“Do you trust Penelope?”
“Yes.”
“Do you trust her mother?”
“I trust her not to be evil.”
“Well, I trust my family. It doesn’t matter whether you do.”
“I’m just telling you to be careful,” I say.
“Stop showing concern for my well-being, Snow. It’s making me ill at ease.” He closes the lid of his trunk and snaps the latches. Then he looks at me, frowning, and decides something. I’m familiar with that look. I put my hand over the hilt of my sword.
“Snow…,” he says.
“What.”
“I feel like I should tell you something. In the interest of our truce.”
I look over at him, waiting.
“That day you saw Wellbelove and me in the Wood…”
I close my eyes. “How can this possibly be in the interest of our truce?”
He keeps going: “That day you saw me with Wellbelove in the Wood—it’s not what you think.”
I open my eyes. “You weren’t trying to pull my girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Sod off,” I say. “You’ve been trying to get between me and Agatha since the day she chose me over you.”
“She never chose you over me.”
“Get over yourself, Baz.”
He looks pained; that’s a new one. “No,” he goes on. “What I’m saying is—I’ve never been an option for Wellbelove.”
I push my head back into my pillow. “I shouldn’t have thought so, but apparently, I was wrong. Look, you’ve got a clear shot at her now. She’s done with me.”
“She interrupted me,” he says. “That day in the Wood.”
I ignore him.
“She interrupted my dinner. She saw me. I was asking her not to tell anyone.”
“And you had to hold her hands for that?”
“I only did that bit to piss you off. I knew you were watching.”
“Well, it worked,” I say.
“You’re not listening.” He’s looking very pained now. “I’m not ever going to come between you and Wellbelove. I was always just trying to piss you off.”
“Are you saying you flirted with Agatha just to hurt me?”
“Yes.”
“You never cared about her?”
“No.”
I grit my teeth. “And you think I want to hear that?”
“Well, obviously. Now you can make up with her and have the best Christmas ever.”
“You’re such an arse!” I say, jumping to my feet and charging at him.
“Anathema!” he shouts, and I hear him, but I almost plant my fist in his jaw anyway.
I stop just short. “Does she know?”
He shrugs.
“You’re such an arse.”
“It was just flirting,” Baz says. “It’s not like I tried to feed her to a chimera.”
“Yeah, but she likes you,” I say. “I think she likes you better than me.”
He tilts his head and shrugs again. “Why wouldn’t she?”
“Fuck you, Baz. Seriously.” I’m standing so close, I’m practically spitting in his face. “She was carrying around your bloody handkerchief, that whole time you were gone. Since last year.”
“What handkerchief?”
I go to the drawer where the handkerchief is shoved in with my wand and a few other things, then I wave it in his face. “This one.”
Baz pulls the fabric out of my hand, and I pull it right back because I don’t want him to have it. I don’t want him to have anything right now.
“Look,” he says. “I’ll stop. I’ll leave Wellbelove alone from now on. She doesn’t matter to me.”
“That makes it worse!”
“Then I won’t stop!” he says, like he’s the one who should be angry. “Is that better? I’ll damned well marry her, and we’ll have the best-looking kids in the history of magic, and we’ll name them all Simon just to get under your skin.”
“Just go!” I shout. “Seriously. If I have to look at you anymore, I won’t even care about the Anathema. If I get kicked out of Watford, at least I’ll finally be done with you!”
51
BAZ
I was trying to do Snow a favour.
A favour that doesn’t serve my interests at all—at all.
I bloody well should marry Wellbelove. My father would love it.
Marry her. Give her the keys to whatever she wants keys to. Then find a thousand men who look exactly like Simon bloody Snow and break each of their hearts a different way.
Wellbelove isn’t very powerful, but she’s gorgeous. And she’s got a great seat; she and my stepmother could go riding.
Then my father could stop wringing his hands about the Pitch name dying with me. (Even though the Pitch line already died with me; I’m fairly certain vampires can’t have babies.) (Crowley, could you imagine vampire babies? What a nightmare.) (And why doesn’t Aunt Fiona pass on her bloody name? If my mother gave me hers, Fiona can surely provide the world with a few more Pitches.)
I think if I got married, to a girl from a good family, my father wouldn’t even care that I’m queer. Or who fathered his grandchildren. If the idea of passing on my mother’s name that way didn’t turn my stomach, I’d consider it.
Snow would probably find a whole new way to hate me if he knew I thought this coldly about love and sex and marriage. About his perfect Agatha.