Carry On

“Towards what?” she asks. “Infiltrating the numpties?”

“We could just talk to them,” Simon offers. “Can numpties talk?”

“Barely,” Baz says. “And what are we going to ask them—‘Lose something?’”

“We’re going to ask who hired them to kidnap you,” I say.

“They might not feel co-operative,” Baz says. “My aunt did kill a few of them.”

Simon looks horrified. “Your aunt murdered numpties?”

“In self-defence!”

“Did they attack her?”

“In my self-defence,” Baz says. “Are you really taking their side? They held me hostage for six weeks.”

“Your aunt should have asked for help!”

“If you’d have been there, Snow, all the numpties would be dead.”

“Maybe.” Simon sticks his chin out. “But it wouldn’t have taken six weeks.”

“So we’ll interrogate the remaining numpties,” I say.

“We will not,” Agatha says. “We’ll tell the Mage and let him handle this—it’s his job to handle it. We’re talking about kidnapping! And murder!”

“Look here, Wellbelove,” Baz says. “We’re not going to the Mage. We’ve all already agreed.”

“Well, I didn’t agree.” Agatha looks furious, and also fed up, and also I think she was supposed to be home two hours ago.

Simon puts his hand on her shoulder. “Baz, she’s right. A lot has changed. We know about Nicodemus now, and we’ve co

“No,” I say. “We’re not going to the Mage.”

Simon looks surprised. “Pe

“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 di

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 him for the last twenty-four hours that we weren’t friends, kisses notwithstanding. So I shouldn’t be shocked and dismayed that he left with the two people who actually are his friends.… With the one person he’s always wanted, as long as I’ve known him.

Father clears his throat and crosses his legs idly. “Are you in over your head, Basilton?”

No one ever calls me Tyra

“No,” I say.

“Is this part of some mad scheme of your aunt’s?” He sounds bored. He picks at his trouser leg, pulling the crease straight.

“No,” I say blandly. “It’s a school project, actually. I thought I’d play nice for once, see where it gets me.”

He raises an eyebrow. It’s so quiet in the library, I can hear his watch tick.

“Because it would be a bad time to make a move,” he says, “independently. The Families have their own plan.”

“With a role for me?”

“Not yet. I’d like you to finish school first. I’d like you to recover. I was talking to your mother—she thought you might like to speak to someone … About your situation.”

He calls Daphne my mother. I don’t mind.

“A doctor?” I say.

“More of a counsellor.”

“A psychologist?” That didn’t come out bored. I settle my face. Clear my throat. “Father,” I say more calmly, “I can’t imagine what part of my situation could be discussed with a Normal therapist.”

“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. “Di

“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.