Carry On: The Rise and Fall of Simon Snow

by Rainbow Rowell

“Let hardship sharpen your blade, Simon.”

“Don’t say hello, Simon,” she’s told me. “Because then we’ll have to say good-bye, and I can’t stand good-byes.”

“Who knows what he’s capable of in his sleep,” I say. “You do,” Penny says, “as much as you watch him.” “I live with a dark creature—I’m right to be paranoid!”

I know it’s his because he’s the only person I’ve ever met who carries old-fashioned handkerchiefs. He dropped one on my bed, sarcastically, when we were in first year, the first time he made me cry.

Maybe even kidnapped or hurting, but . . . not dead. He promised to make my life miserable. When the doors to the dining hall fly open, it’s almost like I’m making it happen, like I’ve summoned it. Cold air pours into the room. It’s bright outside, in the courtyard, and at first, all we can see is the outline of a person. This has happened so many times since school started that no one is scared now, not even the littluns. When the figure steps forward, I recognize him at once. Tall. Black hair swept back from his forehead. Lips curled up in a sneer . . . I know that face as well as my own.

Baz. I stand up too quickly, knocking my chair over. Across the room, a mug falls to the floor and shatters—I glance over and see that Agatha is standing, too. Baz steps towards us. Baz.

It’s unnecessarily grandiose to use an Open Sesame on the doors, but I do it anyway because I know everyone will be in the dining hall, and I may as well make an entrance. I wanted it this way. I wanted to be the only person who got to break the news that I’m back. Snow is the first to react—leaps to his feet, sends furniture flying. It’s work not to roll my eyes. (It’s a bit of work not to stare at him. He’s thin. And drawn. Normally, he’d be back to clobbering weight by now.)

I scan the room without turning my head. There she is, sitting on the other side of the room—trouble in paradise?—staring at me. They’re all staring at me. But I can tell Wellbelove expects something extra from me, so I give it to her. A long, cool look. Let her make what she wants of that; she will anyway. I settle down at the table, and Dev pours me a cup of tea. “Baz,” he says, smirking. “Gentlemen,” I say. “What have I missed?”

Snow stands again when I walk into our Greek classroom. I take my seat without looking his way. “Enough, Snow, I’m not the Queen.” He doesn’t reply—he must still be working up to a bluster. Snow blusters like no one else. But! I! I mean! Um! It’s just! It’s no wonder he can never spit out a spell.

I can feel Snow staring at me all through Greek—actually feel it. He’s so worked up, his magic is leaking out all over the place. Sometimes when he gets like this, I’m tempted to pull him aside. “Deep breaths now, Snow. Let it go. Some of it. Before you start another fire. Whatever it is you’re worried about, this won’t help.”

usual. When I get out, wearing flannel pyjama bottoms and a towel around my neck, Baz is by his bed, unpacking his schoolbag. His head whips up, and his face is all twisted. He looks like I’ve already laid into him. “What are you doing?” he snarls through his teeth. “Taking a shower. What’s your problem?” “You,” he says, throwing his bag down. “Always you.” “Hello, Baz. Welcome back.” He looks away from me. “Where’s your necklace?” His voice is low. “My what?” I can’t see his whole face, but it looks like his jaw is working. “Your cross.” My hand flies to my throat and then to the cuts on my chin. My cross. I took it off weeks ago. I hurry over to my bed and dig it out, but I don’t put it on. Instead I walk around Baz and stand in his space until he has to look

at me. He does. His teeth are clenched, and his head is tipped back and to the side, like he’s just waiting for me to make the first move. I hold the cross out with both hands. I want him to acknowledge what it is, what it means. Then I lift it up over my head and let it settle gently around my neck. My eyes are locked on Baz’s, and he doesn’t look away, though his nostrils flare. When the cross is around my neck again, his eyelids dip, and he squares his shoulders. “Where have you been?” I ask. His eyes flick back up to mine. “None. Of your. Business.”

I roll over onto my side, facing Snow. He’s sleeping, so it doesn’t matter if I stare at him. Which I do. Even though I know it doesn’t do me any good.

When I was in that coffin, I pushed myself closer. I let myself slip away. . . . Just to stay sane. Just to get through it. 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.

It dawned on me during our fifth year. When Snow followed me around like a dog tied to my ankle. When he wouldn’t give me a single moment of solace to sort through my feelings—or try to wank them away. (Which I eventually tried that summer. To no avail.) I wish I’d never figured it out. That I love him. It’s only ever been a torment.

Sharing a room with the person you want most is like sharing a room with an open fire.

He’s constantly drawing you in. And you’re constantly stepping too close. And you know it’s not good—that there is no good—that there’s absol...

Snow doesn’t give a shit about waking me up. He likes to be the first person down to breakfast, Chomsky knows why. It’s 6 A.M., and he’s already banging around our room like a cow who accidentally wandered up here. The windows are still open, and the sunlight is pouring in. I’m fine in sunlight—that’s another myth. But I don’t like it. It stings a bit, especially first thing in the morning. Snow suspects, I think, and is constantly opening the curtains.

I’ll never forget Philippa’s face when her voice ran out. I’ll never forget Snow’s. That’s the last time I tried to hurt him. Permanently. I throw curses at Snow. I harass him. I think about killing him all the time, and someday I’ll have to try—but until then, what’s the point?

Snow is standing in front of his wardrobe now, trying to find a clean shirt. He stretches one arm over his head, and I watch the muscles shifting in his shoulders. All I do is lose. I sit up and throw my covers off. Snow startles and grabs a shirt. “Forget that I’m here?” I ask. I stride over to my wardrobe and lay my trousers and shirt over my arm. I don’t know why Snow lingers over his clothes like he has big decisions to make. He wears his uniform every day, even on the weekend. When I close my wardrobe door, he’s staring at me. He looks unsettled. I’m not sure what I’ve done to unsettle him, but I sneer anyway, just to drive it home.

I get dressed in the bathroom. Snow and I have never dressed in front of each other; it’s an extension of our mutual paranoia. And thank snakes for that—my life is painful enough. When I’m dressed and ready and back in our room, Snow is still standing near his bed, shirt on but not buttoned, tie hanging round his neck. His hair actually looks worse than it did when he woke up, like he’s been tearing his hands through the curls. He freezes and looks up at me. “What’s wrong, Snow? Cat got your tongue?”

“Baz,” he clears his throat. “I—” “Am a disgrace to magic?” He rolls his eyes. “I—” “Spit it out, Snow. You’d think you were trying to cast a spell. Are you? Next time, use your wand, it helps.” He ransacks his hair again with one hand. “Could you just—?”

His eyes aren’t even a remarkable colour. Just blue. Not cornflower. Not navy. Not shot with hazel or violet. He blinks them at me. Stammering. I feel myself blushing. (Crowley, that’s how much blood I drank last night—I’m capable of blushing.)

As soon as Simon and Penny disappeared that day, Baz dropped my hands. “What the fuck just happened to Snow?” Those were his last words to me.

But he does still watch me in the dining hall. It makes Simon mental. This morning, Simon got fed up and slammed his fork down, and when I looked over at Baz, he winked.

“Basil,” I say coolly, smiling like his name’s a secret. He turns his head slightly to see me. “Wellbelove.” He sounds tired. “We haven’t talked since you’ve been back,” I say. “Did we talk before that?” I decide to be bold. “Not as much as I’d like.”

He sighs. “Crowley, Wellbelove, there must be a better way to get your parents’ attention.” “What?” “Nothing,” he says, walking ahead. “Baz, I thought—I thought you might need someone to talk to.” “Nope, I’m good.” “But—” He stops and sighs, rubbing his eyes. “Look . . . Agatha. We both know that whatever you and Snow are squabbling about, you’ll soon work it out and be back to your golden destiny. Don’t complicate it.” “But we’re not—” Baz has started walking again. He’s limping a little. Maybe that’s why he isn’t playing football. I keep following him. “Maybe I don’t want a golden destiny,” I say. “When you figure out how to sidestep destiny, let me know.” He’s walking as fast as he can with his limp, and I decide not to run to keep up with him. That would look appalling.

I’ve been asleep on my feet since lunch, and I can’t exactly go up to my room to take a nap. Snow would probably sit across from me and watch.

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 don’t have the strength for it. 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. Probably Snow himself would put me out of my misery if I tried either one. Those were my fifth-year ...

“Baz . . . ,” Snow says. He’s picked up the book and is holding it out to me. I take it. “I need to tell you something,” he says. “What?” Since when do Snow and I have anything to tell each other? “I need to talk to you.” I raise my chin. “Talk, then.” “Not here.” He sheathes his blade. “We’re not supposed to be here, and . . . what I have to tell you is sort of private.” For a moment—not even a moment, a split second—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.)

“Lucky for us,” I say, “we have our own suite at the top of a turret. Private enough for you?” He nods, embarrassed, and gestures for me to walk ahead of him. “Just come on,” he says. I do.

“Fine, Snow. We’re alone. Whatever you have to say—say it.” I cross my arms, too. “All right,” I say, “just . . . sit down, okay?” “Why should I sit down?” “Because you’re making me uncomfortable.” “Good,” he says. “You should be glad I’m not making you bleed.”

“All right,” I say, “look. I don’t want to tell you this. I don’t even know if I should. But it’s your mum, and I don’t think it’s right to keep it from you.” “What about my mother?” His arms unfold, and he leans forward, grabbing at my notebook. I whip the notebook away. “I’m telling you, okay? Just listen.” His eyes narrow. I’m stupidly flustered. “When you were gone—you were gone when the Veil lifted.” He guesses it immediately—his nostrils flare, and his eyes go a little wild—he’s so fucking smart, I don’t know how I’m ever going to get the best of him. “My mother . . . ,” he says. “She was looking for you. She kept coming back. Here. Where were you that she couldn’t find you?” “My mother came through the Veil?” “Yeah. She said she was called here, to our room, that this was your place. And she was pretty hacked off that you weren’t here. Wanted to know whether I’d hurt you.” “She talked to you?” “Yeah. I mean—yes.” I run my hands through my hair. “She came looking for you and scared the living shit out of me, asking if I’d hurt you. And then she said that the Veil was closing. . . .” I look down at my notebook. Baz grabs it from me, scanning the page hungrily, then hurls it back at my chest. “You write like an animal. What did she say?”

“She said that . . .” My voice falters. “That her killer walks. That you should find Nicodemus and bring her peace.” “Bring her peace?” I don’t know what more to say. His face is in agony. “But she killed the vampires,” he says. “I know.” “Does she mean the Humdrum?” “I don’t know.” “Tell me again.” I look back down at my notes. “Her killer walks, but Nicodemus knows. Find Nicodemus and bring her peace.” “Who’s Nicodemus?” Baz demands. Fierce and imperious, just like his mother. “She didn’t say.” “What else?” he asks. “Was there anything else?” “Well . . . she kissed me.” My hand jerks up, and I brush my fingertips over my forehead. “She told me it was for you, to give to you.” He clenches his fists at his sides. “Then what?” “Then she left,” I say. “She came back one more time, that same night, the last night before the Veil fell”—Baz looks like he wants to choke me—“and she was different, sadder, like she was crying.” I look down at my notes. “And I couldn’t see her that time, but she said, ‘My son, my rosebud boy.’ She said that a few times, I think. And then she called me by my name and said she never would have left you. And then: ‘He said we were stars.’ ” “Who said? Nicodemus?”

“I guess, I don’t know.” Baz squeezes his fists tight, and his voice comes out of him in a tight roar. “Who. The fuck. Is Nicodemus.” “I don’t know,” I say. “I thought you’d know.” He gets off the bed and starts prowling about the room. “My mother came back. She came back to see me. And you talked to her instead. Unbelievable.” “Well, where were you? Why couldn’t she find you?” “I was indisposed! It’s none of your business!” “Well, I hope your secret trip was worth it!” I shou...

He stops pacing, then charges towards me, his hands reaching for my neck. And I’m more scared for him than I am for myself, even though I know he wants to kill me. Because if he touches me, he’ll be cast out. The Anathema. I jump to my feet and catch his wrists. They’re cold. “Baz, you don’t want to hurt me. Do you.” He strains against my grip. He’s panting with rage. “You don’t want to hurt me,” I say, trying to push him back. “Isn’t that right? I’m sorry. Look at me, I’m sorry.” His grey eyes focus, and he steps back, snatching his arms away. ...

Baz arches an eyebrow, and I can practically hear him thinking, Interesting. I shove past him and open the door. “Penny, what’re you—?” She’s been crying. She starts again—“Simon”—and rushes into my arms. I slowly put my arms around her and look up at Baz, waiting for him to raise the alarm. He shakes his head, like it’s all too much for him. “I’ll leave you alone,” he says, sliding past us out the door. I hat...

Bunce is gone from our room. Snow’s in bed, and the windows are open. He’s showered. Snow uses the soap the school provides—he smells like a hospital when he’s clean. I don’t bother rinsing my face or changing. Just strip to my undershirt and pants, and climb in my bed. I feel like death. Death not even warmed over. As soon as I’m settled—eyes closed, willing myself not to cry again—Snow clears his throat. Awake, then. I won’t cry. “I’ll help you,” he says—so softly, only a vampire could hear him. “Help me what?” “I’ll help you find whatever killed your mother.” “Why?” He rolls over to face my bed. I can just see him in the dark. He can’t see me. He shrugs. “Because they attacked Watford.” I roll away.

“Because she was your mother,” he says. “And they killed her in front of you. And that’s—that’s wrong.”

I don’t know where we stand this morning. I mean, I promised to help him find out what happened to his mum. Are we supposed to start that right now? Or is it the sort of promise that’s going to come back to haunt me years from now, just when I’ve forgotten about it? And, no matter what, we’re still enemies, right? He still wants to kill me? He probably won’t try to kill me until I’ve helped him with his mum—I guess that’s a comforting thought. Baz gives the knot in his tie one last tug, then turns to me, putting on his jacket. “You’re not getting off.” I sit up. “What?” “You’re not going to pretend that last night was a dream or that you didn’t mean what you said. You’re helping me avenge my mother’s death.” “Nobody said anything about avenging.” I throw back my blankets and stand up, shaking my hair out with both hands. (It gets matted when I sleep.) “I said that I’d help you figure out who murdered her.” “That’s helping me, Snow. Because as soon as I know, I’m killing them.” “Well, I’m not helping with that part.”

“What about everything else?” I ask. “What everything else?” he says. “Lessons? We can still go to our lessons.” “No,” I growl. “You know what everything else.” I think of the last seven years of my life. Of every empty threat he’s made—and every full one. “You want me to work on this with you, but . . . you also want to push me down the stairs.” “Fine. I promise not to push you down the stairs until we solve this.” “I’m serious,” I say. “I can’t help you if you’re setting me up all the time.” He sneers. “Do you think this is a setup? That I brought my mother back from the dead to fuck with you?” “No.” “Truce,” he says. “Truce?” “I’m fairly certain you know what ‘truce’ means, Snow. No aggression until we’re through this.” “No aggression?” He rolls his eyes. “No acts of aggression.”

“Swear it,” I say. “With magic.” He narrows his eyes at me. I see the tension in his chin. “Fine,” he says, swatting my wand away. “But I’m not letting you anywhere near me with that.” He slips his own wand out of the pocket inside his jacket and holds it between us. Then he takes my hand in his—he’s cold—and I pull back, out of reflex. He tightens his grip. “Truce,” Baz says, looking in my eyes. “Truce,” I say, sounding much less certain. “Until we know the truth,” he adds. I nod. Then he taps our joined hands. “An Englishman’s word is his bond!”

We’ve just taken an oath. I’ve never taken an oath before. Baz could still break it—he could still turn on me—but his hand would cramp up, and he’d lose his voice for a few weeks. Maybe that’s part of his plan. We’re both staring at our joined hands. I can still feel his magic. “We can talk about this after our lessons,” Baz says. “Back here.” His grip loosens, and I yank my hand back. “Fine.”

“Because we’re solving a mystery, Snow. I like to organize my thoughts.” “Is this how you normally plot my downfall?” “Yes. With multicoloured pieces of chalk. Stop complaining.” He opens up his book bag and takes out a few apples and things wrapped in greaseproof paper. “Eat,” he says, throwing one at me. It’s a bacon roll. He’s also got a pot of tea. “What’s all this?” I say.

“Tea, obviously. I know you can’t function unless you’re stuffing yourself.” I unwrap the roll and decide to take a bite. “Thanks.” “Don’t thank me,” he says. “It sounds wrong.” “Not as wrong as you bringing me bacon butties.” “Fine, you’re welcome—when’s Bunce getting here?” “Why would she?” “Because you do everything together, don’t you? When you said you’d help, I was counting on you bringing your smarter half.” “Penelope doesn’t know anything about this,” I say. “She doesn’t know about the Visiting?” “No.” “Why not? I thought you told her everything.” “It just . . . seemed like your business.” “It is my business,” Baz says. “Right. So I didn’t tell her. Now, where do we start?” His face falls into a pout. “I was counting on Bunce to tell us where to start.” “Let’s start with what we know,” I say. That’s where Penelope always starts. “Right.” Baz actually seems nervous.

Baz lifts his hand to the board and writes Vampires, and then, On a mission from the Humdrum, and then, one fatality. I don’t know how he can do this—talk about vampires without acknowledging that he is one. Pretending that I don’t already know. That he doesn’t know I already know.

Baz shrugs. “I don’t think vampires normally attack magicians. My father says they’re like bears.” They.

“What else does your father tell you about vampires?” Baz’s voice is ice: “The subject rarely comes up.” “Well, I’m just saying”—I square my shoulders and speak deliberately—“it would help in this specific situation if we knew how vampires worked.” His lip curls. “Pretty sure they drink blood and turn into bats, Snow.” “I meant culturally, all right?” “Right, you’re a fiend for culture.” “Do you want my help or not?” He sighs and writes Vampires: Food for thought on the board. I shove the last bite of roll into my mouth. “Can vampires really turn into bats?”

“Why don’t you ask one. Moving on: What else do we know?” I get off the bed and wipe my hands on my trousers, then take a bound copy of The Record off my desk.