead of him. (All his height’s in his legs. Torso-to-torso, we’re the same height. I might even be taller.) The person sitting there pushes her seat back, and Baz yelps.

“You could magic yourself more space,” I say.

“Can’t. I’m saving my magic.” He angles his knees towards mine. “Just in case I have to ‘Float like a butterfly’ this entire plane.”





7





PENELOPE


I’ve been dating Micah since he came to Watford as an American exchange student our fourth year.

America doesn’t have magickal schools of its own. Most countries don’t. Sometimes foreign families send their kids to Watford for a year for the cultural experience. “And because no one offers the magickal foundation we do,” Mum likes to say. “No one.” (She’s Watford’s headmistress now, and she’s very proud.) American children go to Normal schools and learn their magic at home. “Imagine learning only the spells your parents can teach you. No elocution, no linguistics, no forensics.”

Micah’s elocution is very good—and he’s bilingual, so he can cast in Spanish. (That only works in Spanish-speaking areas, but Spanish is a growing language!)

I know everyone at Watford thought that Micah was basically my imaginary boyfriend all these years, but for us, it was very real. We communicated by letter and email. We Skyped. And then we FaceTimed. We even talked on the phone sometimes.

We went three years without seeing each other in person. Then, two years ago, I spent the summer with Micah’s family in Chicago, and as real as our relationship was before, it became more real.

I would have gone back to visit him after we finished school; I was going to. But we were all in a state of shock, with the Humdrum gone and the Mage dead. (I didn’t even go back to Watford our final term. Miss Possibelf came to London to give me my exams.) Simon was shattered. I couldn’t bugger off to Chicago and leave him alone—he was already more alone than ever.

Anyway, Micah was cool about it all. He agreed that my staying in London was the best thing for the time being. The plan was, I’d come visit him, just as soon as things got better. We both agreed.

We didn’t have a plan for if they got worse.





8





AGATHA


I thought the retreat would be at a hotel. But Josh drives us to a gated house inside a gated community. He’s got a sports car that doesn’t make any noise and doesn’t use any fuel and doesn’t have much of a back seat.

“This neighbourhood is almost all NowNext members,” he says. “Most of the founders live here.”

Ginger looks impressed. I try to look polite.

We’re greeted by a competent young woman, covered in tattoos and thoroughly pierced. She’s the most decorative thing in the house. All of the NowNext meetings are in places like this: cavernous homes, minimally adorned. This one is the most cavernous, most minimal yet—like someone’s making a real show of how much space they have to fill with nothing. My mum would go blind from the lack of upholstery and wall decor.

Personally, I’d rather be at a hotel than this big, empty house; when Ginger and I get to our room, the door doesn’t have a lock.

“I don’t know why you’re unpacking,” I say to her. “I know you’ll be staying with Josh.”

“Nope,” she says. “It’s members-only in that wing of the house. You’re stuck with me every night.”

Ginger doesn’t want to miss a minute of the retreat’s programming. She drags me to the welcome party out on the deck. We drink champagne cocktails, and no one asks me if I’m 21. (I’m four months shy.) It’s mostly men here. A few women. All the vested members wear gold pins—little figure eights. (The pins remind me of a relic my parents keep in our bathroom, a silver snake eating its tail, that’s supposed to keep basilisks from coming up the pipes.) After the welcome party, there’s meditation in one room and an investing seminar in another. Ginger and Josh and I choose to meditate. I like meditation. It’s quiet, at least.

Then we’re all supposed to gather for a big keynote talk—“The Myth of Mortality”—in one of the ballroom-sized sitting rooms. Whoever lives here must own fifty sofas, all of them black or white or creamy nothing-coloured. And all so sleek that they keep their shape even when you’re sitting on them.

I spend twenty minutes fidgeting. It’s practically like being at church. The guy talking says that Normals—well, human beings—were put on this earth to live forever, and it’s only sin and shame and environmental factors that got in the way. He has Ginger at “environmental factors.”