the coattails of a Grimm girl’s dreams—thus not limiting his entrance to an exact date and time—but he won’t manage this method himself, since it requires certain skills and deep intimacy with the girl in question. And Leo could never countenance loving a Grimm. Not truly. Not after what their kind has done to his.
Ten minutes later and a little breathless, Leo stands before the gate. He glances at his watch. At 3:33 a.m. he reaches up, pressing his palm lightly to the elaborate wrought-iron curls. The gate shimmers silver, as if brushed by moonlight. Leo pushes it open and steps through.
6:35 a.m.—Goldie
By now my thoughts of commanding armies and toppling nations have passed, replaced by the usual worries about providing for Teddy, avoiding Garrick, paying the rent . . . and I’m grateful. There was something slightly unsettling in feeling so powerful.
“G-G, come here.”
“What is it?” I shift from the kitchen to Teddy’s bed—everything in our flat is only a few steps from everything else—to see what he wants. Although I already know, because we go through the same routine every morning. And, sure enough, I find Ted naked, except for Batman underpants, beside a pile of discarded clothes.
He gives me a look of lament. “What can I wear today?”
I survey the situation. “Green trousers with red T-shirt and blue jumper?”
The look on Teddy’s face tells me I’m a frump.
“What about your favourite jumper?” I point to the puff of soft blue cashmere acquired from the child of a Swiss banker (room 23) a month ago. It was one of half a dozen identical jumpers—I could have taken two, no problem. But thieving is all about limits; once you get greedy, you get caught.
“I’ve worn it nearly every day.” Teddy regards it. “Yesterday, Caitlin said she’d lend me a tenner to buy a new one.”
“Little bit—” I bite my lip. Kids. Some are sweet; most need a good slap. I think of the French family staying in room 38, with a boy Teddy’s age.
“I’ll get you something new soon,” I promise. “Don’t worry.”
“You will?” Teddy barrels into me, arms flung wide. I hug him back. He’s slight as a fresh-planted sapling, limbs so thin I worry they’ll snap if I hug him too tight.
“Yes,” I say. Something so stupendous even that goblin child will have to admire it.
7:07 a.m.—Bea
“Get up, get up, get up.”
The elongated lump beneath Bea’s bedcovers groans.
“Come on”—she finds his thigh with her heel and gives it a hefty kick—“You lazy sod.”
A matted head of hair, along with a face she vaguely remembers from last night, emerges from under the blankets and squints into the milky morning light. “Have a heart.” He drops his head back to the pillow. “It’s barely dawn.”
“No, it’s not,” Bea snaps. She wishes, not for the first time, that she’d been able to sneak Little Cat into her college room since he gives comfort without reciprocal demands. “Now fuck off, I’ve got a lecture.” This isn’t true and they both know it. But, though Bea wants to get rid of him, she also has a standing date with the University Library. Every morning, as soon as it opens. To study philosophy. She chose this subject in order to entertain and evaluate ideas that might, in another context, raise questions about her mental health, since she still worries that the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.
Her mamá is the first to remind her of this. Her falcon-featured mamá, whose nose is nearly as sharp as her tongue. “This isn’t your purpose, niña,” she says. “You’ll find that out soon enough.”
She speaks, every time, with such authority that Bea sometimes finds it hard to disregard her. Cleo García Pérez always sounds sincere telling tales she claims are true, of invented places she claims are real. As if she isn’t either teasing or mad. When she’s both. Which is why she spent Bea’s childhood in and out of Saint Dymphna’s Psychiatric Hospital, while Bea spent it in and out of foster homes. Cleo also spends an unusual amount of time extolling the virtues of vice, insisting Bea follow in her murky footsteps. Unlike other mothers, Cleo approves of bad behaviour and admonishes good, praising her daughter for selfish acts, for anger and unkindness, while chastising slips of thoughtfulness or generosity. Her mamá, a chill wind of cruelty blowing through an otherwise calm world, a textbook example of how human beings can be so fucking foul to one another.