“Everyone has instincts, Niamh.”
“Not me. I have . . . a university education.”
“Oh, shut up.” I’m standing over her, looking down. Her cropped hair looks even better brown than it did platinum. “I’ve seen you play lacrosse.”
“You don’trememberme playing lacrosse . . .”
“I’ve told you, I remember now. Do you need help getting up?”
She pushes herself up and brushes grass off her thighs and behind. She’s very thick, is Niamh. In her cuffed jeans and her tighter-than-usual T-shirt.
I turn away from her—away from the school and the hills—and look out into the Wavering Wood. I start walking. I can hear Niamh following me.
“The goats don’t like the Wood,” she says. “I never find them there.”
“I just have a—”
“I’m not arguing,” she says.
“Good.”
I find myself hesitating at the threshold of the forest. I don’t like the Wood either. The last time I was here, I saw Baz drinking a deer. I wasn’t frightened—I mean, I was a little frightened. But mostly I was excited. To share a secret with him. To be close to something thrilling and forbidden. He held my hand that day. I wanted him to kiss me.
It’s mortifying to think about now, the way I felttornbetween Baz and Simon . . .
I was juststandingbetween them. And not even in a romantic, dramatic way. I was like a dead badger lying in the middle of the road, something they had to drive around to get to where they were eventually going.
I don’t like the Wood. It’s dark and full of magic. It makes me feel like I’m about to be kissed. And like I’m a fool to want it.
I walk into the trees. Between them. There isn’t really a path.
“I’ve never been in here before,” Niamh says. “It’s darker than I expected.”
“I thought you said you’d looked for the goats here.”
“I said I’d never found them here.”
I roll my eyes; Niamh must make aneffortto be this difficult. “You never came to the Wood when you were at school?”
“No,” she says, “the Mage always said there was dangerous magic here.”
“Well, I suppose that’s true.” I get out my wand. I don’t have a spell to cast, but I feel more in tune with . . .somethingwhen I’m holding it.
“Why didyoucome to the Wood?” Niamh asks.
“Oh, you know . . . adventures, Chosen One dogshit.”
“You really didn’t like it?”
“What, the Wood?”
“No. You know . . . Being the future Mrs. Simon Snow.”
I tense my shoulders up around my ears and clench my fists at my side. I think Niamh makes an effort to beoffensive,too. “Well . . . I likedSimon.You’d like him, too, if you gave him a chance.”
“I never said that I didn’t like him . . .”
“But I didn’t like being the centre of attention all the time. I didn’t like being stared at.”
