don’t get to choose or plan. I just take it as it comes. And someday, something will catch me unawares or be too big to fight, but I’ll fight anyway. I’ll fight until I can’t anymore—what is there to think about?”
Simon drops back onto the floor. I reach out and very carefully push his curls back off his forehead. He closes his eyes.
“I always thought you were going to kill me,” I say.
“Me, too,” he says. “I tried not to think about it.”
I wind my fingers in his hair. It’s thicker than mine, and curlier, and it shines golden in the firelight. There’s a mole on his cheek that I’ve wanted to kiss since I was 12. I do.
“For a long time,” I say.
“Hmmm?” He opens one eye.
“I’ve wanted to do this for a long time. Almost since we met…”
Snow closes his eyes again and smiles like he’s trying not to.
I smile, too, only because he isn’t watching. “I thought it was going to kill me.”
63
AGATHA
Penelope wakes me up by pulling the covers down. I yank them back up.
“Wake up, Agatha. We have to go.”
“I’ll go later. I’m sleeping.”
“No, we have to go. Now. Come on.”
I’m lying at the end of her bed. We slept this way, and she kept kicking me in the back.
“Go away, Penelope.”
“I’m trying. But I need you to drive me.”
I open my eyes. “Drive you where?”
“I can’t tell you. Yet. But I will.”
“Somewhere in London?”
“No.”
“Penny, it’s Christmas Eve. I have to go home.”
“I know!” She’s already dressed. She’s got her hair pulled back in a giant frizzy ponytail that would probably be nice and wavy if she’d put any product in it at all. Anything. Hand lotion. Shaving cream. “And you can go home, Agatha. But first I need you to drive me to the country.”
“Why?”
“It’s a surprise,” she says.
“No.”
“An adventure?”
“I’m going home.”
Penny sighs. “We have to go help Simon.”
I close my eyes and roll away from her.
“Agatha? Come on … Is that a yes or a no? If it’s a no, can I take your Volvo?”
64
BAZ
I wake up at least an hour before Snow.
It’s hard not to watch him sleep.
I’ve done it before—excessively—but that’s when I thought I was never going to get any more than that. That’s when creeping on Snow felt like my life’s consolation prize.
I’m still not sure what’s happening between us. We kissed last night. And this morning. A lot. Does that mean we get to do it today? He’s not even sure that he’s gay. (Which is moronic. But Snow is a moron. So.)
He’s lying on my couch, and I’m sitting at the end, next to his legs. He rolls into the cushions, burying his face. “You don’t get to watch me sleep now,” he says, “just because we’re snogging.”
“Just because we snogged,” I correct him. “And I’m not watching you; I’m trying to figure out how to wake you up without you pulling a sword on me.”
“I’m up,” he says, dragging one of the cushions down over his head.
“Come on. Bunce is on her way.”
He lifts the pillow up. “What? Why?”
“I told her we have new information—she has some, too. We’re having a briefing.”
He sits up. “So she’s just coming here?”
“Yes.”
“To your Gothic mansion?”
“It’s not Gothic; it’s Victorian.”
Snow rubs his hair. “Is this a trap? Are you luring us all here to kill us?” He seems genuinely suspicious.
“How did I lure you? You hitchhiked to my door.”
“After you invited me,” he snaps.
“Yes. You caught me. I’m a villain.” I stand. “I’ll see you in the library when you’ve cleaned up.” I try not to look like I’m stomping away from him—I wait till I leave the room, then stomp down the stairs.
I don’t know what I expected. For Snow to open his eyes and see me there, then pull me into one of his expert kisses and say, “Good morning, darling”?
Simon Snow is never going to call me “darling.”
Though he did just say we were snogging.…
We don’t have a chalkboard in the house, but my stepmother has a giant whiteboard in the kitchen that she uses to keep track of all my siblings’ lessons and sport. I take a photo of it with my mobile, then erase the board and lift it off the wall.
My 7-year-old sister watches me do it. “I’m telling Mum,” she says.
“If you do, I’ll stop up all the chimneys, so Father Christmas can’t get in.”
“There are too many chimneys,” she counters.
“Not for me,” I say. “I’m willing to put the time in.”