I have zero opinions like that.
But I liked listening to Niamh’s opinions and telling her when they sounded impossible. （Less often than one might expect.） I laughed the whole night. At Niamh. And her straight-faced opinions and strange pronouncements. At the way she lets the whole world get under her skin. I never laugh that much.
Niamh never laughs at all, apparently, but I still think she had a good time.
She kept sitting there with me, when she could have asked me to take her home. Morgana knows Niamh wouldn’t spend a minute in anyone’s company just to be polite.
We turn off the main road onto the sleepy little lane that leads to Watford, leaving the noise and traffic behind us.
“I was right about your hair,” I say, to break the silence. And also to punish Niamh for the silence, I suppose.
“It’s none of your business,” she replies.
“And yet, you did get the haircut I suggested…”
“I’ve had this haircut before, Agatha.”
“… and I was right about it.”
She pulls her eyebrows down so far that they disappear behind her sunglasses. “Is it important for you to be right?”
“Not usually. But about hair, yes.”
“It’s more practical to wear it this way,” she says.
“And it looks much better.”
She shrugs.
“Hell’s spells,” I say, “you could just say ‘thank you’！ ‘Thank you for the compliment and the good advice’！”
Niamh is squinting at the road. A lock of her hair has fallen onto her forehead. It’s intolerable. She’s intolerable. “I thanked the person who cut it,” she says.
The road outside Watford is lined with cars. Dozens of them. “What’s going on here today?” I ask.
Niamh parks the Fiesta in the grass. “Some sort of ‘Chosen One’ thing,”
she says, getting out.
I climb out after her. “What Chosen One?”
“The new Greatest Mage…”
“There’s a new Greatest Mage?”
“Purportedly.” Niamh is getting her gear out of the back of the car. She looks irritated.
“You’re not convinced?”
She slings a bag around her neck. “I’m convinced that most magicians would rather let some mystical saviour solve their problems than do any work.”
“How can there just be a new Chosen One all of a sudden … Do we get to vote on this? We should get to vote on this.”
Niamh harrumphs and swings the hatchback closed. “There’s no voting.
It’s prophecy.”
“It’s dogshit,” I say, falling into step beside her.
“I thought you were just now hearing about it.”
“I’ve heard enough about the Chosen One for ten lifetimes. It’s all dogshit.”
When we get to the Watford gates, they’re hanging open. I can’t remember them being open before. They usually swing shut on their own with a heavy clang. We walk through, and I close them behind us.
Niamh is carrying more supplies than usual, just in case the doe is in labour. I try to help, but she shrugs me off.
I’ve been reading about goat birthing online—it would be better if we could get the doe into a barn. Maybe Niamh has a plan. “Have you ever delivered a goat before?”
“No,” she says. “But I’ve delivered a cow. And several dogs. And a gryphon.”
“You did say you wanted variety…”
“I’ve also delivered a baby.”
“What kind of baby?”
“A human baby. A magician.”
“Well,” I say, “aren’t you useful.”
“I’d be more useful if I had wings.”
I frown at her. She’s looking straight ahead.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“It means…” She sighs. “It would be nice to have your—to have Simon here, to help us find the goats again.”
“We don’t need Simon,” I say, striding purposefully ahead of her. “I think the goats are this way.”
“You think?”
“I have a feeling about it.”
“A feeling,” she says.
“You don’t have to follow me, Niamh. You don’t have to listen to any of my suggestions.”
I keep walking.
When I glance over my shoulder, Niamh is a few steps behind me.
66
PENELOPE
The new Chosen One has set up shop in old orphanage, apparently. We’re standing under a sign that says HOME FOR WAIFS.