“My sister had a child . . .” Jamie Salisbury says, standing beside his mother. “She told us that she had a child.”
“I can’t be—”
“Youmustbe,” Jamie says gently, pointing at the sword. “Merlin, Simon, you even look like him.”
Oh . . .
He does.
Doesn’t he?
Those narrow eyes. That tilt of his head.
I thought . . .
I thought he’d learned it. Was imitating it.
Simon Snow is the Mage’s heir.
He was.
All along.
87
SIMON
No.
No.
Because that would mean—
It would mean—
No.
The Mage found me in a care home. He said he followed my magic.
(But that was a lie; I didn’t have magic.)
The Mage found me in care.
And he lied to me.
He used me—to what end, I still don’t know. I was part of a plot, a plan. I was a vessel, he said.
Hefoundme. Hemademe his heir.
He lied to me again and again.
(The Mage had a name. The Mage fell in love. The Mage ran off with a yellow-haired girl, and then she disappeared.)
It can’t be true, I’m not what they say, because that would mean—
It would meantoo much.
It wouldbetoo much.
