“Her son, 5-year-old Tyrannus Basilton, was shaken, but unharmed. His father, Malcolm Grimm, has taken the boy to the family home in Hampshire to recover.
“The Coven is convened in an emergency meeting as of this writing to discuss the attack on Watford; the escalation of the dark creature problem; and the appointment of an interim headmaster.
“There have been calls to close the school until our struggles with the dark creatures are sorted—and even suggestions that we join the Americans and Scandinavians in mainstreaming our children into Normal schools.
“There are more articles about that,” I say, “about what to do with Watford. I’ve read a few months’ worth. Lots of meetings and debates and editorials. Until the Mage took over in February.”
Baz is staring past me into nothing. His hair is in his eyes, his arms are folded, and he’s holding his own elbows. I try the comforting thing again—actually resting my hand on his shoulder this time. “It’s okay,” I say.
He laughs. A dry bark. “That might be the one thing itisn’t.Okay.”
“No. I mean, it’s okay that you’re not okay. Whatever you’re feeling is okay.”
He stands up, shaking off my hand. “Is that what your friends tell you every time you blow up another chunk of school grounds? Because they’re lying to you. It isn’t okay. And it won’t be. So far, it’s only ever been a sign of more bad things to come.Youwon’t be okay, will you, Snow?”
I feel a wave of red shoot up my back and shoulders, and I clamp down on it, deliberately walking away from him. “This isn’t about me.”
“I wouldn’t think so,” he snarls, “but I’ve been wrong before. It’s always about you around here.”
I drop the book on my desk and make for the door. I should have known this wouldn’t work. He’s such an unforgivable twat, even when he’s being completely pathetic.
***
“I thought you were studying,” Penelope says.
She’s got her laptop out on a dining table and papers spread around her. There’s a pot of tea, but I’m sure it’s gone cold.
I lay my hand on the teapot and cast,“Some like it hot!”I hear the tea bubbling, and a hairline crack shoots down from the lid. “I was helping Baz with something,” I say, “but now I’m done. For good.”
She wrinkles her nose at the cracked teapot as I pour myself a cup. I can tell what she’s thinking—Now,thatshouldn’t happen—then she jerks her head up and wrinkles her nose at me. “You were helping Baz with something?”
“Yes. It was a mistake.” I sit and gulp down some tea. It burns my tongue.
“Why were you helpingBazwith something?”
“Long story.”
“I have nothing but time, Simon.”
That’s when we hear the first scream. I stand up, knocking the table over and breaking the teapot more conclusively.
Kids are running into the dining hall from the courtyard. They’re all screaming. I catch a first year running past me, practically lifting her by the arm. “What is it?”
“Dragon!” she cries. “The Humdrum sent a dragon!”
My sword is in my hand, and I’m already running for the door. I know Penny’s right behind me.
The courtyard outside is empty, but there are scorch marks on the fountain and a stripe of blackened earth. And I can feel the Humdrum in the air—the empty sucking feeling, the dry itch of him. Most Watford students recognize that feeling by now; it’s as good as a siren.
I keep running through the first and second gates, and a wave of heat hits me in the archway as I’m about to step onto the drawbridge. A wall of hot breath. I hold my arm in front of my face and feel Penny grab the back of my shirt. She reaches her ring hand over my shoulder.“U can’t touch this!”
“What’s that?” I shout at her.
“Barrier spell. It won’t work unless the dragon knows the song.”
“How would the dragon know that song?”
“I’m doing my best, Simon!”
