“Did you know Ebb?”
The dryad laughs. It sounds like wind passing through a tree. “Yes.”
“Were you friends?”
She caresses the stone again. “No.”
“I hardly knew her,” I say, “but I know this—she loved these goats. If you let a goat suffer, on her grave, she will never forgive you. She’ll haunt you forever.”
The dryad laughs again. “Too late for that. Too late, golden one. You were too late.”
SIMON
I’m going to stop Smith.
I don’t know if he’s the Chosen One. I don’t know if his spell works.
But he can’t cast that spell today—not on Penny’s dad and Baz’s stepmum. Not with Jamie hidden in his basement and a wand to Pippa’s head. There are too many red flags here.
And I know that’s rich coming from me. I’m wearing a suit made of red flags, metaphorically speaking, twenty-four-fucking-seven. Butthis. . .
(Ireallyhate basements.) (You shouldn’t hide people in basements. Even bad people. But certainly not your friends.)
I’m going to stop Smith.
I’m going to call a time-out. To keep him from making any more mistakes.
I get to the White Chapel first. (Pippa and Jamie are behind me somewhere—they’re running, I’m flying.) I never wanted to come back here, but here I am. I land in front of the gilded doors and push them open.
The Chapel is full of mages, more than I’ve seen at Smith’s meetings so far. Word must be getting out.
Smith is onstage, near the altar. So is Daphne. He’s holding her hand. He’s holding his wand. He’s wearing a white suit—there’s a microphone clipped to his collar.
I just have tostophim.
I don’t have to figure it all out, I don’t have to have any answers. I just have to stopthis,today. For today.
Smith sees me. He says my name, but not loud enough for the microphone to pick it up.
I nod at him and raise my hand. Maybe it’s all a misunderstanding. I keep walking down the centre aisle. I’ll just ask him to step away for a moment, so we can talk.
“Simon Snow,” he says again, and everyone hears.
They all turn to look at me. To gape.
“Is it really him?”
“Does he really have dragon wings?”
“How did he get through the gates?”
“Smith,” I say. I’m more than halfway up the aisle. “I need to talk to you.”
My wings flutter, and I fly forward a few feet. (That happens sometimes when I’m not focused on staying grounded.) The crowd gasps. It makes me anxious—instead of landing, I fly higher.
“Smith,” I say, “don’t cast the spell. We need to talk.”
“Simon Snow,” Smith says again, even louder, in his stage voice. “I know you’re angry about being replaced. But you won’t stop the good work we’re doing here.”
