“All right.” I sigh. I’m wrung out. So is he. We can talk about this tomorrow. I’m glad to have tomorrow at least. I’m glad to be here tonight. It’s just . . . “It’s just . . . Simon, how do youknowhis spell didn’t work?”
He makes a fist in my hair. “Because I felt it. I felt it not working.”
SIMON
Smith’s building was quiet. Everyone was still out celebrating his big announcement. He took me into his office, and we sat in two folding chairs, facing each other.
“What are you going to do first?” he asked. “When you get your magic back?” He was wearing a shirt the colour of his eyes, with a little scarf that made him look like he spent the day on a racing sailboat. Maybe he did.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t even have a wand anymore.”
“I have an extra you can have.”
“You have an extra wand?”
“I inherited my grandfather’s—and both of my parents’. I use my mother’s.” He flicked his wrist, and his wand slid out of his sleeve into his palm. That’s how Baz wears his wand sometimes; he has a holster that straps to his forearm. It’s dead sexy when he takes off his shirt.
“Are you nervous?” Smith asked.
“Yeah,” I said, “I suppose I don’t want to let you down.”
He laughed. “You won’t let me down, Simon. This is about helping you. Are you ready?”
“Sure.” I was as ready as I was going to get. “Yeah, Smith. Let’s do it.”
Smith sat a little straighter. He held out his left hand to me, and I took it. (I’m not used to touching someone who’s as warm as I am; he felt almost feverish.) Then he pointed his wand at my chest.
Even in that moment, I was telling myself not to get my hopes up, that the spell wouldn’t work. But I’dseenSmith cure other people. I couldn’t help but think itmightwork . . .
“Simon Snow,” Smith said in his onstage voice, like I wasn’t his only audience. “You’ve given so much to the World of Mages. Too much. It’s time for you to step back into the light.Let it all out!”
I felt it right away. Smith’s magic hit me at my core and then moved outward. It was like a bubble growing in me, filling me up, pushing against my skin, then popping.
He was smiling at me. “How do you feel?”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Here.” He handed me his wand. “Try a spell. Start with something simple.”
“Um . . .” Was there anything simple? Was there a spell I could count on? I let go of him to shift the wand into my dominant hand. It was pale wood with some sort of stone inlaid in the handle. It looked like a pool cue.
I pointed the wand, and Smith laughed, moving my wrist, so that I was pointing out into the room and not directly at him.
“Light of day!”I cast. That was a spell I could usually cast before; it’s one of the first spells they teach kids. Nothing happened. I tried another children’s spell.“Sparks fly!”Nothing.
“Let’s try . . .” Smith stood up and walked to his desk. He unlocked a drawer and pulled out a different wand, made of milky green glass. “This.”
I traded him for it. It was heavy. “I’ve never seen a glass wand before.”
“It was my father’s. Now, take a deep breath, Simon. Remember that intention counts. And conviction.”
I got to my feet and pointed the glass wand away from us. I tried to believe in it. In me. In Smith. I imagined the end of the wand lighting up like a candle.“Light of day!”
Nothing.
I took a deep breath. I held the wand more firmly. I pictured Baz back in Magic Words class, standing with his chin up and his shoulders back. I pictured every consonant as I pronounced them—“Fire burn and cauldron bubble!”
More nothing.
