The best new spells are practical and enduring. Catchphrases are usually crap; mundane people get tired of saying them, then move on. (Spells go bad that way, expire just as we get the hang of them.) Songs are dicey for the same reason.
Almost never does a Watford student actually create a spell that takes hold.
But my mother was only a seventh year when she worked out “The lady’s not for turning”—and it’s still an incredibly useful spell in combat, especially for women. (Which Mum’s a bit ashamed of, I think. To have a spell taught in the Mage’s Offence workshops.)
Simon’s been trying a new phrase every week since the beginning of term. His heart’s not in it, and I don’t really blame him. Even tried-and-true spells hiccup in his wand. And sometimes when he casts metaphors, they go viciously literal. Like when he cast “Hair of the dog” on Agatha during sixth year to help her get over a hangover, and instead covered her with dog hair. I think that’s the last time Simon pointed his wand at a person. And the last time Agatha had a drink.
He brushes the rubble off the stump and sits down, shoving his wand in his pocket. “Baz isn’t the only one missing.”
“What do you mean?” I hold my ring hand over some chess pieces I’ve set on the ground.“The game is on!”
The bishop falls over.
I try again.“The game is afoot!”
Nothing happens.
“This phrase has got to be good for something,” I say. “It’s ShakespeareplusSherlock Holmes.”
“The Mage told me that the Old Families have been pulling their sons out of school,” Simon says. “Two seventh-year boys didn’t come back. And Marcus, Baz’s cousin, is gone. He’s only a sixth year.”
“Which one is Marcus?”
“Fit. Blond streaks in his hair. Midfielder.”
I shrug and stoop to pick up the chess pieces. I’m being fairly literal myself at the moment, because I’ve tried everything else with this phrase. I feel like it could be a good beginning spell—a catalyst… “Is it just boys who haven’t come back?” I ask.
“Huh,” Simon says. “Dunno. The Mage didn’t say.”
“He’s such a sexist.” I shake my head. “Marcus—is he the one who got trapped in a dumbwaiter our fourth year?”
“Yeah.”
“That one’s joined the other side, eh? Well, I’m shaking in my boots.”
“The Mage thinks the Families are getting ready for some big strike.”
“What does he want us to do about it?”
“He doesn’t,” Simon says.
I slip the chess pieces in my pocket. “What do you mean?”
“Well, he still wants me to leave—”
I must frown, because Simon raises his eyebrows and says, “Iknow,Penny—I’m not going anywhere. But if I stay here, then he wants me to lie low. He wantsusto lie low. He says his Men are working on it, and it’s delicate.”
“Hmm.” I sit next to Simon on the tree stump. I have to admit, I sort of love the idea of lying low—of letting the Mage get up to his mad business without us for once. But I don’t like to betoldto lie low. Neither does Simon. “Do you think Baz is with these other boys?” I ask.
“Makes sense, doesn’t it?”
I don’t say anything. I really, really hate to talk to Simon about Baz. It’s like talking to the Mad Hatter about tea. I hate to encourage him.
He knocks some bark off the stump with the back of his heel.
I lean into him, because I’m cold and he’s always warm. And because I like to remind him that I’m not afraid of him.
“It makes sense,” he says.
