“It’s so cool, I’m happy for you. Is Jamie meeting us back here?”
“Oh”—Smith’s face falls—“Simon, I’m really sorry. I couldn’t talk him into coming. He’s such an introvert, and he says everyone treats him like a saint now. I told him it will get better after more people have been cured.
Then he won’t be such a curiosity.”
I nod. I’m not sure what to say. I wish Baz was here to help me steer the conversation.
“If you want to talk to someone who’s been healed,” Smith says, “I could introduce you to Beth, from last week. I think she’s here.”
“Sure.” I don’t want to seem overly interested in Jamie. “I’d love to talk to Beth.”
“Actually … are you coming tomorrow? I know she’ll be at Watford tomorrow, and you can meet her family, as well.”
I smile at him. “I’m definitely coming tomorrow. I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Cool. I’ll save you seats up front. Simon…” Smith still looks nervous.
“Would you mind going for a pint with me? I was hoping we could talk…”
He laughs and rolls his eyes. “Chosen One to Chosen One.”
“Smith, I’m not—”
“No. I know. I’d just really like to talk to you.” He gives me the full serving of those blue eyes. “I feel like you’re the only one who understands…”
A half hour later, Smith and I are sitting in a no-nonsense pub across the street from his building. The pub serves food, so I’m happy. （Baz and I were supposed to get dinner. I texted him twice before my phone died. He probably went hunting without me.）
Smith has a thousand questions for me about being the Greatest Mage— about the way people used to treat me, and why the Mage kept me hidden away … “They say that you had so much magic, other magicians would get drunk off it.”
“Sometimes,” I say. “Sometimes it made them puke. It used to give my girlfriend migraines.”
I’ve got a plate of fish and chips with mushy peas. All Smith ordered was a lager. He plays with the glass, watching the bubbles roll around. “I’ve never had that kind of magic,” he says.
“Count yourself lucky,” I say, reaching for the vinegar. “It was unnatural.
Impossible to control. Well…” I look up at him. “Maybe you could have controlled it. I could barely hold a wand.”
“Do you miss it?”
I pick up a chip. “My wand?”
“Your magic.”
“I mean…” The chip is burning my fingers. I drop it.
“You must,” he says. “You had more magic than anyone, and then…” He swirls his glass. “Phoof. Nothing.”
Do I miss my magic?
It wasn’t mine, was it? And I was never any good at it—I regularly scorched the earth just trying to make it work.
Do I miss going off? No.
And I don’t miss the way other mages treated me. They could never see past my power.
Do I miss casting spells? Merlin, half the time they backfired. I suppose the other half of the time, they didn’t …
I could make fire. And air. And water.
I could melt butter and boil tea.
I could have wings when I wanted them.
I could protect everyone. Every time. Nothing was impossible for me when I had magic—no war couldn’t be won.
Do I miss it?
“Yeah,” I say. “Every second of every day. It’s like I’m missing a hand.
Like—I have two hands, and I should be happy about that, but I used to have three, you know? And now I can’t even figure out how to tie my shoes. Fuck yeah, I miss it. All the time.”
Smith is smiling at me. Which really doesn’t seem appropriate, the bastard. He looks well pleased with himself. “Simon…” He’s practically grinning.
“For fuck’s sake, Smith, I just poured my heart out. Have some compassion.”
He grabs my wrist. “No, Simon, I—” He shakes my arm, still grinning at me. “I can help you.”
“I can tie my shoes. That was just hyperbole.”
He laughs out loud. “Simon, I can fix your magic!”
My mouth is open, but I’m not saying anything. I sit back against the wall of the booth.
Smith moves his hand down to mine and clutches it. “I can make you a magician again.”
“How…”
“My spell,” he says. “I could cast it on you.”