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’sthe 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 themhisbooks, 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 thinkthismetaphor meant? Had I ever consideredthatinterpretation?
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.
