He managed it. His revolution.
He opened these doors to every child blessed with magic.
19
SIMON
It’s almost Halloween before I finally talk to the Mage.
He calls for me himself. A robin flies into Greek and drops a note onto my desk. The Mage often has a bird or two flapping around him. Robins, mostly. And wrens and sparrows. (Like Snow White.) He’d rather cast “A little bird told me” than use his mobile.
When class is over, I head towards an outbuilding at the far end of the grounds, up against the outer wall. There are stables back there that have been turned into a garage and barracks.
His Men are outside—Penny says she’d like the Mage’s Men better if there were a few women among them—and they’re gathered around a big green truck I’ve never seen before, something like a military truck with canvas walls. One of them is holding a metal box. They’re taking turns reaching for it and watching their hands pass right through.
“Simon,” the Mage says, stepping out of the garage. He puts his arm around my shoulder and leads me away from the truck. “Here you are.”
“I would have come right away, sir, but I was in class. And the Minotaur said you would have sent a larger bird if it were an emergency.”
The Mage frowns. “The spell doesn’t work with larger birds.”
“I know, sir. I’m sorry. He wouldn’t listen.”
“Well.” He claps my shoulder. “It wasn’t an emergency. I just wanted to see you. To check on you. Miss Possibelf told me about the attack, the bugs—she said it was the Humdrum.”
Flibbertigibbets. In Magic Words class. A whole swarm of them. I’d never evenseena swarm of flibbertigibbets before.
We call them bugs because they’re about the size of bumblebees, but flibbertigibbets are more like birds. One can kill a dog or a goat or a gryphon. Two or three can take down a magician. They burrow into your ears and buzz so loud, you can’t think. First you lose your mind—and then they get to your brain, and you lose everything else.
Flibbertigibbets don’t attack people, not usually. But they came in through the classroom window last week and surrounded me like a chattering orange cloud. The worst part was that dry, sucking feeling that always accompanies the Humdrum’s attacks.
Everybody else in the class ran.
“It felt like the Humdrum, sir. But why would he send flibbertigibbets? They’re hardly a threat.”
“Not for you, certainly.” The Mage rubs his beard. “Maybe he just wants to remind us that he’s out there. What’d you hit them with?”
“Dead in the air.”
“Well done, Simon.”
“I… I think I killed some other things, too. Ebb found pheasants in the field. And Rhys had a parakeet…”
The Mage glances at the robin flitting above his shoulder, then squeezes my arm. “You did what you had to. And no one was hurt. Did you see the nurse?”
“I’m fine, sir.” I step closer. “Sir. I was hoping—I mean. Have you made any progress? With the Humdrum? I see the Men coming and going. But I don’t—I could help. Penelope and me. We could help.”
His hand slips from my shoulder, and he rests it on his hip. “There’s nothing to report on that front. No breakthroughs, no attacks. Just the constant widening of the holes. I almost wish the Humdrumwouldshow his face again”—I shudder at the memory of that face; the Mage goes on—“to remind these backwards fools what we’re really up against.”
I look over his shoulder at the truck. The Men have been carrying boxes past us the whole time we’ve been talking.
“Sir, did you get my note?”
He narrows his eyes. “About the missing Pitch boy.”
“About my roommate. He still hasn’t come back.”
The Mage rubs his beard with the back of his leather glove. “You’re right to be concerned, I think. The Old Families are closing ranks, calling their sons home, bolting their gates. They’re readying to make a move against us.”
