Carry On by Rainbow Rowell Page B

Baz’s football matches with me, too. And stopped waiting with me in the hallway outside the balcony where Baz takes violin lessons.
    But I couldn’t give it up. Not when all my clues were just starting to come together …
    The blood on Baz’s cuffs. The fact that he could see in the dark. (He’d come back to our room at night and dress for bed without ever turning on the light.) Then I found a pile of dead rats in the Chapel basement, all pinched and used, like squeezed-up lemons.
    I was alone when I finally confronted him. Deep in the Catacombs, inside the Children’s Tomb. Le Tombeau des Enfants. Baz was sitting in the corner, skulls stacked along the walls around him.
    â€œYou found me,” he said.
    I already had my blade out. “I knew I would.”
    â€œNow what?” He didn’t even stand. Just brushed some dust off his grey trousers and leaned back against the bones.
    â€œNow you tell me what you’re up to,” I said.
    He laughed at that. Baz was always laughing at me that year, but it came out flatter than usual. There were torches staining the grey room orange, but his skin was still chalky and white.
    I adjusted my stance, spreading my feet below my hips, squaring my shoulders.
    â€œThey died in a plague,” he said.
    â€œWho?”
    Baz raised his hand—I flinched back.
    He cocked an eyebrow and swept his arm in a flourish at the room around us. “Them,” he said. “Les enfants.” A lock of black hair fell over his forehead.
    â€œIs that why you’re here? To track down a plague?”
    Baz stared at me. He was 16, we both were, but he made me feel 5. He’s always made me feel like a child, like I’ll never catch up to him. Like he was born knowing everything about the World of Mages—it’s his world. It’s in his DNA.
    â€œYes, Snow,” he said. “I’m here to find a plague. I’m going to put it in a steaming beaker and infect all of Metropolis.”
    I gripped my blade.
    He looked bored.
    â€œWhat are you doing down here?” I demanded, swinging the sword in the air.
    â€œSitting,” he said.
    â€œ No. None of that. I’ve finally caught you, after all these months—you’re going to tell me what you’re up to.”
    â€œMost of the students died,” he said.
    â€œStop it. Stop distracting me.”
    â€œThey sent the well ones home. My great-great-uncle was the headmaster; he stayed to help nurse the sick and dying. His skull is down here, too. Maybe you could help me look for it—I’m told I share his aristocratic brow.”
    â€œI’m not listening.”
    â€œMagic didn’t help them,” Baz said.
    I clenched my jaw.
    â€œThey didn’t have a spell for the plague yet,” he went on. “There weren’t any words that had enough power, the right kind of power.”
    I stepped forward. “What are you doing here?”
    He started singing to himself. “Ring around the rosie / a pocket full of posies…”
    â€œAnswer me, Baz.”
    â€œAshes, ashes…”
    I swung my sword into the pile of bones beside him, sending skulls rattling and rolling.
    He sneered and sat up, catching the skulls with his wand— “As you were!” They turned in the air and rolled back into place.
    â€œShow some respect, Snow,” he said sharply, then slumped and leaned back again. “What do you want from me?”
    â€œI want to know what you’re up to.”
    â€œThis is what I’m up to.”
    â€œSitting in a fucking tomb with a bunch of bones.”
    â€œThey’re not just bones. They’re students. And teachers. Everyone who dies at Watford is entombed down here.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œSo?” he repeated.
    I growled.
    â€œLook, Snow…” He got to his feet. He was taller than me—he’s always been taller than me. Even after the summer when I grew three