“Is that truly Pippa?”
“Did Smith cure her?”
“She didn’t even have a tongue!”
“She had a tongue—she sold her voice to a sea witch.”
“How did Smith do it?”
“He’s the real fucking deal, that’s how.”
“No!” Pippa shouts in a gravelly voice, looking around the room. “Listen to me!”
Everyone stops to listen. Including Smith.
She looks him in the eye. “Smith Smith-Richards is a—is a fraud! His spell ruins people’s magic! Ask Jamie and—and Beth!”
“Beth? Where is Beth?”
“Jamie’s right there. We saw him cured.”
“Smith’s first miracle.”
“Beth hasn’t returned any of my calls…”
“Pippa,” Smith says calmly, like he isn’t dripping with cobwebs that prove him a liar. “Why are you so angry? After everything I’ve done for you.”
“You? Y-you—”
“The prophecy says there will be false witnesses sent to tarnish me,”
Smith says. “I never thought it would be you.” He turns his wand on her.
Pippa is already casting with Baz’s. “Liar, liar, pa-pants on fire!”
Smith’s white trousers start smoking. Daphne quickly shoots a stream of water out of her wand to put them out.
I’m still treading air above them—my left wing is cut up, so I’m working hard with my right. When Smith points his wand at Pippa, I dive in front of it.
“Cat got your tongue!” he hisses.
I’m sure the spell hits me. I don’t feel it. “Enough,” I say, scooping Smith up, my arms under his, and lifting him above the crowd.
“Put me down, you beast!” he yells. His microphone has come unclipped.
“Put me down, Simon!”
The audience is casting at me again. I seem to be the only thing they can agree on. Everyone is shouting now, spells or otherwise.
“Take him down!”
“Protect the Chosen One!”
“Arrest the apostate!”
“But Smith must be deceiving us—”
“Crash and burn!”
A stream of fire shoots over my shoulder. （That’s concerning. I don’t really want to see if I’m immune to magickal fire.） “Stop!” someone shouts. I look down. It’s Jamie. He’s at the altar, holding Smith’s clip-on microphone. “Everybody just stop. Please. Pippa’s telling the truth—my magic is gone. Smith’s spell wears off, and leaves you with … It left me with…” He looks miserably around the room. “With nothing.”
“He’s lying!” Smith screams. He’s trying to squirm out of my hands, which won’t be hard; I don’t have a good grip on him.
“Calm down,” I say. “I don’t want to drop you.”
Smith points his wand at Jamie, and I’m not sure how to stop him from casting. So I fly straight up, through the broken window—we break it a little more—and into the air.
BAZ
It was Bunce’s idea to fetch her mother, when Smith-Richards wasn’t where Snow said he would be.
We ran up the flight of stairs and burst into Headmistress Bunce’s office, interrupting what was clearly a heated conversation with her husband.
They stopped talking, red-faced, when they saw Penelope.
“Penny?” her father said.
Her mother looked at Shepard and put her hand on her forehead.
“Penelope Bunce, please tell me you didn’t bring a Normal to Watford.”
“Daddy!” Penelope ran to her father. “You didn’t do it, did you?”
“Smith-Richards!” I said. “Where is he?”
“They’re all in the White Chapel…” Professor Bunce said, hugging Penelope and still looking confused.
I turned to his wife. “We have to stop him! That spell of his shuts off people’s magic.”
No one will believe me later when I tell them that Headmistress Bunce jumped from a window at the top of the Weeping Tower, but I saw it with my own eyes. She used the same spell I used once on the ramparts—“Float like a butterfly.”
The rest of us could never manage that spell from such a height. We took the （damnably slow） lift.
When we finally got to the Chapel, Headmistress Bunce was standing in the doorway threatening to nullify anyone who cast a spell or tried to leave.
Daphne was at the altar, with Pippa and Jamie.
Simon and Smith-Richards were gone.