“I remember.”
“Maybe just don’t ask any questions—I don’t trust you to judge what’s pertinent.”
“Do you have to cast a spell to reveal it?” he asks.
“To reveal pertinence?”
“No, your house—is it magickally hidden?”
I can feel the disdain on my face. “How would we get our mail if our house was magickally hidden?”
“So, you just … walk in?”
“Well”—I turn up the path to our house—“I have to use a key.”
Shepard frowns up at the brick two-storey. It’s painted light blue, and my dad’s planted hydrangeas out front.
“Magicians don’t all live in caves and castles,” I say. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Do any magicians live in caves and castles?”
“This is what I mean about impertinent questions.”
I open the door and let him in. The house is a mess; it’s always a mess.
Too many people live here, too many people with too many things, and nobody cares overly much about cleaning. Both my parents work long hours —though that’s shifted some recently. With the Mage gone, Mum took over the headmaster’s post at Watford. And with the Humdrum gone, my dad’s work on magickal dead spots is less critical. He’s spending less time in his lab and more time managing my siblings.
I have three brothers and one sister, and they’re all home for the summer.
Premal, the oldest, moved back home a year and a half ago, when the Mage’s Men were disbanded. Premal still doesn’t have a job, and he hasn’t started university, but Mum won’t let anyone mention it.
After the news broke—that the Mage was a power-mad murderer—one of the other Mage’s Men, a boy from Premal’s year, tried to kill himself. No one in our house is allowed to mention that either.
I give Shepard a hard once-over before we walk into the living room, as if some last-minute adjustment will make him less Normal. Shepard looks like he’s looked every other day since we met: tall and lanky, long face, bright eyes. He’s Black, with hair that’s two inches tall on top but shaved close over his ears. He wears John Lennon glasses and corduroy trousers.
（We picked up extra clothes for him at the airport, and somehow he managed to find more corduroy trousers.）
I’ve only seen Shepard without his denim jacket once, the day he showed me his curse tattoos. The jacket’s unbelievably naff, covered in badges that say things like THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE and SOMEWHERE, SOMETHING
INCREDIBLE IS WAITING TO BE KNOWN. Honestly, he looks like a complete nerd, but that, at least, won’t be a problem in my house.
“What?” he whispers.
“What,” I whisper back.
“You look like you’re trying to find something wrong with me.”
“I am.”
“Parents like me,” he says. （Smug.）
“My mum won’t.”
“Is she racist?”
“What? No! I’m biracial.”
Shepard shrugs.
“She’s not racist,” I say. “She just doesn’t like people. Fortunately, you’re interesting.”
He grins. “I mean, I think so. But it’s nice to hear you say it.”
I roll my eyes, turning away from him. “Mum!” I shout. “Dad!”
“In here!” Mum shouts back. It sounds like she’s in the kitchen.
I lead Shepard through the living room. Pacey and Priya are playing Nintendo. “Hey,” I say flatly. “This is Shepard.”
Shepard’s ready to launch his usual charm attack, but my siblings just nod and say, “Hey” without looking away from the screen.
Mum’s in the kitchen, standing right under the light, holding Pip’s hand.
Pip’s 10, he’s the youngest. He’ll start at Watford in the autumn.
“Penelope,” Mum says. “How’s that reversal spell you’re working on?”
“It’s promising,” I say.
“Pip’s got a splinter. I thought I’d try reversing an ‘Under my skin.’”
“You’re not casting experimental spells on my hand,” Pip says.
“I’m good with splinters,” Shepard says. “Can I help?”
“What spell do you use?” Mum asks.
“I usually use tweezers,” he says.
She looks up at him for the first time. “You’re Penny’s friend with the urgent problem.”
“Mum,” I say, “this is Shepard.”