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.”