Snow knew I did it, but he couldn’t prove anything. And no one else could either—I hadn’t touched my wand. I hadn’t said a word.
Aunt Fiona was hardly bothered by the mistake. “Philippa Stainton—she’s not one of ours, is she?”
I remember handing the recorder back to my aunt, thinking of the magic she must have poured into it. Wondering where she got that much magic.
“Don’t look so glum, Basil,” Fiona said, taking it from me. “We’ll get him next time.”
A few days later, in Magic Words, Miss Possibelf assured us all that Philippa would be fine. But she never came back to Watford.
I’ll never forget Philippa’s face when her voice ran out.
I’ll never forget Snow’s.
That’s the last time I tried to hurt him. Permanently.
I throw curses at Snow. I harass him. I think about killing him all the time, and someday I’ll have to try—but until then, what’s the point?
I’m going to lose.
On that day. When Snow and I actually have to fight each other.
I might be immortal. (Maybe. I don’t know whom to ask.) But I’m the kind of immortal you can still cut down or light on fire.
Snow is … something else.
When he goes off, he’s more of an element than a magician. I don’t think our side will ever put him out or contain him, but I know—I know—that I have to do my part.
We’re at war.
The Humdrum may have killed my mother, but the Mage will drive my whole family out of magic. Just to make an example of us. He’s already taken our influence. Drained our coffers. Blackened our name. We’re all just waiting for the day he takes the nuclear option—
Snow is the nuclear option. With Snow tucked in his belt, the Mage is omnipotent. He can make us do anything.… He can make us go away.
I can’t let that happen.
This is my world, the World of Mages. I have to do my part to fight for it. Even if I know I’m going to lose.
Snow is standing in front of his wardrobe now, trying to find a clean shirt. He stretches one arm over his head, and I watch the muscles shifting in his shoulders.
All I do is lose.
I sit up and throw my covers off. Snow startles and grabs a shirt.
“Forget that I’m here?” I ask. I stride over to my wardrobe and lay my trousers and shirt over my arm. I don’t know why Snow lingers over his clothes like he has big decisions to make. He wears his uniform every day, even on the weekend.
When I close my wardrobe door, he’s staring at me. He looks unsettled. I’m not sure what I’ve done to unsettle him, but I sneer anyway, just to drive it home.
I get dressed in the bathroom. Snow and I have never dressed in front of each other; it’s an extension of our mutual paranoia. And thank snakes for that—my life is painful enough.
When I’m dressed and ready and back in our room, Snow is still standing near his bed, shirt on but not buttoned, tie hanging round his neck. His hair actually looks worse than it did when he woke up, like he’s been tearing his hands through the curls.
He freezes and looks up at me.
“What’s wrong, Snow? Cat got your tongue?”
He flinches. Cat got your tongue is a wicked spell, and I used it against him twice when we were third years.
“Baz,” he clears his throat. “I—”
“Am a disgrace to magic?”
He rolls his eyes. “I—”
“Spit it out, Snow. You’d think you were trying to cast a spell. Are you? Next time, use your wand, it helps.”
He ransacks his hair again with one hand. “Could you just—?”
There’s nothing remarkable about Snow’s eyes. They’re a standard size and shape. A little pouchy. And his eyelashes are stubby and dark brown. His eyes aren’t even a remarkable colour. Just blue. Not cornflower. Not navy. Not shot with hazel or violet.
He blinks them at me. Stammering. I feel myself blushing. (Crowley, that’s how much blood I drank last night—I’m capable of blushing.)
“No,” I say, and pick up my books. “I just couldn’t.”
I’m out the door. Down the steps.
I hear Snow snarling behind me.
When he comes down to breakfast, his tie is still hanging. Bunce frowns and yanks on one end. He drops his scone and wipes his hand on his trousers before tying it. He looks up at me then, but I’m already looking away.
35
SIMON
Penelope wants to eat lunch out on the Lawn. It’s a warm day, she says, and the ground is dry, and we might not have another chance to picnic like this until spring.
I think she just wants to keep me away from Baz and Agatha—they’ve been playing games with each other all week. Taking turns staring across the dining hall, then quickly looking away. Baz always looks at me, too, to make sure I’m watching.
Everyone’s still gossiping about where he’s been. The most popular rumours are “dark coming-of-age ceremony that left him too marked up to be in public” and “Ibiza.”
“My mother’s coming to take me into town tonight,” Penny says. We’re sitting against a giant, twisting yew tree, looking out at the Lawn in slightly different directions. “We’re going to dinner,” she says. “Want to come?”
“That’s okay, thanks.”
“We could go to that ramen place you like. My mum’s buying.”
I shake my head. “Feels like I need to keep tabs on Baz,” I say. “I still don’t have a clue where he’s been.”