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  Simon puts his hand on her shoulder. “Baz, she’s right. A lot has changed. We know about Nicodemus now, and we’ve connected your mum’s murder to your kidnapping—”

  “No,” I say. “We’re not going to the Mage.”

  Simon looks surprised. “Penny, come on. Why not?”

  “Because Baz is right, Simon. The Mage isn’t in any mood to help the Pitch family right now. And he’s right that we all already agreed not to involve the Mage.”

  Agatha huffs.

  “I know you didn’t agree, Agatha,” I say. “But you also don’t have to be part of this.”

  She huffs again.

  “I mean, you don’t have to be part of this from now on. I’m sorry I dragged you here.”

  “I need to get home,” she says. “It’s Christmas Eve.”

  I look at my watch. “Damn. My mum’s going to hit the roof. We’ve got to go. We’ll regroup on Boxing Day, yeah?”

  The boys nod, both of them staring at the floor.

  There’s not much to gather up. Baz goes to get our coats. I’m disappointed that we didn’t get to see more of his house—or even dig into the library. I went to the bathroom a few times, but it’s just down the hall, and it seems like a modern addition. (There’s a Japanese toilet in there with comforting music and a seat warmer.)

  Agatha pulls on a soft white hat and a matching scarf. “Come on, Simon, didn’t you bring a coat?”

  Simon is still sitting on one of the couches, thinking too hard about something. Probably about killing numpties. He looks up. “What?”

  “Come on,” Agatha says. “We have to go.”

  “Go where?”

  “We came to get you,” she says.

  He still looks confused. “To take me back to Watford?”

  Agatha furrows her brow. (She’s going to have a vicious wrinkle there someday, and I’m going to laugh about it.) “Just … come on,” she says. “It’s Christmas Eve. My parents will be glad to see you.”

  Simon smiles like somebody just handed him a huge present. Baz is standing behind him, grimacing. (Irritating love-triangle dynamic.) I think Simon is right; you really can see Baz’s fangs sometimes through his cheeks.

  Baz clears his throat, and Simon looks back over his shoulder.

  “I…,” Simon says. “Well, actually, I feel like maybe I should keep working on this numpties thing.”

  Merry Morgana, does Simon actually realize that getting back together with Agatha would be a terrible idea?

  “Simon.” Agatha is staring hard at him, but I’m not sure what she means by it. I don’t think she wants to get back together either. She’s probably just tired, and tired of ignoring each other.

  Maybe she feels like a jerk about leaving him at Pitch Manor on Christmas Eve. I know I do. The vibe here is very, Let’s kill a virgin and write a great Led Zeppelin album. (Though the library is lovely, and Baz’s stepmum seems very nice.) (I wonder, is Simon still a virgin…) (Surely not.) (Maybe?)

  “But I thought—” Simon says.

  “Come on,” Agatha insists. “If you don’t come, who’ll eat all the leftovers and make sure we watch Doctor Who?”

  Simon glances back at Baz. Baz still looks pissed off. I wonder if there’s an Agatha clause in the truce. Maybe she’s a no-fly zone.

  But that’s not fair: Agatha isn’t just Simon’s not-at-all-suited-for-him ex-girlfriend; she’s also one of his only friends. And she will be, even after this truce has ended.

  “Come on, Simon,” I say. “We’ll regroup after Christmas.”

  “Right…” He turns to me. “Right. I’ll get my jacket.”

  67

  BAZ

  I’m holding my violin, not playing it, when my father comes back to the library.

  “The Magelings are gone,” he says.

  I nod. He walks into the room and sits on the long horsehair couch, where Simon spent most of the afternoon. Father’s dressed for dinner. We dress for dinner on Sundays and holidays, and tonight he’s wearing a black suit with a red sheen. His hair went white when my mother died, but it looks like mine—thick, with a bit of wave and a stark widow’s peak. It’s nice to see that my hairline probably won’t recede completely.

  Everyone says I favour my mother in appearance—we’re from the Egyptian branch of the Pitch family—but I consciously mimic the way my father carries himself: the way you can never see what’s happening behind his eyes. I’ve practised that in front of the mirror. (Of course I can see myself in the mirror; Simon Snow is a fool.)

  Currently I’m pretending that I don’t care that Snow left. I’m pretending I don’t even notice he’s gone.

  I’m not sure why it surprised me when he left—I’d been reminding him for the last twenty-four hours that we weren’t friends, kisses notwithstanding. So I shouldn’t be shocked and dismayed that he left with the two people who actually are his friends.… With the one person he’s always wanted, as long as I’ve known him.

  Father clears his throat and crosses his legs idly. “Are you in over your head, Basilton?”

  No one ever calls me Tyrannus. My mother insisted on it because it’s a family name, but my father hates it.

  “No,” I say.

  “Is this part of some mad scheme of your aunt’s?” He sounds bored. He picks at his trouser leg, pulling the crease straight.

  “No,” I say blandly. “It’s a school project, actually. I thought I’d play nice for once, see where it gets me.”

  He raises an eyebrow. It’s so quiet in the library, I can hear his watch tick.

  “Because it would be a bad time to make a move,” he says, “independently. The Families have their own plan.”

  “With a role for me?”

  “Not yet. I’d like you to finish school first. I’d like you to recover. I was talking to your mother—she thought you might like to speak to someone … About your situation.”

  He calls Daphne my mother. I don’t mind.

  “A doctor?” I say.

  “More of a counsellor.”

  “A psychologist?” That didn’t come out bored. I settle my face. Clear my throat. “Father,” I say more calmly, “I can’t imagine what part of my situation could be discussed with a Normal therapist.”

  “Your mother … She mentioned that you’re already accustomed to speaking about your condition carefully. You could avoid specifics.”

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  “Your mother—”

  “I’ll consider it.”

  He stands. Gracefully. Shoots his cuffs. “Dinner will be ready soon,” he says. “You should change.”

  “Of course, Father.”

  * * *

  Daphne bought me a grey suit for the holidays—but I’m stuck in grey every day at school, and I’m already grey enough. So I put on a dark green one that I picked out myself. Greenish black with a bit of silver. I’m just knotting a blood-pink tie when Mordelia opens my bedroom door.

  “Knock,” I say to her in the mirror.

  “Your—”

  “Leave. And knock. I’m ignoring you until you do.”

  She groans and leaves, slamming the bedroom door behind her, then bangs on it. I’d despair if she were a Pitch. She doesn’t behave as if she has an ounce of Grimm in her either; my stepmother’s blood is thin as gruel.

  “Come in,” I say.

  Mordelia opens the door and leans in. “Your friend’s back.”

  I turn from the mirror. “What?”

  “The Chosen One.”

  “Simon?”

  She nods. I push past her out the door, muttering, “Don’t call him that,” then run down the stairs. If he’s here, something must be wrong. Maybe they were attacked on the road.… I slow down when I get to the dining room.

  Simon is standing in the foyer, covered in snow and muck. Again.

  I put my hands in my pocket. “Déjà vu, Snow.”

  He runs his hand through his hair, smearing it with mud. “There’s still no good way
to get from the road to your house.”

  “And you still can’t remember a basic weatherization spell. Where are the girls?”

  “Halfway to London by now.”

  “Why aren’t you with them?”

  He shrugs.

  I walk down the last steps into the foyer and take out my wand.

  He holds up his hand. “I’d prefer to just take a shower and change, if you don’t mind.”

  “Why’d you come back?” I say—softly, just in case Mordelia is lurking around.

  “I can leave if I’m not welcome.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I thought you’d be happy that I came back.”

  I step closer to him, and my voice drops to a menace. “Why? So we can tumble around and kiss and pretend to be happy boyfriends?”

  He shakes his head, like he’s at his limit, then rolls his eyes mightily. “Yeah … I guess so. Yes. Let’s do that, okay?”

  I fold my arms. “Take off your shoes. I’ll find you something to wear. You’ll make us late to dinner.”

  * * *

  Simon looks stunning in a grey suit.

  SIMON

  I came back because I was afraid of what might happen if I didn’t.

  Baz might just pretend that nothing had ever happened between us. He’d make me feel like I dreamt this whole thing—like I was a maniac and a moron for believing he’d ever felt something for me.

  I was already feeling like a maniac and a moron in the car with Penny and Agatha.

  Agatha was on a rant. Which almost never happens. (It usually only happens when we’re stranded or kidnapped or stuck at the bottom of a well that’s rapidly filling with water.) But she was clearly fed up with the both of us.

  “What were you thinking?” she demanded of me. “Those are the Pitches. He is a vampire.”

  “That’s never stopped you from cavorting with him in the Wavering Wood,” Penny said to her.

  “That happened once,” Agatha said. “And it was an adolescent crush.”

  “It was?” I said.

  “I was only hoping for a kiss—I wasn’t conspiring against the Mage!”

  “You were?” I couldn’t even figure out who I was jealous over in this situation. Both of them, I guess.

  “We aren’t conspiring against the Mage!” Penny argued. “We’re conspiring … apart from him.”

  “As far as I can tell,” Agatha said, “you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  I worried that she was right.

  Everything was turned upside down: co-operating with Baz, keeping secrets from the Mage. What would Agatha say if she knew about the kissing?

  “You’re not even gay, Simon.”

  I rubbed my palms into my eyes.

  “The prophecy doesn’t actually say that Simon has to listen to the Mage,” Penny was going on. “It says that he’s here for the World of Mages. That includes Baz’s mum—” She glanced back at me. “Simon, are you okay?”

  “Headache,” I said.

  “You’re not even gay,” she’d say, “and he’s not even alive.”

  “Do you want me to try and shrink it?” Penny offered, leaning back between the bucket seats.

  “My head?”

  “Your headache.”

  “Merlin, no. I’ll be fine.”

  “You’re not even gay, and he’s not even alive, and that isn’t even the worst part of this idea—what will the Mage say?”

  “It isn’t your job to solve murders,” Agatha said. “You’re not the police.”

  “Now, there’s an interesting concept,” Penny said. “Magickal law enforcement. I’d like magickal social programmes, as well. Plus a department of health and wellness.”

  “The Mage’s Men are the police,” Agatha said.

  “The Mage’s Men are some sort of personal army.”

  “You’re talking about your brother!” Agatha shouted, pulling herself forward over the steering wheel.

  “I know!” Penny shouted back. “We’re in desperate need of reforms!”

  “But the Mage is the Great Reformer!”

  “Oh, anyone can call themselves that. Besides, Agatha, I know you think the Mage is a tax-happy interloper with a chip on his shoulder about the aristocracy. I’ve heard you say so.”

  “My mother thinks that,” Agatha said. “He’s still the Mage.”

  “Stop,” I choked out. “Pull over.”

  Penny turned back to me. “Are you okay? Are you going to be sick?”

  “No,” I said. “I just need to get out. Please.”

  Agatha yanked the car over to the side of the road, kicking up a cloud of dust and gravel, then turned in her seat to look at me. “What’s wrong, Simon?”

  “I need to go back.”

  “Why?”

  I put my hand on the door handle. “I … forgot something.”

  “Surely it can wait,” she said.

  “It can’t.”

  “Then I’ll drive you back.”

  “No.”

  “Simon,” Penny said seriously, “what’s this about?”

  I opened the door. “I need to go back and make sure that Baz is okay.”

  “Baz is fine,” Agatha insisted as I climbed out.

  “He’s not fine! We just found out that he was in a coffin for six weeks.”

  They were leaning into each other between the front seats, turned completely around to shout at me.

  Penny: “He’s fine now!”

  Agatha: “Get back in the car!”

  I put my hand on the door and bent over so I could see them. “He shouldn’t be alone right now.”

  “He isn’t!” they both said.

  “I should keep an eye on him.” I stood up again.

  “We’ll drive you back,” Agatha said.

  “No. No. You’ll be late for Christmas Eve. Go.” I shut the door, turned around, and immediately started to run.

  * * *

  I didn’t think rich people actually ate this way. At a long table covered with red and gold cloth. Thick napkins tied with poisonsettias. Platters with heavy silver lids.

  It wouldn’t surprise me if rich people really don’t live like this—but that the Pitches do it, just to make a scene. If this is Christmas Eve, what do they have planned for tomorrow?

  “Sorry we’re late, Mother,” Baz says, pulling out a chair.

  “What a nice surprise, Mr. Snow,” his dad says. He’s smiling, but in a way that makes me regret my decision to come back.

  “Thank you, sir. I hope I’m not intruding.”

  Baz’s stepmum smiles, too. “Of course not.” I can’t tell if she means it or is just being polite.

  “I invited him,” Baz says to his father. “It’s not like he has anywhere else to go at Christmas.” I can’t tell if Baz is actually being rude to me or doing it for show. I can’t read any of their faces—even the baby just looks bored.

  I thought there might be extended family here for the holidays, miscellaneous Grimms and Pitches, but it’s just Baz’s parents and his siblings. There’s the older girl, Mordelia, then two other little girls, maybe twins—I’m not sure how old, old enough to sit up by themselves and gnaw on turkey legs—and a baby in a fancy carved high chair tapping a rattle onto his (her?) tray.

  They all look like Baz’s stepmum: dark hair, but not black like Baz’s, with round cheeks and those Billie Piper mouths that don’t quite close over their front teeth. They don’t look dangerous enough to be Baz’s siblings—or his father’s children. Penny says the Grimms are less political and less deadly than the Pitches, but Baz’s dad looks like a pit viper wearing a pin-striped suit; even his snow-white hair is scary.

  “Stuffing?” Baz asks, handing me a platter. It seems like their servants have the day off. (I’ve counted at least four since I’ve been here: Vera, two women cleaning, and a man out front shovelling the walks.)

  I take a big scoop of chestnut stuffing and notice that there’s almost nothing on Baz’s plat
e. The platters and boats go around twice, and he just passes them to me—I wonder if he has an eating disorder.

  I eat enough for both of us. The food here is even better than at Watford.

  * * *

  “Did you ever believe in Father Christmas?” Baz asks. He’s laying out blankets and pillows for me on his couch. His stepmother brought them up after Baz explained that I didn’t want to sleep in the guest room. “He’s afraid of the wraiths,” he told her.

  That made his little sisters giggle. They were eager to get to bed, so that Father Christmas could get here. “Did you tell Father Christmas that you’d be here?” Mordelia asked me. “So that he can send your presents?”

  “I didn’t,” I told her. “I should have.”

  “I don’t think so,” I tell Baz now. “I mean, sometimes the home would get somebody to dress up like Father Christmas and hand out crap gifts, but I don’t remember believing in him. What about you?”

  “I believed in him,” Baz says. “And then, the year after my mother died, he didn’t come.…” He throws me a pillow and walks over to a tall wooden chest of drawers. “I thought I’d been very, very bad. But now I think my dad was probably just depressed and forgot about Christmas. Fiona showed up later that day with a giant stuffed Paddington.”

  “The bear?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with Paddington Bear. Here.” He’s holding out some pyjamas, his pyjamas. I take them. Then he sits at the end of his bed and leans against one of the posts. “So … you came back.”

  I sit next to him. “Yeah.”

  He’s still wearing his dark green suit. He slicked his hair back for dinner—I wish he wouldn’t do that. It looks better when it’s loose and falling around his face.

  “We can go talk to the numpties tomorrow,” he says.

  “On Christmas Day? Do numpties celebrate Christmas?”

  “I don’t know.” He cocks his head. “I didn’t really get to know them. According to the books, they don’t do much but eat and try to stay warm.”

  “What do numpties eat?” I ask.

  “Rubble,” he says, “as far as anyone can tell … maybe they just chew on it.”

  “Do you think Penny is right? That it was your mother’s murderer who hired the numpties?”

  Baz shrugs. “It would make sense—and Bunce is usually right.”

  “You’re sure you can handle going back there?”