Carry On (39 page)

“Your mother … She mentioned that you're already accustomed to speaking about your condition carefully. You could avoid specifics.”

“I'm fine,” I say.

“Your mother—”

“I'll consider it.”

He stands. Gracefully. Shoots his cuffs. “Dinner will be ready soon,” he says. “You should change.”

“Of course, Father.”

*   *   *

Daphne bought me a grey suit for the holidays—but I'm stuck in grey every day at school, and I'm already grey enough. So I put on a dark green one that I picked out myself. Greenish black with a bit of silver. I'm just knotting a blood-pink tie when Mordelia opens my bedroom door.

“Knock,” I say to her in the mirror.

“Your—”

“Leave. And knock. I'm ignoring you until you do.”

She groans and leaves, slamming the bedroom door behind her, then bangs on it. I'd despair if she were a Pitch. She doesn't behave as if she has an ounce of Grimm in her either; my stepmother's blood is thin as gruel.

“Come in,” I say.

Mordelia opens the door and leans in. “Your friend's back.”

I turn from the mirror. “What?”

“The Chosen One.”

“Simon?”

She nods. I push past her out the door, muttering, “Don't call him that,” then run down the stairs. If he's here, something must be wrong. Maybe they were attacked on the road.… I slow down when I get to the dining room.

Simon is standing in the foyer, covered in snow and muck. Again.

I put my hands in my pocket. “Déjà vu, Snow.”

He runs his hand through his hair, smearing it with mud. “There's still no good way to get from the road to your house.”

“And you still can't remember a basic weatherization spell. Where are the girls?”

“Halfway to London by now.”

“Why aren't you with them?”

He shrugs.

I walk down the last steps into the foyer and take out my wand.

He holds up his hand. “I'd prefer to just take a shower and change, if you don't mind.”

“Why'd you come back?” I say—softly, just in case Mordelia is lurking around.

“I can leave if I'm not welcome.”

“That's not what I meant.”

“I thought you'd be happy that I came back.”

I step closer to him, and my voice drops to a menace. “Why? So we can tumble around and kiss and pretend to be happy boyfriends?”

He shakes his head, like he's at his limit, then rolls his eyes mightily. “Yeah … I guess so.
Yes.
Let's do that, okay?”

I fold my arms. “Take off your shoes. I'll find you something to wear. You'll make us late to dinner.”

*   *   *

Simon looks stunning in a grey suit.

SIMON

I came back because I was afraid of what might happen if I didn't.

Baz might just pretend that nothing had
ever
happened between us. He'd make me feel like I dreamt this whole thing—like I was a maniac and a moron for believing he'd ever felt something for me.

I was already feeling like a maniac and a moron in the car with Penny and Agatha.

Agatha was on a
rant
. Which almost never happens. (It usually only happens when we're stranded or kidnapped or stuck at the bottom of a well that's rapidly filling with water.) But she was clearly fed up with the both of us.

“What were you thinking?” she demanded of me. “Those are the
Pitches.
He is a
vampire.
”

“That's never stopped you from cavorting with him in the Wavering Wood,” Penny said to her.

“That happened
once,
” Agatha said. “And it was an adolescent crush.”

“It was?” I said.

“I was only hoping for a kiss—I wasn't conspiring against the Mage!”

“You were?” I couldn't even figure out who I was jealous over in this situation. Both of them, I guess.

“We aren't conspiring against the Mage!” Penny argued. “We're conspiring … apart from him.”

“As far as I can tell,” Agatha said, “you don't know
what
you're doing.”

I worried that she was right.

Everything was turned upside down: co-operating with Baz, keeping secrets from the Mage. What would Agatha say if she knew about the kissing?

“You're not even gay, Simon.”

I rubbed my palms into my eyes.

“The prophecy doesn't actually say that Simon has to listen to the Mage,” Penny was going on. “It says that he's here for the
World
of Mages. That includes Baz's mum—” She glanced back at me. “Simon, are you okay?”

“Headache,” I said.

“You're not even gay,”
she'd say,
“and he's not even alive.”

“Do you want me to try and shrink it?” Penny offered, leaning back between the bucket seats.

“My head?”

“Your headache.”

“Merlin, no. I'll be fine.”

“You're not even gay, and he's not even alive, and that isn't even the
worst
part of this idea—what will the Mage say?”

“It isn't your job to solve murders,” Agatha said. “You're not the police.”

“Now,
there's
an interesting concept,” Penny said. “Magickal law enforcement. I'd like magickal social programmes, as well. Plus a department of health and wellness.”

“The Mage's Men are the police,” Agatha said.

“The Mage's Men are some sort of personal army.”

“You're talking about your brother!” Agatha shouted, pulling herself forward over the steering wheel.

“I know!” Penny shouted back. “We're in desperate need of reforms!”

“But the Mage is the Great Reformer!”

“Oh, anyone can call themselves that. Besides, Agatha, I know you think the Mage is a tax-happy interloper with a chip on his shoulder about the aristocracy. I've heard you say so.”

“My mother thinks that,” Agatha said. “He's still
the Mage.
”

“Stop,” I choked out. “Pull over.”

Penny turned back to me. “Are you okay? Are you going to be sick?”

“No,” I said. “I just need to get out. Please.”

Agatha yanked the car over to the side of the road, kicking up a cloud of dust and gravel, then turned in her seat to look at me. “What's wrong, Simon?”

“I need to go back.”

“Why?”

I put my hand on the door handle. “I … forgot something.”

“Surely it can wait,” she said.

“It can't.”

“Then I'll drive you back.”

“No.”

“Simon,” Penny said seriously, “what's this about?”

I opened the door. “I need to go back and make sure that Baz is okay.”

“Baz is fine,” Agatha insisted as I climbed out.

“He's not fine! We just found out that he was in a coffin for six weeks.”

They were leaning into each other between the front seats, turned completely around to shout at me.

Penny: “He's fine
now!
”

Agatha: “Get back in the car!”

I put my hand on the door and bent over so I could see them. “He shouldn't be alone right now.”

“He isn't!” they both said.

“I should keep an eye on him.” I stood up again.

“We'll drive you back,” Agatha said.

“No. No. You'll be late for Christmas Eve. Go.” I shut the door, turned around, and immediately started to run.

*   *   *

I didn't think rich people actually ate this way. At a long table covered with red and gold cloth. Thick napkins tied with poisonsettias. Platters with heavy silver lids.

It wouldn't surprise me if rich people really
don't
live like this—but that the Pitches do it, just to make a scene. If this is Christmas Eve, what do they have planned for tomorrow?

“Sorry we're late, Mother,” Baz says, pulling out a chair.

“What a nice surprise, Mr. Snow,” his dad says. He's smiling, but in a way that makes me regret my decision to come back.

“Thank you, sir. I hope I'm not intruding.”

Baz's stepmum smiles, too. “Of course not.” I can't tell if she means it or is just being polite.

“I invited him,” Baz says to his father. “It's not like he has anywhere else to go at Christmas.” I can't tell if Baz is actually being rude to me or doing it for show. I can't read any of their faces—even the baby just looks bored.

I thought there might be extended family here for the holidays, miscellaneous Grimms and Pitches, but it's just Baz's parents and his siblings. There's the older girl, Mordelia, then two other little girls, maybe twins—I'm not sure how old, old enough to sit up by themselves and gnaw on turkey legs—and a baby in a fancy carved high chair tapping a rattle onto his (her?) tray.

They all look like Baz's stepmum: dark hair, but not black like Baz's, with round cheeks and those Billie Piper mouths that don't quite close over their front teeth. They don't look dangerous enough to be Baz's siblings—or his father's children. Penny says the Grimms are less political and less deadly than the Pitches, but Baz's dad looks like a pit viper wearing a pin-striped suit; even his snow-white hair is scary.

“Stuffing?” Baz asks, handing me a platter. It seems like their servants have the day off. (I've counted at least four since I've been here: Vera, two women cleaning, and a man out front shovelling the walks.)

I take a big scoop of chestnut stuffing and notice that there's almost nothing on Baz's plate. The platters and boats go around twice, and he just passes them to me—I wonder if he has an eating disorder.

I eat enough for both of us. The food here is even better than at Watford.

*   *   *

“Did you ever believe in Father Christmas?” Baz asks. He's laying out blankets and pillows for me on his couch. His stepmother brought them up after Baz explained that I didn't want to sleep in the guest room.
“He's afraid of the wraiths,”
he told her.

That made his little sisters giggle. They were eager to get to bed, so that Father Christmas could get here.
“Did you tell Father Christmas that you'd be here?”
Mordelia asked me.
“So that he can send your presents?”

“I didn't,”
I told her.
“I should have.”

“I don't think so,” I tell Baz now. “I mean, sometimes the home would get somebody to dress up like Father Christmas and hand out crap gifts, but I don't remember believing in him. What about you?”

“I believed in him,” Baz says. “And then, the year after my mother died, he didn't come.…” He throws me a pillow and walks over to a tall wooden chest of drawers. “I thought I'd been very, very bad. But now I think my dad was probably just depressed and forgot about Christmas. Fiona showed up later that day with a giant stuffed Paddington.”

“The bear?”

“There's nothing wrong with Paddington Bear. Here.” He's holding out some pyjamas, his pyjamas. I take them. Then he sits at the end of his bed and leans against one of the posts. “So … you came back.”

I sit next to him. “Yeah.”

He's still wearing his dark green suit. He slicked his hair back for dinner—I wish he wouldn't do that. It looks better when it's loose and falling around his face.

“We can go talk to the numpties tomorrow,” he says.

“On Christmas Day? Do numpties celebrate Christmas?”

“I don't know.” He cocks his head. “I didn't really get to know them. According to the books, they don't do much but eat and try to stay warm.”

“What do numpties eat?” I ask.

“Rubble,” he says, “as far as anyone can tell … maybe they just chew on it.”

“Do you think Penny is right? That it was your mother's murderer who hired the numpties?”

Baz shrugs. “It would make sense—and Bunce is
usually
right.”

“You're sure you can handle going back there?”

He looks at his knees. “I'd rather talk to the numpties than go back to Nicodemus, and those are our only two leads.”

“I still wish we had a motive…,” I say. “Why would someone want to hurt your mother?”

“I'm not sure they
did
want to,” Baz says. “What if the target was the nursery, not my mother? There was no way of knowing that she'd be the one who came. Maybe the vampires wanted to take the children—maybe they wanted to Turn us all.” He's rubbing his hand along the top of his thigh. His legs are longer than mine; that's where all his height is.

“I'm not a very good boyfriend,” I say.

Baz's hand settles on his trouser leg and tugs. He sits up straighter. “I understand, Snow. Trust me. I'm not planning our next mini-break—I'm not even going to tell anyone about us.”

“No,” I say, turning slightly towards him. “That's not what I mean. I mean … I've always been a terrible boyfriend. That's why Agatha broke up with me. I basically just did what I thought she wanted me to, but I always got it wrong, and I never put her first. I never once felt like I was getting it right in three years.”

“Then why did you stay together?”

“Well, I wasn't going to break up with
Agatha
. It wasn't
her
fault.”

He's smoothing his hand along his leg again. I like everything about Baz in this suit.

“I'm just saying,” I say, turning a bit more, “that I don't know how to be your boyfriend. And I don't think you'd want that from me.”

“Fine,” he says. “Understood.”

“And I know that you think we're doomed—Romeo-and-Juliet style.”