“He’s still out there,” she says. “I think I’d know if he were gone. I could always feel it, before, when he was in trouble.”
“Where is he?” I ask. I feel like I must sound too urgent, too desperate to know.
Ebb turns back to the fire. “I told you, I haven’t talked to him since the day he left. I swear it.”
“I believe you,” I say. “I’m so sorry. You must … You must miss him.”
“Like I’d miss my own heart,” Ebb says. She nudges her staff into the fire and takes back each letter one by one.
“Was he with them?” I ask. “The vampires who killed Baz’s mum?”
Ebb’s chin jerks up. “No,” she says defensively. “I asked Mistress Mary myself—before she passed. She swore to me that Nicky wasn’t there that day. He’d never do such a thing. Nicky didn’t want to kill people. He just wanted to live forever.”
“Were you here?” I ask. “When it happened?”
Her face falls further than I thought possible. “I was out with the goats. I couldn’t help her.”
“What happened to the nursery?” I push, worried that in a minute Ebb’ll be crying too much to answer any more questions. “Where did it go?”
“It hid itself away,” she says, sniffing hard. “It was warded to protect the children, and it failed. So the wards hid it. Pulled it into the walls and the floor. I found it in the basement once. Then in the heart of the Weeping Tower. And then it was gone.”
I should probably ask Ebb more questions. Penny wouldn’t stop now. Baz would have his wand out, demanding to know everything.
But instead I just sit with Ebb and stare into the fire. Sometimes I see her wipe her eyes with the end of her scarf. Like she’s wiping dirt back onto her face.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to bring up so many painful subjects. There’s so much about Watford I don’t know.…”
“What do any of us know about Watford?” Ebb sighs. “Even the Wood nymphs can’t remember a time before the White Chapel.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Ebb leans towards me and lays her arm around my shoulders. She does that sometimes. When I was a kid, I loved it. I’d sit extra close to her, so that I’d be easier to reach.
“Pish,” she says. “You didn’t bring it up. It’s always on my mind. In a way, it’s good to talk about it. To get some of it out of my heart, even for a minute.”
I stand, and she follows me to the door, then pats me heartily on the back. “Happy Christmas, Simon,” she says, giving her cheeks another wipe. “If you get lonely,” she says, “you can call me. Send up a flare, yeah? I’ll feel it.”
Saw me in half, Ebb must be as powerful as the Mage—send up a flare?
“I’ll be fine,” I say. “Thanks, Ebb. Happy Christmas.”
She opens the door for me, and I try not to seem like I’m in a hurry to say good-bye—but as soon as she closes it, I start running towards my house. I clomp snow all the way up to our turret—then dig out the cash I keep at the bottom of my wardrobe. It isn’t much, but it’ll get me to Hampshire, I think.
I try to hitch to the train station, but no one picks me up. It’s fine. I keep running. I get to the station and buy my ticket and a sandwich.
I’m on a train, an hour away from Watford and an hour from Winchester, when I realize that I probably could have just borrowed a phone from somebody and called.
53
BAZ
I like to practise violin in the library. My brothers and sisters aren’t allowed in here yet, and there’s a wall of lead-paned windows that look out on the gardens.
I like to practise violin, full stop. I’m good at it. And it distracts all the parts of my brain that just get in my way. I can think more cleanly when I’m playing.
My grandfather played, too. He could cast spells with his bow.
I forgot my violin here when I left for school—I wasn’t in my right mind—and I’m a bit stiff now from the lack of practice. I’m working on a Kishi Bashi song that my stepmother, Daphne, calls “needlessly morose.”
“Basilton … Mr. Pitch.”
I let the instrument drop from my chin and turn. Vera is standing at the door. “I’m sorry to interrupt. But your friend is here to see you.”
“I’m not expecting anyone.”
“It’s a friend from school,” she says. “He’s wearing your uniform.”
I set the violin down and straighten my shirt.
I guess it could be Niall. He comes over sometimes. Though usually he’d text first … Not usually—always. And he wouldn’t be in uniform. Nobody would; we’re on break.
I pick up the pace, practically trotting through the parlour and dining room, wand in hand. Daphne’s at the table with her laptop. She looks up curiously. I slow down.
When I get to the foyer, Simon Snow is standing there like a lost dog.
Or an amnesia victim.
He’s wearing his Watford coat and heavy leather boots, and he’s covered in snow and muck. Vera must have told him to stay on the rug, because he’s standing right in the middle of it.
His hair is a mess, and his face is flushed, and he looks like he might go off right there, without any provocation.
I stop at the arched entrance to the foyer, tuck my wand in my sleeve, and slip my hands into my pockets. “Snow.”