“Mum’s the word, mum’s the word!”
I imagined my words finding them, my daughter and her child, and acting as another blanket of protection pulled tight over their shoulders.
But now . . .
Now Davy is gone. The Mage is dead.
You can come home now, Lucy.
I stand over two candles, the old one flickering, the new one burning strong. I pour a glass of wine.
Come home, child, I need your help. Come home to me.
Help me find your brother.
2
SIMON
“But . . . that can’t be right. Ikilledthe Mage.”
I’m sitting in Dr. Wellbelove’s study. When Agatha told her parents she was coming home, they insisted that I come, too, for dinner—and it’s been proper awkward so far.
She and I sat in our old places—next to each other, on the same side of the table—and her mum kept looking at us like she couldn’t decide whether to be disappointed or relieved that we aren’t together anymore.
Agatha and I were supposed to be a sure thing. I think her mum had already planned our wedding.
But we were a sure thing back whenIwas a sure thing, back when I still had magic—when I still hadallthe magic—and a calling.
And before I got stuck with giant fucking dragon wings.
Mrs. Wellbelove was appalled when she asked for my jacket and saw what was lurking underneath. At least she didn’t have to see the tail, too—I’d taken the time to wrap that down the leg of my jeans. (So uncomfortable. My leg gets chafed, and my tail goes numb, and I have to wear baggy jeans that make me look like someone’s dad.)
Dinner wasendless.Agatha refused to make small talk, and her parents didn’t know where to start. Everything about me is something no one wants to talk about. Hard to ignore the elephant in the room when you’re making chatwiththe elephant.
I finished my dessert, Eton mess, in three bites, then Dr. Wellbelove invited me into his study. That’s where he likes to have serious talks. The Wellbeloves have been something like a surrogate family for me (something a little more distant than that—like a surrogate surrogate family) ever since I joined the World of Mages. They used to invite me here for school breaks and holidays, even before Agatha and I started dating. And Dr. Wellbelove has always tried to talk to me about father-son things. He sat me down in this very study when I was 12 to tell me about the birds and the bees. (Though I feel now that he left out some pretty crucial information.)
Tonight, he took the seat behind his big glass-topped desk and got a stack of papers out of a drawer. “Simon, I’ve been waiting to talk to you until all the legalities of the Mage’s estate were sorted . . .”
Legalities. “Sir—am I being arrested?”
Dr. Wellbelove looked up from the papers. “Arrested?”
“For the Mage’s death.”
He took off his reading glasses. “Simon, no. No one is getting arrested. The Mage’s death was an accident.”
“Sort of . . .” I said.
“It was certainly self-defence.”
I nodded, miserably.
Dr. Wellbelove put his glasses back on and looked down at the papers. “The Mage—Davy—David—”
“David?”
“His estate has been settled now.”
