“Compelling argument, Pen.” I spread butter on my third ham and cheese roll. My hands are shaking.
“No. Simon. You can’t just go away. You shouldn’t. Look, if you’re a target, then I’m the most at risk. I spend the most time with you.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean, look at me—I’m fine.”
I look at her.
“I’mfine,Simon. Even Baz is fine, and he’s constantly stuck with you.”
“I feel like you’re glossing over all the times you’ve nearly died just because you were with me. The Humdrum kidnapped me a few months ago, and you got dragged along.”
“Thank Morgana I did.”
She’s looking in my eyes, so I try not look away. Sometimes I’m glad Penny wears glasses; her eye contact is so fierce, it’s good to have a buffer.
“I told the Mage no,” I repeat.
“Good.” she says. “Keep telling him.”
“Nan!”A little girl’s shout tears through our conversation, and I’m already whispering the incantation to summon my blade. Across the hall, the girl—a second or third year—is running towards a shimmery figure at the door.
“Oh…” Penelope says, awed.
The figure fades in and out, like Princess Leia’s hologram. When the girl reaches it—it looks like an older woman in a white trouser suit—it kneels down and catches her. They huddle together in the archway. Then the figure fades out completely. The girl stands, shaking, and a few of her friends run to her, jumping up and down.
“So cool,” Penelope says. She turns to me and sees my blade. “Great snakes, Simon, put that away.”
I keep it up. “Whatwasthat?”
“You don’t know?”
“Penelope.”
“She got a Visiting. Lucky kid.”
“What?” I sheathe the blade. “What kind of visiting?”
“Simon, theVeilis 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 theonlymagician who wasn’t raised with magic. You’re the only one who would read a book like that.”
