Simon puts his hand on her shoulder. “Baz, she’s right. A lot has changed. We know about Nicodemus now, and we’ve connected your mum’s murder to your kidnapping—”
“No,” I say. “We’re not going to the Mage.”
Simon looks surprised. “Penny, come on. Why not?”
“Because Baz is right, Simon. The Mage isn’t in any mood to help the Pitch family right now. And he’s right that we all already agreed not to involve the Mage.”
Agatha huffs.
“I know you didn’t agree, Agatha,” I say. “But you also don’t have to be part of this.”
She huffs again.
“I mean, you don’t have to be part of this from now on. I’m sorry I dragged you here.”
“I need to get home,” she says. “It’s Christmas Eve.”
I look at my watch. “Damn. My mum’s going to hit the roof. We’ve got to go. We’ll regroup on Boxing Day, yeah?”
The boys nod, both of them staring at the floor.
There’s not much to gather up. Baz goes to get our coats. I’m disappointed that we didn’t get to see more of his house—or even dig into the library. I went to the bathroom a few times, but it’s just down the hall, and it seems like a modern addition. (There’s a Japanese toilet in there with comforting music and a seat warmer.)
Agatha pulls on a soft white hat and a matching scarf. “Come on, Simon, didn’t you bring a coat?”
Simon is still sitting on one of the couches, thinking too hard about something. Probably about killing numpties. He looks up. “What?”
“Come on,” Agatha says. “We have to go.”
“Go where?”
“We came to get you,” she says.
He still looks confused. “To take me back to Watford?”
Agatha furrows her brow. (She’s going to have a vicious wrinkle there someday, and I’m going to laugh about it.) “Just … come on,” she says. “It’s Christmas Eve. My parents will be glad to see you.”
Simon smiles like somebody just handed him a huge present. Baz is standing behind him, grimacing. (Irritating love-triangle dynamic.) I think Simon is right; you really can see Baz’s fangs sometimes through his cheeks.
Baz clears his throat, and Simon looks back over his shoulder.
“I…,” Simon says. “Well, actually, I feel like maybe I should keep working on this numpties thing.”
Merry Morgana, does Simon actually realize that getting back together with Agatha would be a terrible idea?
“Simon.” Agatha is staring hard at him, but I’m not sure what she means by it. I don’t think she wants to get back together either. She’s probably just tired, and tired of ignoring each other.
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