Niamh puffs out a frustrated breath. “Why doesn’t anyone know this? The goats are part of Watford history! They’re in the coat of arms!”
“I thought those were pegasus . . . ses.”
“No, they’re goats.”
“But they have wings,” I say.
“So do the goats.”
“What?”
“How do you think the goats are getting out over the wall, Agatha?”
“I thought they were jumping. They’re magickal,flyinggoats?”
“Obviously.”
“Obviouslynotobviously. Do people know this?”
“Theyshould!” she half shouts, then looks embarrassed to have raised her voice. Her shoulders fall. “The story’s so old that it seems like an old wives’ tale now,” she mutters. “And it’s hard to find any scholarly accounts. The Mage hoarded books on magickal history but didn’t let anyone else read them—and he was notoriously dismissive of animals and creatures. He’s the reason we haven’t had a vet in years—”
“Tell me the story.”
“Agatha, I’mtrying—”
“No, tell me the old wives’ tale. About the goats.”
“Oh.” She glances over at me like she’s trying to make sure I’m being sincere. “Well.” She looks at me again. “The story goes that the same herd has been watching over Watford as long as it’s existed. If they ever choose to leave, it would mean the school is truly lost. The goats would take all of their protection with them.”
“Wait,really?”
“Well, really according to the story.”
“That doesn’t sound any less legitimate than half the stuff they taught us in Magickal History,” I say. “Professor Bunce honestly doesn’t care?”
Niamh sighs. “I shouldn’t have said she doesn’t care. She just has a lot on her mind. And this feels very . . .theoreticalto her. There isn’t any hard proof that the goats protect the school, and Headmistress Bunce likes proof.”
“Indeed . . .”
“I found out the goats were leaving a few months ago. I got called out to Watford to look at Miss Possibelf’s Greater Dane, and I noticed that the goats weren’t in the barn. The headmistress said they hadn’t come back to the school since Ebb Petty died, and that she’d given up worrying about it—that they seemed fine in the fields.”
“They did seem fine,” I say. “They certainly weren’t starving.”
“Their numbers are way down,” Niamh says gloomily. “Half the herd is gone, and only one of the does is with child this year.”
“Well . . .” I’m feeling frustrated and helpless—and like we shouldn’t drive away from the goats now that I know they might fly away. “Well, what actually happens if they leave?”
“According to the legends? Watford becomes mundane.”
“Like, you couldn’t do magic there?”
“Like the Normals could see it on Google Maps.”
“Niamh.That can’t happen!”
“It probably won’t happen,” she grumbles. “It probablyisjust an old wives’ tale.” She looks utterly defeated. “I think your father and the headmistress indulge my visits because I’m not hurting anything. It’s my job to take care of the goats whether they’re magic or not.”
I watch the fields roll by us. It doesn’t take long before we’re in the outskirts of Watford, the city, which is really just the outskirts of London.
