Carry On

“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 di

*   *   *

Simon looks stu

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 Pe

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,” Pe

“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!” Pe

“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,” Pe

“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?” Pe

“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,” Pe

“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!” Pe

“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.”

Pe

“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,” Pe

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.

Pe

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 pla

“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. Pe