The chalkboard is still taking up the open area at the end of our beds, and there are stacks of books around it now. Every useful book in the Watford library has made its way to our room, thanks to Baz and Penelope—and not a one of them properly checked out, I’m sure.
We’ve been working here every night, though we don’t have much but a mess to show for it.
“I don’t mind sleeping in the bath,” Penny says. “I could spell it squishy.”
“No,” Baz says. “It’s bad enough sharing a bathroom with Snow.”
“Penny, you have a perfectly good room,” I say, ignoring the jab.
“Simon, a perfectly good room wouldn’t have Trixie in it.”
“That’s your roommate?” Baz asks. “The pixie?”
“Yes,” Penelope says.
He curls his lips up and down at the same time. “Imagine you’re a pixie,” he says. “I know it’s distasteful, but imagine—you’re a pixie, and you have a daughter, and you name her Trixie. Trixie the pixie.”
“I think it’s kind of cute,” I say.
“You think Trixie’s kind of cute,” Penny says.
“Trixie is cute.” I shrug.
“Snow,” Baz says. “I’ve just eaten.”
I roll my eyes. He probably thinks pixies are a lesser species. Half-sentient, like gnomes and Internet trolls.
“It’s like being a fairy named Mary,” he goes on.
“Or a vampire named Gampire,” I say.
“Gampire isn’t even a proper name, Snow. You’re terrible at this game.”
“In Trixie’s defence,” Penelope says, and you can tell it pains her to say it, “the pixies probably don’t go around calling themselves ‘pixies.’ I mean, you could be a human named Newman or a boy named Roy, and no one would think twice.”
“I’ll bet your room is covered in pixie dust,” Baz says, shuddering.
“Don’t get her started,” I say. “Good-night, Penny.”
“Fine,” she says, climbing to her feet and picking up the book she was reading. It’s a bound copy of The Record; we’ve all taken to reading them straight through, looking for clues. We’re becoming experts in decade-old current events.
It’s all so weird.…
Not just to be working with Baz, but to have him around all the time when I’m hanging out with Penny.
He still won’t talk to us outside of the room.
Baz says it would confuse his minions to see him consorting with the enemy. He actually called them that—“my minions.” Maybe he was taking the piss.…
I can’t always tell when Baz is mocking me. He’s got a cruel mouth. It looks like he’s sneering even when he’s happy about something. Actually, I don’t know if he ever is happy. It’s like he’s got two emotions—pissed off and sadistically amused.
(And plotting, is that an emotion? If so, three.)
(And disgusted. Four.)
Anyway, Penelope and I still don’t tell Baz everything. We never talk about the Mage, for example—it turns immediately into a fight if we do. Plus Penny doesn’t want Baz to know that her family might be on the outs with the Mage. (Even though Baz’d probably sympathize.)
Penny keeps reminding me that Baz is still my enemy. That when the truce ends, he could use everything he’s learned against me.
But I’m not sure I’m the one who needs reminding. Half the time we’re together, I’m just sitting on my bed reading while Penelope and Baz are comparing their Top 10 favourite spells of the 1800s or debating the magickal worth of Hamlet versus Macbeth.
The other day, he walked her over to the Cloisters on his way to the Catacombs. When he came back, he reported that there weren’t any clues about how she gets into Mummers House. The next day, she told me he didn’t acknowledge at all that he was on his way to suck blood out of rodents.
“You going my way?” she says to him now, from the doorway.
“No, I’m in for the night,” he says.
So fucking weird.
“See you guys at breakfast,” Penny says, closing the door behind her.
If Baz isn’t going hunting tonight, I may as well take a shower and go to sleep. We tend to fight more viciously when it’s just the two of us.
I’m getting my pyjamas together when he speaks up:
“So what’s your plan next week? For the holidays?”
I feel my jaw tighten. “Probably go home with Penny for a few days, then spend the rest of it here.”
“Not celebrating round the Wellbelove family hearth?”
I slam my wardrobe shut. We haven’t talked about this yet. Me and Baz. About Agatha.
I don’t know if the pair of them’re talking. Or meeting. Agatha doesn’t even come to dinner anymore. I think she eats in her room.
“Nope,” I say, walking past his bed.
“Snow,” he says.
“What.”
“You should come to Hampshire.”
I stop and look at him. “What? Why?”
Baz clears his throat and folds his arms, lifting his chin to emphasize how much he looks down on me.
“Because you’ve sworn to help me find my mother’s killer.”
“I am helping you.”
“Well, you’ll be more help to me there than you are here. The library at home is far too big for me to cover myself. And I have a car there—we could actually investigate. You don’t even have the Internet here.”