Carry On: The Rise and Fall of Simon Snow

by Rainbow Rowell

Fighting him is like fighting off sleep when you’re long past the edge of exhaustion.

“He is our greatest threat. And you are our greatest hope.”

“Because you can, Simon. And someone has to.”

“My mother says you should never have more people in your life than you could defend from a hungry rakshasa.”

“If he’s planning something, I’ll find out,” I say. “I always do.” “So noted.” “I mean it!” I shout after him. “Your sincerity is also noted!”

“I’m not your sidekick,” she likes to say. “I’m your dread companion.”

“Safety, stability—it’s an illusion. It’s a false god, Simon. It’s clinging to a sinking raft instead of learning to swim.”

I want to be someone’s right now, Simon, not their happily ever after. I don’t want to be the prize at the end. The thing you get if you beat all the bosses.”

“My son, my son. My rosebud boy. I never would have left you. He told me we were stars.”

Sharing a room with the person you hate most is like sharing a room with a siren. (The kind on police cars, not the kind who try to entrap you when you cross the English Channel.) You can’t ignore that person, and you never get used to them. It never stops being painful.

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.

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

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

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.)

Then find a thousand men who look exactly like Simon bloody Snow and break each of their hearts a different way.

“If you’re as good as your word, words should be good enough.”

He’s got to be scared, or at least nervous, but he doesn’t look it. I swear he gets less ruffled the more that he’s threatened. (When I’m the one threatening him, that’s infuriating. But it’s kind of cool now.)

Nicodemus laughs like nothing matters; Ebb laughs like everything does.

“This is what I deserve,” he says. I shake my head. “Well, it isn’t what I deserve.”

I am going to die kissing Simon Snow. Aleister Crowley, I’m living a charmed life.

Simon Snow is still going to die kissing me. Just not today.

He’s not even sure that he’s gay. (Which is moronic. But Snow is a moron. So.)

She thinks I solve everything with my sword. But apparently, I can also solve things with my mouth—because, so far, every time I lean into Baz, he shuts up and closes his eyes.

“What you are is a fucking tragedy, Simon Snow. You literally couldn’t be a bigger mess.” He tries to kiss me, but I hold back—“And you like that?” “I love it,” he says. “Why?” “Because we match.”

I should have known that this is what it would be like to dance with Simon Snow. Fighting in place. Mutual surrender.