“. . .andI was right about it.”
She pulls her eyebrows down so far that they disappear behind her sunglasses. “Is it important for you to be right?”
“Not usually. But about hair, yes.”
“It’s more practical to wear it this way,” she says.
“And it looks much better.”
She shrugs.
“Hell’s spells,” I say, “you could just say ‘thank you’! ‘Thank you for the compliment and the good advice’!”
Niamh is squinting at the road. A lock of her hair has fallen onto her forehead. It’s intolerable. She’s intolerable. “I thanked the person who cut it,” she says.
The road outside Watford is lined with cars. Dozens of them. “What’s going on here today?” I ask.
Niamh parks the Fiesta in the grass. “Some sort of ‘Chosen One’ thing,” she says, getting out.
I climb out after her. “What Chosen One?”
“The new Greatest Mage . . .”
“There’s a new Greatest Mage?”
“Purportedly.” Niamh is getting her gear out of the back of the car. She looks irritated.
“You’re not convinced?”
She slings a bag around her neck. “I’m convinced that most magicians would rather let some mystical saviour solve their problems than do any work.”
“How can there just be a new Chosen One all of a sudden . . . Do we get to vote on this? We should get to vote on this.”
Niamh harrumphs and swings the hatchback closed. “There’s no voting. It’s prophecy.”
“It’s dogshit,” I say, falling into step beside her.
“I thought you were just now hearing about it.”
“I’ve heard enough about the Chosen One for ten lifetimes. It’salldogshit.”
When we get to the Watford gates, they’re hanging open. I can’t remember them being open before. They usually swing shut on their own with a heavy clang. We walk through, and I close them behind us.
Niamh is carrying more supplies than usual, just in case the doe is in labour. I try to help, but she shrugs me off.
I’ve been reading about goat birthing online—it would be better if we could get the doe into a barn. Maybe Niamh has a plan. “Have you ever delivered a goat before?”
“No,” she says. “But I’ve delivered a cow. And several dogs. And a gryphon.”
“You did say you wanted variety . . .”
“I’ve also delivered a baby.”
“What kind of baby?”
“A human baby. A magician.”
“Well,” I say, “aren’t you useful.”
