“Come on. Bunce is on her way.”

He lifts the pillow up. “What? Why?”

“I told her we have new information—she has some, too. We’re having a briefing.”

He sits up. “So she’s just coming here?”

“Yes.”

“To your Gothic mansion?”

“It’s not Gothic; it’s Victorian.”

Snow rubs his hair. “Is this a trap? Are you luring us all here to kill us?” He seems genuinely suspicious.

“How did I lure you? You hitchhiked to my door.”

“After you invited me,” he snaps.

“Yes. You caught me. I’m a villain.” I stand. “I’ll see you in the library when you’ve cleaned up.” I try not to look like I’m stomping away from him—I wait till I leave the room, then stomp down the stairs.

I don’t know what I expected. For Snow to open his eyes and see me there, then pull me into one of his expert kisses and say, “Good morning, darling”?

Simon Snow is never going to call me “darling.”

Though he did just say we were snogging.…

We don’t have a chalkboard in the house, but my stepmother has a giant whiteboard in the kitchen that she uses to keep track of all my siblings’ lessons and sport. I take a photo of it with my mobile, then erase the board and lift it off the wall.

My 7-year-old sister watches me do it. “I’m telling Mum,” she says.

“If you do, I’ll stop up all the chimneys, so Father Christmas can’t get in.”

“There are too many chimneys,” she counters.

“Not for me,” I say. “I’m willing to put the time in.”

“He’ll just come to the door.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Mordelia, Father Christmas never comes to the door. And if he did, I’d tell him he had the wrong house.” I’m carefully manoeuvring the whiteboard through the kitchen door.

“I’m telling Mum!” she shouts after me.

I prop the board up in the library, and I’m making columns—Everything we know and Everything we still don’t—when Snow walks into the room. I ignore him.

“It’s not that I think you’ll betray us,” he says.

I make a noise that I’m afraid sounds a lot like “harrumph.”

Simon hassles his curls with one hand. “It’s just … Well, it’s still weird between us, isn’t it?”

I continue ignoring him.

“I mean … you haven’t said … that things are different now for you. I’ve said that I’m not going to kill you.”

“No, you haven’t,” I say.

“It must have been implied.”

“No.”

“Um, all right.” He clears his throat. “Baz. I’m not going to kill you. I’m not going to fight you at all, am I?”

“Good,” I say, stepping back from the whiteboard and admiring my columns. “That will make things much easier.”

“What things?”

“Crowley, I don’t know. Whatever the Families cook up for me. Probably I’ll be the one they ask to poison your Ribena, now that you trust me. What I can promise, Snow, is to weep over your corpse.”

“Or not,” he says.

“Fine, I’ll weep in privacy when the day arrives.”

“No,” he insists, “I’m serious. Or not.”

I look over my shoulder at him. “What are you trying to say?”

“That we don’t have to fight.”

“You realize that your mentor has raided my house twice this month.”

“Yeah—I mean, no, I didn’t realize that—but the point is, I didn’t raid your house. What if,” he says, stepping closer, “I help you find out who killed your mum, then you help me fight the Humdrum, and we just forget about the rest?”

“‘The rest,’” I say, turning around. “Way to oversimplify a decade of corruption and abuse of power.”

“Are you talking about the Mage?”

“Yes.”

He looks pained. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

“How can I not talk about the Mage when I’m talking to the Mage’s Heir?”

“Is that how you think of me?”

“Isn’t that how you think of yourself? Oh, right. I forgot—you don’t think at all.”

Simon groans and rakes at his hair. “Jesus Christ. Do you ever not go for the lowest blow? Like, do you ever think, ‘Maybe I shouldn’t say the most cruel thing just now?’”

“I’m trying to be efficient.”

He leans against the shelf where I’ve set the whiteboard. “It’s vicious.”

“You should talk, Snow. You always go for the kill shot.”

“When I’m fighting. We’re not fighting.”

“We’re always fighting,” I say, going back to the board.

I’m facing the board; he’s standing next to me, facing the room. He leans towards me a bit, without looking at me, and bumps his arm against mine, ruining the word I’m writing. “Or not,” he says.

I erase the word and start over. I’m working on the Everything we still don’t list. I’m tempted to write: everything important and also: whether Simon Snow is actually gay. And: whether I’ll live forever.

“I’ll help you find out who killed your mother,” he says again, like he’s laying out a plan. “And you’ll help me stop the Humdrum—that’s a shared goal, yeah?—and then we’ll worry about the rest later.”

“Is this how you get what you want? By just repeating it until it comes true?”

“Isn’t that how you cast a spell?”

My chalk hand drops, and I turn to him, exasperated. “Simon—”

“A-ha!” he shouts, springing up and pointing. It scares the hell out of me. I’ve seen him kill a dog with less effort. (He said the dog was were; I think it was just excited.) “You did it again!”

“Did what?” I say, slapping his hand away from my face.

He sticks his other hand in my face, pointing. “Called me Simon.”

“What would you prefer—Chosen One?”

His hand dips. “I prefer Simon, actually. I … I like it.”

I swallow, and it must be obvious how nervous I am, because he looks down at my neck. “Simon,” I say, and swallow again, “you’re being idiotic.”

“Because I like this better than fighting?”

“There is no ‘this’!” I protest.

“You slept in my arms,” he says.

“Fitfully.”

He lets his hand fall, and I catch it. Because I’m weak. Because I’m a constant disappointment to myself. Because he’s standing right there with his tawny skin and his moles and his morning breath.

“Simon,” I say.

He squeezes my hand.

“It’s not that I don’t prefer this. It’s that…” I sigh. “I can’t even imagine it. My family objects to everything the Mage stands for.”

“I know,” he says emphatically. “But I actually think we have bigger problems than that. If we find out who killed your mum, and then we go after the Humdrum together—maybe we can help everyone see that we’re better off uniting, and then—”

“And then the whole World of Mages will see how much better it is to work together, and we’ll sing a song about co-operation.”

“I was thinking we’d stop cursing each other,” he says, “and locking each other up in towers.”

“Potato, potahto.”

He pulls at my arm and I fall forward a bit. Or maybe I’m swooning—it’s not beneath me. (Snow is. Beneath me. Always. By at least three inches.)

“How can you be like this?” I whisper. “How can you even trust me, after everything?”

“I’m not sure I do trust you,” he whispers back. He reaches out with his other hand and touches my stomach. I feel it drop to the floor. (My stomach, that is.) “But…” He shrugs.

He’s rubbing my stomach, and I close my eyes—because it feels good. (So good.) And also because I want him to kiss me again.

Snow kissed me last night until my mouth was sore. He kissed me so much, I was worried I’d Turn him with all my saliva. He held himself up on all fours above me and made me reach up for his mouth—and I did. I would again. I’d cross every line for him.

I’m in love with him.

And he likes this better than fighting.

65

SIMON

If Penelope were here, I’d tell her she’s wrong about me. 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.