82
SIMON
As I reach the door to the White Chapel, every window explodes. It sounds like the world is ending, and it’s made of glass.
I hope I’m not too late…
To stop whatever needs to be stopped.
To help whoever needs to be helped.
I run into the Chapel, behind the pulpit. Then I think about the Mage, and find my way to a room at the back, with a trapdoor hanging open in the ceiling. I flutter my wings—I still have wings—and catch the edge of the opening, hauling myself up.
It’s a round room, ruined now, and the Mage is kneeling in the centre, his eyes closed and his shoulders heaving. There’s someone lying on the ground below him—and for a breath, I think it might be Baz. But Baz went to the numpties; I know he did.
Whoever it is on the floor, it means it’s all started.
I clear my throat and rest my hand on my hip. The blade appears without the incantation. It’s like the whole world is justreactingto me. I don’t even have tothink.
I don’t have to think.
The Mage has his hands on the person’s chest. There’s a haze of deep magic around them, and he’s chanting. It takes me a minute to recognize the song…
“Easy come, easy go. Little high, little low.”
I step forward quietly; I don’t want to interrupt him in the middle of a spell. Especially if he’s trying to revive someone.
“Carry on, carry on,”the Mage sings.
One more silent step, and I see that it’s Ebb beneath him—I cry out, I can’t help it.
The Mage’s head turns, his lips still murmuring Queen lyrics.
“Simon!” he says, so startled that he pulls his hands away.
“Don’t stop,” I say, falling on my knees. “Help her.”
“Simon,” the Mage says again.
Blood flows out of Ebb’s chest.
“Help her!” I say. “She’s dying!”
“I can’t,” the Mage says. “But, Simon. You’re here. I can still help you.”
He reaches for me, his hands wet with Ebb’s blood. And I know I have to tell him now. I stand jerkily, pulling away from him.
The Mage picks up his blade—it’s bloody, too—and stands with me. His head is split open above his ear, bleeding down his neck and shoulder.
“You’re hurt, sir. I can help.”
He shakes his head, staring just past me. I think he’s freaked out by my wings, but I’m not sure I can put them away right now.
“I’m fine, Simon,” he says.
It’s too late, I’ve already thought about making him better: The gash above his ear heals from the outside in, mending itself.
His hand goes to his head. His eyes widen.“Simon.”
