“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 plate. 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?”

He looks at his knees. “I’d rather talk to the numpties than go back to Nicodemus, and those are our only two leads.”

“I still wish we had a motive…,” I say. “Why would someone want to hurt your mother?”

“I’m not sure they did want to,” Baz says. “What if the target was the nursery, not my mother? There was no way of knowing that she’d be the one who came. Maybe the vampires wanted to take the children—maybe they wanted to Turn us all.” He’s rubbing his hand along the top of his thigh. His legs are longer than mine; that’s where all his height is.

“I’m not a very good boyfriend,” I say.

Baz’s hand settles on his trouser leg and tugs. He sits up straighter. “I understand, Snow. Trust me. I’m not planning our next mini-break—I’m not even going to tell anyone about us.”

“No,” I say, turning slightly towards him. “That’s not what I mean. I mean … I’ve always been a terrible boyfriend. That’s why Agatha broke up with me. I basically just did what I thought she wanted me to, but I always got it wrong, and I never put her first. I never once felt like I was getting it right in three years.”

“Then why did you stay together?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to break up with Agatha. It wasn’t her fault.”

He’s smoothing his hand along his leg again. I like everything about Baz in this suit.

“I’m just saying,” I say, turning a bit more, “that I don’t know how to be your boyfriend. And I don’t think you’d want that from me.”

“Fine,” he says. “Understood.”

“And I know that you think we’re doomed—Romeo-and-Juliet style.”

“Completely,” he says to his knees.

“And I don’t think I’m gay,” I say. “I mean, maybe I am, at least partly, the part that seems to be demanding the most attention right now.…”

“No one cares whether you’re gay,” Baz says coldly.

I’m sitting sideways now, facing his profile. His eyes are narrow, and his mouth is a straight line.

“What I’m saying is…” My voice fades out. I suck at this. “I like to look at you.”

His eyes shoot over to me, and he lowers his eyebrows but doesn’t turn his head.

“I like this,” I go on. “All of this that we’ve been doing.”

He ignores me.

“I like you,” I say. “And I don’t even care that you don’t like me—I’m used to it, I wouldn’t know what to do if you did. But I like you, Baz. I like this. I like helping you. I like knowing that you’re okay. When you didn’t come back to school this autumn, when you were missing … I thought I was going to lose my mind.”

“You thought I was plotting against you,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say. “And I missed you.”

He shakes his head. “There’s something wrong with you—”

“I know. But I still want this, if you’ll let me have it.”

Baz finally turns to look at me. “What’s this, Snow?”

“This,” I say. “I want to be your boyfriend. Your terrible boyfriend.”

He cocks an eyebrow and stares at me, like figuring out what’s wrong with me is something he’ll never have enough time for.

There’s a soft knock at the door.

Baz stands up, straightening his suit, and walks to the door. He opens it and leans over, picking up a tray, then brings it back to his bed. There’s a pitcher of milk and a heavily laden plate from dinner.

“Who’s that from?” I ask.

“My stepmother.”

“Why didn’t you just eat at dinner?”

“I don’t like eating in front of people.”

“Why not?”

“Why do you ask so many questions?”

“Is it anorexia?”

“No, Snow, it’s not anorexia—do you even know what that means?” He sits on the far side of his bed and takes the napkin off the tray, shaking it unfolded. “My fangs pop when I eat,” he says. “It’s noticeable.”

I crawl across the bed to sit next to him. “I didn’t notice the other night, when you ate in front of me.”

“Well, you’re not very observant, are you.”

“Or maybe it’s not as noticeable as you think.”

Baz looks up at me, and his cheeks look fuller than normal. He smiles then, and I see them—long white fangs, trying to push out over both his lips.

“Wicked,” I whisper, trying to look closer. He pushes me back, but not far. “Open your mouth again,” I say. “Let me see.”

He sighs and pulls back his lips. His fangs are huge. And they look so sharp. “Where do they even come from? Like, where do they go when you’re not using them?”

“I don’t know.” He sounds kind of like he’s wearing braces.

“Can I touch them?”

“No. They’re sharp. And toxic.”

“I can’t believe there’s a part of your body that grows when you need it. You’re like a mutant.”

“I’m a vampire,” Baz says, “and can you hear yourself?”

I sit back. “Yeah.”

I expect him to look aggravated, and he does, but he’s also kind of smiling. Around his fangs.

I hand him his plate—turkey, stuffing, bacon, lashings of gravy. He takes it.

“Are you still hungry, Snow?”

“I could eat.”

“Come on, then.” He hands me the fork and keeps the spoon for himself. The turkey’s so tender, the spoon works fine. He takes a huge bite, and I see the full length of his fangs. “Wicked,” I say again.

Baz shakes his head. “You’re an idiot,” he says with his mouth extra full. He looks down at his plate. “But you can have … this. If you want it.”