“You won’t be able to see Watford from outside the gates,” Penny says automatically.
“What’s that thing up there? That kinda looks like a walled city?”
I look out the front window. At the fortress walls and the top of the Weeping Tower. Normals can’t see Watford. It should sting Shepard’s eyes even to look in that direction.
Simon is looking over my shoulder. “I can see it, too.”
“This is—This is Smith’s doing,” Pippa says.
I turn to Snow. “Or is it the goats?”
“What goats?” Penelope asks.
“The Goats of Watford?” Salisbury chimes in.
“Just park the van,” Simon says. “We have to get inside.” There are more than a hundred cars already parked along the lane. Smith-Richards has apparently drawn quite a crowd.
“Fuck that,” Penelope says, “take us through the gates!”
Shepard does just that. He drives right up through the Great Lawn.
“Over the drawbridge!” she commands.
“Your mother’s going to kill you,” I say.
The van goes tearing over the moat.
“Park here,” she says, once we’re in the courtyard. “Where’s this meeting?”
“The Weeping Tower,” Simon says. “The lecture room at the top. Jamie and I will stay here; we can’t help you.”
“Snow—” I squeeze his arm. I always want Simon’s help. Even without magic, he’s invaluable in a fight. But . . . now that my spells bounce off him, I wouldn’t be able to heal him if he got hurt.
“Go,” he says.
Bunce is already out the door. “Come on, Baz! You, too, Shepard!”
“I’ll stay with Simon,” Pippa whispers hoarsely. “Please—stop Smith!”
“I will,” I say.
Iwill.
73
AGATHA
We find the goats in the hills behind Watford, almost completely scattered and in bad temper. They refuse to be herded, even with spells. They run from me and charge at Niamh—one of the old billy goats knocks her off her feet.
Niamh sits up, but doesn’t get off the ground. “I don’t know if we should bother rounding them up or just look for the doe.”
“Let’s look for the doe,” I say, wiping my neck with a handkerchief and walking towards her. “I think they’re all upset about her.”
“Is that another of your ‘feelings’?”
I cross my arms. “Do you want me to share my instincts with you or not?”
“Share them,” she grumbles. “I don’t have any instincts at all.”
