Carry On (Simon Snow, #1)

by Rainbow Rowell

Who interrupts a war to send the kids home for summer holidays?

“Candle in the wind” is a dangerous spell. The boys at school say you can use it to give yourself more, you know, stamina. But if you emphasize the wrong syllable, you’ll end up starting a fire you can’t put out. An actual fire. I’d never try it, even if I had call for it; I’ve never been good with double entendres.

I don’t think anybody expected the Chosen One to come from the Normal world—from mundanity. A mage has never been born to Normals.

“I live with a vampire!” I argue. “Unconfirmed.” “Are you saying you don’t think Baz is a vampire?” “I know he’s a vampire,” she says. “But it’s still unconfirmed. We’ve never actually seen him drink blood.”

“I’d trade my pixie for your vampire any day of the week. There’s no anathema to keep someone from being lethally irritating.”

“You’re too young to hear this, Simon. Eleven is too young. But it isn’t fair to keep any of this from you any longer. The Insidious Humdrum is the greatest threat the World of Mages has ever faced. He’s powerful, he’s pervasive. Fighting him is like fighting off sleep when you’re long past the edge of exhaustion.

I spent that first year at Watford telling myself that I was dreaming. And the next year telling myself that I wasn’t … I’d already been attacked by ogres, shattered a circle of standing stones, and grown five inches before I thought to ask the real question: Why me?

Because I was chosen. Because I was prophesied. Because the Humdrum won’t leave me alone.

Agatha’s

Dr. Wellbelove

What’s the etiquette for talking to your girlfriend after three months, when the last time you saw her, she was holding hands with your nemesis? (Both hands. Facing each other. Like they were about to break into song.)

If you ask the Pitches why they hate the Mage, they start talking about “the old ways” and “our magickal heritage” and “intellectual freedom.”

“Really, Snow? That’s your plan? Wait for me to kill someone? You’re the worst Chosen One who’s ever been chosen.”

None of it comes naturally to me. Words. Language. Speaking.

He is … Just a boy.

I’d be gold to his black. Both of us pale as snow. Maybe I wouldn’t have to be evil—but Baz wouldn’t expect me to be good, always so good.

And when I felt myself slipping too far, I held on to the one thing I’m always sure of— Blue eyes. Bronze curls. The fact that Simon Snow is the most powerful magician alive. That nothing can hurt him, not even me. That Simon Snow is alive. And I’m hopelessly in love with him.

He’s been following me everywhere since I got back. He hasn’t been this persistent since our fifth year—he even followed me to the boys’ toilet yesterday and pretended he just needed to wash his hands.

I feel 15 again, like I’m going to give in if he gets too close—kiss him or bite him. The only reason I got through that year was that I couldn’t decide which of those options would finally put me out of my misery.

Those were my fifth-year fantasies: kisses and blood and Snow ridding the world of me.

I imagine him saying, “The truth is, I’m desperately attracted to you.” And then I imagine myself spitting in his face. And then I imagine licking it off his cheek and kissing him. (Because I’m disturbed. Ask anyone.)

And his lips naturally turn down at the corners. It’s like his face was designed for pouting.

I know Simon and I will always be enemies … But I thought maybe we’d get to a point where we didn’t want to be.

His face is cold as a corpse in my hand. “I was wrong. All those years. You’re a bully. And a snob. And a complete arsehole. But you’re not one of them.”

“It’s me, Snow.” “You called me Simon before.”

“You did it again!” “Did what?” I say, slapping his hand away from my face. He sticks his other hand in my face, pointing. “Called me Simon.” “What would you prefer—Chosen One?” His hand dips. “I prefer Simon, actually. I … I like it.”

And sometimes holes want to get bigger, but Baz was wrong—sometimes they just want to be filled.

Simon, Simon. My rosebud boy.

“You’re still Simon Snow. You’re still the hero of this story—” “This isn’t a story!” “Everything is a story. And you are the hero. You sacrificed everything for me.”