Baz was always there, cutting in at every dance. Teasing me away from Simon, then just teasing me. Disappearing. Sneaking away.
I played along sometimes—maybe I should be grateful that Baz never called my bluff.
Because maybe it wasn’t a bluff. Maybe I would walk away with Baz. I followed him into the Wood that day; I still don’t know what I was thinking.
I mean, I know who Baz is. I know what he is.
I can’t break up with Simon for a Tory vampire—my parents would disown me. And I don’t even know what that would entail. Would I have to be evil? Slip poison into people’s drinks? Cast dark spells? Or would it just be sitting next to a different boy at a different table … Being beautiful on another side of the room.
I’d be gold to his black. Both of us pale as snow.
Maybe I wouldn’t have to be evil—but Baz wouldn’t expect me to be good, always so good.
And maybe I’d live forever.
I walk the ramparts at night in a white dress and a knee-length woven cloak. The weather’s turning. I feel the roses in my cheeks.
Maybe he’ll see me up here before I see him.
Maybe he’ll want me.
And I’ll know what I want, too.
25
LUCY
I keep trying.
I keep calling.
I know this is your place.
26
SIMON
At first, when I see her standing along the ramparts, I think she’s a ghost. A Visiting.
She’s pale and wearing a flowy white dress, and her white hair is unbound and flying around her head.… But everybody else has come through the Veil wearing whatever it is they died in—not stereotypical ghost clothes.
I don’t recognize the white lady on the ramparts as Agatha until she startles and turns to me. She must have heard me summon my blade. I immediately stow it when I see that it’s her.
“Oh,” I say. “Hey. I thought you were studying.”
I don’t feel angry with her anymore. Now that we’re standing out in the cool air, and I’ve had time to clear my head.
“I was studying,” she says. “Then I felt like taking a walk.”
“Me, too.” I’m lying again.
I swear I don’t normally lie and keep secrets from my friends like this. It’s just—I can’t tell them I’m out here looking for Baz. I mean, I never want to talk to Agatha about Baz, for obvious reasons, and Penelope just doesn’t want to hear it.
After our fifth year, Penny decided I wasn’t allowed to talk about Baz, unless he presents a clear and present danger—
“You can’t just whinge about him every time he gets on your nerves, Simon. That would mean nonstop whinging.”
“Why can’t I?” I asked. “You complain about your roommate.”
“Not constantly.”
“Constantly enough.”
“How about this—you can talk to me about Baz when he presents a clear and present danger. And, beyond that: up to but no more than ten per cent of our total conversation.”
“I’m not going to do maths every time I talk to you about Baz.”
“Then err on the side of not whinging about him constantly.”
She still has no patience for it, even though I was completely right about Baz that year—he was up to something. Even beyond his usual skulking around, being a vampire.
That spring, Baz tried to steal my voice. That’s the worst thing you can do to a magician—maybe worse than murder; a magician can’t do magic without words. (Not usually, anyway.)
It happened out on the Lawn: I’d spotted Baz sneaking out over the drawbridge at dusk, and went after him. I followed him as far as the main gates, and then he stopped and turned to me, all casual, with his hands in his pockets—like he’d known I was behind him the whole time.
I was just about to start something with him when Philippa ran up behind me, calling, “Hiya, Simon!” in her squeaky little voice. But as soon as she said my name, she couldn’t stop. She squeaked monstrously, like a lifetime of words were being ripped from her.
I know Baz did it.
I know he did something.
I saw it in his eyes when Philippa went mute.
Philippa got sent away. The Mage told me that she’d get her voice back, that it wasn’t permanent, but she never came back to Watford.
I wonder if Baz still feels guilty. I wonder if he ever did.
Now he’s gone, too.
When I notice Agatha again, she’s trembling. I unbutton my grey duffle coat, sliding the horn buttons through the cord loops. “Here,” I say, sliding it off.
“No,” she says. “I’m fine.”
I hold it out to her anyway.
“No, it’s okay. No—Simon. Keep your coat.”
My arms drop. It doesn’t seem right to put the coat back on, so I fold it over one arm.
I don’t know what else to say.
This is already the most time that Agatha and I have been alone since the start of the term. I haven’t even kissed her since we’ve been back. I should probably kiss her.…
I reach out and take her hand—but I must move too quickly, because she seems surprised. Her hand jerks open, and something falls out. I kneel, picking it up before it blows away.
It’s a handkerchief.
I know that it’s Baz’s handkerchief before I even see his initials embroidered in the corner, next to the Pitch coat of arms (flames, the moon, three falcons).
I know it’s his because he’s the only person I’ve ever met who carries old-fashioned handkerchiefs. He dropped one on my bed, sarcastically, when we were in first year, the first time he made me cry.