With each passing milestone, there came a sense of apprehension. It wasn't that Simon didn't like seeing his former classmates and friends during the occasional Watford School of Magicks reunions, but there was always the off chance that he would be there.
The two had missed each other at the past few events. It seemed that when one was available to attend, the other was either away on business or just didn't show up. It wasn't that Simon did it on purpose, per se, but whenever he heard a rumor that he might be in attendance, Simon was a little more likely to request an assignment that took him to another country. Wholly subconsciously, of course.
This year, however, on the 30th anniversary of their graduation from Watford, Simon was attending … and he had no idea if he would be there too. None of Simon's usual sources had heard anything, and no work assignments had popped up that Simon could take. Penelope had been begging him to attend this year, too, and he hadn't seen her in a while.
As he strode up Watford's main stairs, Simon tried—quite unsuccessfully, mind you; x-ray vision had never been one of his strong points—to see through to the other side of the massive doors. After realizing what he was doing, he shook his head and laughed. He was a grown man, and an accomplished magician. Why the thought of entering through those doors, on this occasion, when he'd done it countless times in the past, left him with a stomach that roiled as if he'd gotten on the wrong end of one of Agatha's questionable spells, he had no clue.
Simon entered the foyer and was greeted with the familiar scents and sounds of the ages-old building. Penelope jumped up from behind a table on which sat nametags and a sign-in book. Simon smiled, but then it was as if time stood still. He could feel someone looking at him from the top of the room's main staircase.
Simon slowly dragged his eyes up each stair. When he reached the top, he found himself staring at a pair of shiny black shoes. Although his stomach began churning even more violently, his eyes kept traveling. Up a pair of crisply pressed black trousers. Past a belt that matched the shoes. Up the chest of a dark, wine-colored waistcoat. Past the too-pale clavicles and the dark hair that just brushed them. Over a pair of lips that were slightly discolored by years of drinking red wine—he presumed—and an aquiline nose.
Simon's eyes finally came to rest on a pair of eyes. Eyes that were at first surprised, but then narrowed slightly. Eyes that held the secrets of a thousand boyhood adventures. Eyes that remained a mystery, even decades later. Eyes that held promises that Simon could never fully comprehend.
His eyes.