Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Mage has asked me to do some really shitty things for “the greater good” before. I thought that sixth year, when he dumped me in Belgium, was going to be the worst. He hadn’t seen me all year. Which meant he hadn’t bothered to work out whether I spoke the language well enough to ask anyone any questions about the white hare I was supposed to find, or – more importantly – hitch-hike home. Which I didn’t. (I’m not even completely sure what language they do speak. French, probably. Flemish? Anyway, I don’t know it.)

Penny wasn’t with me, or it wouldn’t have been a problem. No one was with me. Honestly at the time I was so depressed I kept thinking that I’d be happy even to see Baz with his stupid perfect diction in five languages. Once I eventually found the hare (which took some doing), I ended up stealing someone’s mobile, so I could call Penny and get her to book me a ticket home. But for a while, it was really bad.

This is worse, though.

It’s so bad, I can tell the Mage feels guilty and that’s never happened before. He hasn’t spoken to me at all since we got in the car back in Liverpool, but he keeps looking over at me. Checking to see whether I’m about to go off again, like I almost did when he told me he told me we were going to Hampshire today. That we were expected. Once I realised it was a done deal before he even got here.

“You said it was my choice,” I yelled at him.

“Simon,” the Mage said warningly and I could tell he wanted to cast a calming spell, but wasn’t sure whether the office ladies were listening in.

“You said I could say no!”

“But I hoped you wouldn’t,” the Mage said. “And you didn’t disappoint me, Simon. You said yes. You proved you understood the gravity of the situation, that you could make adult decisions. I’m proud of you.”

I didn’t want to say yes. But the thing is, I do understand how important this is to him. To us.

The real war is with the Humdrum. He’s the one stealing our magic. He’s the one I’m destined to fight, the final boss. (Baz thinks he’s my nemesis, but actually he’s just a jerk I have to live with.) Since the Humdrum’s apparently able to summon me now, and anyone I happen to be touching, I know I need to take him down quickly before he does something worse than he already has.

We need allies – if we’re going to defeat him. And we need to stop wasting our time fighting the Old Families, and this fucking terrible idea is probably the best chance we have of getting either of those things.

So yeah – I said I’d do it. Even though it means trusting Baz, of all people.

It also means other things, too, of course, but I don’t really want to think about any of them.

I really don’t want to think about them.

The Mage turns on the radio around the time we pass Nottingham. He likes Radio 4, the Mage, even though practically everyone on it is posh and that pisses him off. I couldn’t really give a toss about it, but it gives me something to focus on that isn’t just how angry I am.

A few hours later – Oxford – he tries asking me how my summer’s been. It’s a mistake. Since obviously my summer’s been complete shit.

I haven’t heard from Penny or anyone. I didn’t know if the world was ending or if everyone was all right until this morning, because no one’s been able to contact me. I’ve just been sitting in fucking Liverpool (which is probably really nice city, not that I’ve seen any of it) trying to make sure none of the strangers I’m living with nick my stuff.

It’s what it’s always like during the holidays, but I thought this time might be different. Since we’d actually seen the Humdrum. When they told me I had a visitor, when I saw it was the Mage, I thought I’d been right. That things were different.

I mean, I guess they are.

We stop at a motorway service station in Reading. It’s only a few miles from here to Pitch Manor.

The Mage has a coffee that I don’t think he enjoys and makes a phonecall while I eat a couple of Big Macs. For a while, I almost feel happy again, and then the Mage comes back with a suit for me and tells me I should probably get changed. Somehow, he’s changed into his uniform without me noticing. The other people in MacDonalds keep glancing at his sword.

“It’s ceremonial,” the Mage explains and they all nod. (I don’t know why people always believe him when he says that. Ceremonial for what? I guess they think he might be royalty.) “Simon – if you wouldn’t mind, we are on a schedule.”

“Yeah,” I say and slope off towards the loos.

I haven’t seen this suit before, so the Mage has probably just bought it. It’s blue with a darker collar and a dark stripe down the side of the trousers. The Mage has also given me a choice (“fuck me”, I think to myself, “a choice”) of tie, although they’re all blue.

The suit feels expensive and I know it’s supposed to make me look more respectable, but when I look in the mirror above the sink it’s pretty clear it’s not working.

I admit I look better than I did back at the home. The Mage has magicked away the black eye Gary Baker gave me last week and he fixed my knuckles, which were still red and scraped. And even though I’m thinner than I was in June, the suit fits – the Mage is good with magickal measurements. Not even the Mage can fix my hair though – I only shaved it off a month ago and there isn’t a way to make hair grow with magic for some reason I don’t understand.

At best I look like a bouncer in a nice club (as opposed to a bouncer in a shit club) but whatever. It’ll have to do.

The Mage frowns when he sees me – I guess he expected better – but he doesn’t say anything except to ask whether I’m ready to go. We get back in the car.

After another hour of driving and listening to Radio 4, the Mage turns into a long gravel driveway off the main road. That means we must be almost at Baz’s house. Maybe this is even Baz’s road. (Can you own a road? If you can, I bet Baz does.)

I haven’t really been paying much attention to where we’re going. Once you’ve seen one motorway, you’ve seen them all, but now we’re almost there, I do start to look out the window.

Even though I’ve lived with him for years, I don’t have much of an idea where Baz lives. (Because we don’t talk about our lives.) I know it must be a big house – not because he told me, but I know he has lots of sisters. And I overheard him telling his friend Niall that it’d be OK to stay during the holidays because they have lots of spare rooms.

I have thought about it – mostly during the summer. When I’m stuck in some god-forsaken state-sponsored shithole because I assume that Baz, unlike me, lives in a castle somewhere. A black castle because a) Baz is evil and b) his surname is ‘Pitch’ and I know he likes crap puns, so I assume the rest of his family do as well. Inside the castle it’s probably painted in gold – or black – and Baz just sits around all day on velvet cushions, being fed grapes by the proletariat.

It doesn’t make me feel better, obviously, to think about the difference between us. But sometimes – when we’re back at school and nobody’s waiting on him – I think about how much it must piss Baz off that nobody’s treating him like he’s special anymore. And that almost makes up for it.

The road seems to go on forever, literally miles, but finally the house comes into view and I swear out loud because while it’s not actually a castle-castle, I wasn’t that far off.

It’s bigger than Mummer’s House. And it’s definitely black. I half expect to see bats circling the turrets (it has turrets) or a captured princess hanging a handkerchief out of the window.

“Just one of their four properties,” the Mage says bitterly. “And they claim they can’t afford to pay taxes like the rest of us.”

Baz and his dad are waiting at the front door as we pull up. Baz is in a suit– they both are – although his is a deep purple, rather than the black I was expecting. It makes him look less dead than usual and it’s better cut than mine is, probably. Slim and elegant, cut close to his body without being tight. And it probably cost more than the Mage’s car let alone the suit. Dick.

His dad’s in black though. And he’s got his white hair slicked back like Baz has into the traditional vampire ‘do. I’ve never thought before, but I guess Baz’s whole family could be vampires. It would explain the house. (If they are vampires, the Mage has really fucked this one up. They probably only asked me here as a virgin sacrifice.) (I mean – essentially that is what happened, just not literally.)

Mr Grimm-Pitch smiles as the Mage and I get out of the car, but it looks like it hurts him to do it. “David!”

“Malcolm,” the Mage says stiffly. The two of them shake hands. “Thank you for inviting us to your home.”

Baz looks like he’s barely holding it together. Like the horror of the situation is too much for him to handle.

“What the fuck have you done to your hair, Snow?” he says.

“At least mine will grow back,” I snarl.

Baz frowns. I know he’s sensitive about his hairline (which is ridiculous because he literally styles it like that), but he doesn’t threaten to punch me this time. Just folds his arms.

“The pictures will look terrible. Unavoidable, perhaps.” He means because I’ll be in them. “Well, come on then.”

He turns and beckons me inside, like I’m some sort of servant who has to do what he says. I want to tell him to get fucked, but I don’t. I just follow Baz into his stupid castle-house. He definitely doesn’t offer to carry my suitcase for me, even though it’d be polite and I think he’s got super strength.

There are so many rooms here. And all of them filled with stuff that looks old and valuable. I can practically hear the Mage telling me just how many orphans in Africa we could feed with the money it took to buy the antique table we’re passing. Or how many centaur-foals we could re-shoe if Baz just sold the chandelier in the hallway.

Finally, we reach a massive staircase, with naked women holding lights set into the wall. Baz just starts climbing the steps without checking if I’m still following. I’m not. I’m looking at the painting hanging just inside the door. Baz’s dad, and his mum (I recognise her from the pictures of previous headmasters outside the Mage’s office), and a little boy who must be Baz standing between them. He’s wearing a suit even in this picture. Even when he was a baby. It looks ridiculous (who puts their kid in a suit? The Pitches, apparently), but kind of cute ridiculous. Like a dog in a hat. What’s weird though – even weirder than Baz being cute – is that he looks happy. They all do. Even his dad’s smiling.

“Snow,” Baz says. He’s doesn’t look happy anymore. He’s at the top of the staircase, one hand on the banister, like an evil count. “Stop casing the place for things you can sell later.”

I can feel blood rising to my cheeks – because in a way I was thinking just that. But I wouldn’t sell Baz’s family picture, even if I thought someone would buy it. That’s his family.

“Fuck you,” I mutter.

Baz just sneers and starts back up the stairs again. I follow him, trying not knock anything over with the suitcase. Although if I did, I suppose it’d be Baz’s fault. As we turn a tight corner, I hear the edge of the suitcase crack into the stair banister. Baz’s shoulders stiffen, but he still doesn’t offer to help. Or stop walking.

“And try not to break everything you come into contact with,” he says. Behind his back, I give him the finger.

I can’t believe I have to marry this arsehole.

*

The only good thing about this whole ridiculous plan is that the food at Baz’s house is amazing. It might even be better than the food at Watford, which is something I never thought I’d say, although I notice that Baz still isn’t eating any of it.

“Do you survive on blood, then?” I ask him as a butler or a footman or whatever puts another plate in front of me and misses Baz completely.

There are about twenty of us sitting around this massive table – mostly Baz’s family (not kids, they’re upstairs somewhere) and some other rich family who lives nearby. Everyone else is on their eighth course (some kind of ice-cream); Baz’s empty plate is really noticeable.

“I’m selective about what I eat,” he says. “I don’t simply inhale everything in front of me because I’m worried it will be taken away if I don’t.”

“’m not worried,” I say through a mouthful of ice-cream.

Baz grimaces. “And you wonder why I’m not hungry.”

What’s also noticeable is that at some point – presumably while I was putting my stuff away in the (massive) bedroom I’ve been given – Baz went and washed the gel out of his hair, which is now hanging around his face in soft waves. Normally I’d be glad to see I got to him, but I’m actually just more pissed off because Baz’s hair looks better like this, which means I look even worse sitting next to him.

I swallow the ice-cream and tap his wine glass. It’s filled with what I assume is red wine (I’m eighteen now, so I could be getting pissed as well, but I decided not to lower my guard in enemy territory). But it could be blood.

“You mean you’re not hungry for human food. Just haemogoblin.”

Baz looks pained. “I think you mean haemoglobin.”

I shrug. “I wouldn’t know, I’m not a vampire.”

“No. You wouldn’t know,” Baz says, “because you’ve barely read a book. You probably think the internet exists just to tell where you where the nearest McDonalds is.”

That hurts – more than it should do, probably. Not because Baz is calling me thick, although he is.

The internet doesn’t work at Watford and I leave my laptop with Penny over the summer in case it gets nicked, which means I’ve barely used the internet for anything. At Christmas, when I went to Agatha’s, we used it to watch Netflix, mostly. And sometimes I’d send emails to Penny.

Weirdly, I don’t even think he means to rub it in, that I’ve from a children’s home and he has a massive house, with servants, and banquets, and amazing reception. Not this time anyway. But it still hurts.  

“Well, it’s better than thinking the internet exists for porn,” I say. “I’m guessing that’s mainly what you use it for.”

“I beg your pardon?” Baz says icily.

“Well,” I say. “I mean, you’ve never had a girlfriend, have you?”

“I could have had your girlfriend,” Baz says. “Whenever I wanted.”

I almost punch him – but fortunately for him, and the Mage’s alliance, the waiter arrives with the next course before I can. I have to sit back to let them put the plate in front of me, so does Baz (I guess he’s eating this course). Neither of us are looking at what’s been put in front of us though.

He’s glaring at me; I’m glaring at him. And I know we’re both thinking the same thing. About how this is it, now. This is what the rest of our lives are going to be like. The wedding’s set for three days’ time at Pitch Manor. Assuming we don’t kill each other before then (which might be a relief, honestly), that means in three days we’ll be married. To each other. Forever.

It doesn’t matter that everyone knows this whole thing is just a formality. That the kind of magic that binds you in a magician wedding is the one form of oath that both the Mage and the Pitches agreed couldn’t be broken. That it’s the only way they can both trust this alliance, since the oath doesn’t just cover me and Baz, it covers our families (or in my case, adopted family) and none of us can hurt each other without crippling our own side. It’s like a sort of super Roommate’s Anathema.

The point is, it can’t be broken. Even if Baz and I don’t live together (and I hope we don’t have to live together, seven years was bad enough), we’ll have to see each other occasionally.

And obviously neither of us can marry anyone else, even if we want to.

“Have you told Agatha yet?” I ask Baz. “About all this?”

He sneers. Like he wasn’t off trying to snog her in the woods at the end of last year. “Why would I? I’m not her boyfriend.”

That’s good. I mean, I had been wondering (Agatha and I haven’t had a chance to talk since I saw the two of them together.) I feel better knowing they’re not dating, even though it doesn’t matter. Baz would have to break up with her, if he was going out with her. So that he can get together with me.

I scowl down at my food. Steak. I love steak. In any other circumstance I’d be thrilled to see it in front of me.

“Neither am I, anymore,” I say. “Thanks to you.”

“My heart bleeds for you,” Baz says and he turns pointedly to the bloke sitting on his other side (an uncle, I think) and cuts me out of the conversation.

Since I’m pretty sure the lady sitting next to me doesn’t speak English and that Baz sat me there on purpose so I wouldn’t embarrass him by talking to anyone who could understand me, I just eat my steak. Which is good, I think, but I can barely taste it.

I wish I was sitting next to the Mage – not that I’m talking to him at the moment either, but at least I know he doesn’t want to kill me. He’s stuck at the other end of the table between Baz’s dad and Baz’s stepmother. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I can see she’s doing most of the talking for both of them.

I don’t know most of the other people at the table. The only person I recognise is Baz’s friend Dev, who I guess is also his cousin, a few seats down from me. And Baz’s horrible aunt, Fiona, who’s the only person at the table with her own separate wine cooler. She grins when she sees me looking at her and mimes slitting her throat.

After the meal’s finally over (even I started to feel full by the last few courses), the Mage makes a speech about how he hopes this marriage will be the start of a better future where the World of Mages can work together to fix the things that really matter. Everyone claps and then Baz’s dad gets up and says basically the same thing and everyone claps again.

Fortunately, no one seems to want to hear from either me or Baz. I guess everyone knows neither of us want to be here. Baz’s time-out with his uncle doesn’t seem to have made him feel better. I can hear him huffing loudly, even while his dad’s talking, and he stands up immediately when his stepmother tells everyone to go into the next room for coffee and more alcohol.

He doesn’t go in the direction of the drawing room, though. Instead he pushes against the crowd and out the other door towards the outside.

I really want to go back to my room. I’d go there now, even though I know it’d annoy the Mage, if I knew where the fuck it was. There are like a million rooms in this house and I don’t want to get arrested or shouted at for trying to break into someone else’s.

But I also don’t want to stand around making small talk with a bunch of people who all just want to ask me why I’m so powerful but so shit at spellcasting, or why I haven’t beaten the Humdrum yet (three already today. And the Mage wasn’t around to rescue me; it was Baz in the end, taking me to dinner.)

That means, I end up taking the same door Baz did, rather than following everyone else. I suppose it’s instinct at this point – I see Baz sneaking off somewhere and it’s hard not to follow him.

It’s not that I think I’ll find anything that will get me out of this. Even if I find him drinking blood (which is what I expect to find, frankly, after that meal where he ate nothing except that rare steak), I can’t exactly break up with him because he’s a vampire. I already know he’s a vampire and I’ve told the Mage he is, and we’re still having to go through with this.

I guess maybe I’m going after him because, even though we hate each other, he’s the most familiar thing in this house right now. At least I know where I am with Baz.  

He hasn’t gone far. When I find him, he’s standing just outside the front door, leaning over the railings that surround the porch-bit at the top of the stairs. It’s dark now – that dinner went on for hours – but Baz’s face is lit by a flame he’s holding in his hand. As I watch, he raises the cigarette to his lips and inhales before breathing out smoke the colour of his eyes.

I didn’t know he smoked. He can’t do it on school grounds – I definitely would have seen it. Maybe he’s just taken it up recently to make himself look cool.

I should probably just go back inside. Baz isn’t doing anything and it’s not like I want to talk to him. But I want to talk to everyone else less, so instead I join him at the railings staring out over the grounds. The trees along the road are hung with little lights and there are more lights strung along the pathways that must surround the house. It actually looks nice. Less like a gothic mansion owned by a vampire and more like the sort of big house you can rent out for weddings. (Other people’s weddings, I mean. I think we get to use it for free.)  

Baz isn’t looking at me, although I know he’s seen me. His hair is falling around his face, dangerously close to the end of the cigarette.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” I say.

Baz grimaces and flicks ash over the side of the railings. “Incredibly, despite following me around for years, you don’t actually know much about me, Snow.”

That sounds like bullshit to me, but I’m happy for Baz to think he’s more mysterious than he is.

“Well, I’ve got a lifetime to find out everything else you’re hiding, haven’t I?” I tell him.

“Crowley. Is that why you agreed to this?” Baz says. “More stalking opportunities, and less chance of a restraining order?”

“No.” I twist myself around, so my back’s against the railings and I’m looking back at the house. Now it’s dark, it’s not as obvious that the whole thing is black. And the light inside almost looks inviting as it spills out onto the two of us.

“Why then?”

I shrug. “We shouldn’t be fighting each other. It’s pointless.” I tilt my head to look back at Baz, whose expression is unreadable as he takes another drag on the cigarette. “And the Mage told me I had to. What about you?”

Baz breathes out another long stream of smoke. It smells like my magic.

“Guess,” he says.

The implied If you think you know so much hangs in the air between us like the smoke from his lungs.

Normally, if Baz is involved in anything, my first guess is that it’s part of a plan to kill me. But that doesn’t seem to fit with the oath we’re going to take. Once we’re married, we won’t be able to hurt each other ever again, that’s the point. Which means I have no idea why Baz agreed to this. It seems like this is the opposite of what he’s always wanted.

Which means Baz is right and I don’t know him as well as I think I do.

“You only inherit your ridiculous fortune if you get married before you’re nineteen,” I say. “Or – you just really like cake.”

Baz shakes his head, but he’s almost smiling, even though it really wasn’t a good joke.

I don’t think he’s ever smiled like this at me before. Like something I said was funny, rather than just stupid. It’s weird, seeing him smile, although probably no weirder than me making a joke in front of Baz. Even a really shit one.

“There is going to be cake, right?” I ask because frankly I prefer thinking about cake than thinking about Baz. “Only this whole wedding thing has been pretty sudden.”

“My family have standards,” Baz says witheringly. “Of course, there will be cake.”

“What kind?”

“Wedding cake, Snow. Because it’s a wedding. Fruit cake.”

I’m about to tell him that not everyone has fruit cake at their wedding anymore. In fact, most people don’t because they don’t like it (Obviously, I do. Because it’s a cake – with fruit in it. What’s not to like?). But before I can astound Baz with my knowledge of matrimonial baking, someone shouts from inside the house.

“Oi, Snow – are you out here?”

“Yeah,” I shout back because Baz is watching. I don't want to look like I can't handle his family. Whoever it is staggers out the front door onto the porch.

It’s Dev, Baz’s cousin. Or minion – or whatever. Like Baz and me, he’s wearing a suit although he’s opened the collar of his shirt and he’s got his tie and pair of gloves shoved in the pocket of his jacket.

He waves at me and then crashes into Baz and pulls him in a one-armed hug. (I guess I’m not the only one who just turned eighteen – Dev has clearly been taking advantage of all the free booze.) I’ve never seen any of Baz’s friends touch him before. And I’ve definitely never seen anyone touch Baz without his permission. Not anyone who didn’t immediately regret it anyway.

I don’t know what to do. I feel like I should warn Dev who he’s messing with, but he must know what he’s doing because Baz doesn’t push him away. Just gives me a long-suffering look from beneath Dev’s arm.

“All right?” Dev says to me, still grinning. “Getting cosy before the big day? Picking out curtains?”

“Piss off,” Baz says. And now he does shove Dev away, though not too hard. Dev takes a few awkward steps back towards the house before swaying back towards us.

Baz crosses his arms. He’s still scowling. “Just get it over with, will you? And then go and be a prick somewhere.”

Dev whistles. “Touchy.” He rests a hand heavily on my shoulder. “I don’t envy you, Snow – having to put up with that shit.”

This has never happened to me before. Even Penny doesn’t always side with me against Baz (she says I provoke him), and now Baz’s actual friend is pointing out that he’s a jerk. This is probably the best day ever. I mean – it isn’t. But still, I look over at Baz to see how he’s taking it (he’s still scowling).

Which means I miss the moment Dev smacks me round the face with the gloves.

It doesn’t hurt, but it’s a shock.

Normally if someone hits me, I just hit them back, but I really wasn’t expecting this. I just stand there like an absolute idiot as Dev drops the glove on the ground in front of me.

“Simon Snow,” he says, “I challenge your right to my cousin’s hand. The duel will take place at midnight. Defend yourself.”

I expect him to start laughing, but I can barely tell he’s drunk at all now. He looks serious.

“What the fuck?” I say.

“It’s a Grimm family tradition,” Baz explains. “You have to accept the challenge if you want to marry me.”

Well, that just sounds wrong.

“I don’t want to marry you,” I say.

I want to marry Agatha – assuming we get back together, which I’m sure we would have done if this hadn’t come up. I want to live in the country with a lot of dogs and horses or whatever and, I don’t know. Go on long walks. Take up gardening. Whatever people do in the country.

I want a happily ever after, I deserve one.

Baz’s jaw clenches. “Obviously you wouldn’t under normal circumstances. But this is what our families agreed to.”

I shake my head. There’s no way the Mage agreed to this. He can’t have known – it’s the missing bit of the puzzle. The loophole. The thing that makes everything else make sense.

Baz can’t hurt me if we get married, but he can hurt me before then. It’d look suspicious if I died while I was here unless it was during a traditional duel with someone who isn’t even Baz. Who doesn’t even have a real grudge against me.

It’s so obvious.

But I’m the only one who thinks that, apparently. When I drag the Mage away from his coffee to tell him the not-at-all-surprising news that the Pitches are treacherous snakes, he just sighs.  

“Simon, you’re the Chosen One. This is hardly the most difficult task you’ve faced.”

“But it’s a trap,” I shout – loud enough that several of Baz’s relatives turn around to look at me. I lower my voice. “This is why we’re here. They brought me here to kill me.”

“We have to take that chance,” the Mage says, which is pretty rich given that I’m the one whose life is on the line here, not his. “Be reasonable, Simon. I’m sure Mr Grimm is well aware that if he or his family reneges on our truce before the oath is finalised, I will wreak bloody vengeance on them. So, go and accept the challenge. Now, please. It’s almost midnight.”  

I slope back to where Baz and Dev are still chatting out the front of the house. I’m not the only one heading in that direction now – most of the party seems to be going outside. I guess now I know why.

The glove’s still lying on the floor where I left it and I stoop to pick it up.

“Finished with your panic attack?” Baz asks.

“Fuck off,” I say, flinging the glove back at Dev who catches it.

“You accept?”

I shrug (like I have a choice) and Dev punches the air. “All right. Well, then lads, I’m going for a slash before it starts – Baz’ll show you where the duelling grounds are.”

He thumps Baz on the back and saunters back into the house.

“I know what you’re doing,” I tell Baz as I follow him down the stairs into the driveway.

“Really,” Baz says. He sounds bored. “You think I’m trying to kill you with Dev?”

“Yeah. Aren’t you?”

Baz twists back to look at me. (Well, sneer at me.) “Dev,” he says, “has never fought a duel in his life and he’s wasted. So, no – not exactly my first choice into the ring against the Greatest Mage in a life or death situation.”

Put like that, I’m not exactly sure what I’m worried about.

Although obviously I am still worried, because it’s Baz. And although I am the Greatest Mage – whatever that means – I’m shit at spellcasting and most of the fights I’ve been in have been against dark creatures and I was allowed to use my sword. I don’t really want to hack Dev’s head off, or go off on him. Unless he really is trying to kill me.

He could just be pretending to be drunk, I suppose.

He also could have been pretending to be an average student in all the classes we’ve ever taken together. I could believe it – well, I could believe it of Baz. He’s the kind to go in for the long game. Although Baz is far too up himself to ever pretend to be less than perfect at everything, so maybe I wouldn’t.

But he could have forced Dev to pretend. I know he’s persuasive. In fifth year, Baz convinced me that the Sword of Mages was the fifth blade and I didn’t need to go looking for the final one. (I thought he’d know, since lots of his family have been Mage). I almost died. I probably would’ve done if Agatha hadn’t pulled that knife out of the picture.

Dev is Baz’s cousin, so he’d probably be easier to convince than me. Although I think most people would get sick of pretending after seven years, even if their cousin told them to. I don’t know – I don’t know who my cousins are, but it feels like a big ask.

For some reason, Baz is still talking as he leads me off the main road and onto one of the lit paths.

“Dev also has poor eyesight and bad reflexes. If you duck the first spell, you might not even have to cast anything yourself, just get in under his defences and hold him at wand point.”

We’re at the edge of the ‘duelling grounds’ now – I think it probably doubles as a tennis court when no one’s getting married. About half the other guests are already here and I can see the others taking the same path that Baz and I took. I can see Dev himself pushing past Fiona Pitch. And I see her wallop him round the head for shoving her.

So yeah. He doesn’t look dangerous.

I try and ruffle the back of my hair, like I do when I’m thinking, but then I remember that I shaved it all off. I put my hand down again.

“If you think he’s going to lose, why pick him?”

Baz stares at me until I start to wonder whether there’s something on my face. Then he shakes his head like – even after all these years – he still can’t believe how stupid I am.

“Well, he’s only the first. Perhaps they’ll find someone better tomorrow.”

“What do you mean, tomorrow?” I say, but Dev’s already pushing me into the court.

*

No one seems that surprised when I win, although they also don’t seem that happy about it. No one claps, except Baz who clearly doesn’t mean it. It’s a sarcastic slow clap – just three beats – and makes me feel embarrassed for even trying. For even being here. Even though I did exactly what he suggested. Prick.

After that, everyone just sort of starts drifting off, back to the house, and I go with them because I’m tired and I don’t have anywhere else to go. Baz’s stepmum shows me where my room is again and points out that I’m opposite Baz, in case I need him.

“Right. Thanks,” I say, because she seems nice and I don’t want to tell her that I literally cannot imagine ever needing Baz.

I guess it’s useful to know where he’s supposed to be.

We’re staying at Pitch Manor until the wedding’s over. No one’s told me what happens after that, although I have asked. The Mage said it was for Baz and me to decide. Which I assume means I can either stay here, if Baz lets me, or go back to the home in Liverpool, since I doubt either of us want to go on a honeymoon. It’s a shit choice – and I haven’t worked out what the lesser evil is yet.

The room I’ve been given looked all right when Baz showed it to me earlier. It’s massive, twice the size of the room Baz and I usually sleep in. All the furniture in it is probably hundreds of years old and not very comfortable, and it’s all carved with people’s faces. (Because that’s not creepy at all.) Other than that, though, it seemed fine. Normal.

Then I turned off the light.

Honestly, it’s like being trapped in a nightmare. Even when I turn the light back on again, the thing under the bed won’t stop clanking or shaking the bedposts. And now I know the dragon’s looking at me, I can’t un-see it. It looks angry. Like it knows I killed a dragon once and it wants revenge.

I can’t sleep here. It must be a joke room that they give to people they really hate. Baz is probably pissing himself laughing in his completely normal room. He probably thinks I’ll just suck it up, like I’ve accepted all this shit. Well, fuck him. My pain is about to be his.

I stagger out into the corridor and hammer on his door until he opens it.

He’s changed out of the suit and now he’s in a pair of posh red and gold pyjamas I remember him wearing at school. Behind him I can see a room that looks – disappointingly – almost identical to mine, gargoyles and all, although it does have slightly more of Baz’s stuff in it. (I recognise some of the books and football trophies he took home in third year.) Also, there’s a sofa, which is good because it means I don’t need to sleep on the floor.

“What is it?” Baz says. He moves to block me as I try and get past him into the room. “What, Snow?”

“My room’s haunted,” I tell him.

“So?” Baz says. (I knew he knew. He’s such a tosser.)

“So,” I say, “I’m staying with you.”

Baz’s eyebrows rise – he looks appropriately horrified – and I elaborate quickly because, while I definitely do want to annoy him, I don’t want him to slam the door in my face.

“On the sofa. Don’t worry, I’m not trying to steal your bed or anything.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Baz says. “Unless you want to spend the next four days explaining yourself to my father, and fending off innuendos from my aunt.”

I think I must be too tired for this conversation. “We’ve shared a room for seven years.”

“Yes, and now we’re engaged,” Baz says. “Clearly, the situation has changed.”

“It really hasn’t,” I say but Baz isn’t listening. I think he’s checking the coast is clear – that nobody will see what he’s about to do – because suddenly he’s striding across the corridor towards my room. The haunted room.

“So, you’re allowed to stay with me, but I can’t stay with you?” I say as he yanks the door open. (He’s going to be pissed when he realises there isn’t a sofa.)

Baz gives me a withering look as he flicks his wand out of his sleeve. I step back, but he’s not trying to attack me.

Instead, he points the wand at the bed, which is still shaking a bit.

“Listen up, Nigel,” he tells the bed – or whatever’s underneath it, “this man is my fiancé. If you piss him about, I’ll be back and I’ll be angry. Consider staying elsewhere tonight. And as for you–” he turns his wand on the dragon mural, “it’s two in the morning. Go to sleep.”

The dragon’s eyes close and the bed rumbles to a stop. I hear something clatter outside the window and then it’s gone. I’m not sure whether I should thank him, but Baz doesn’t seem to expect me to. Which is good, because I’m not exactly sure what just happened. I think he just threatened a ghost (a ghost called Nigel) (how do you even threaten a ghost anyway?) to get it to leave me alone.  

Baz’s threatened me tonnes of times; I never thought he’d threaten someone else on my behalf. But then, I never thought I’d be in his house. Maybe he feels he has to be a good host.

He pushes his wand back into his sleeve. “Goodnight, Snow.”

“Wait.”

I’m not sure why, but I don’t want Baz to leave. Probably because I don’t want to be left alone in this creepy room. Even without the dragon and the ghost, it’s so large. And empty. I’m used to sleeping in a room with other people. I’m used to sleeping in a room with Baz and although I don’t like it, the sound of him breathing is better than the sound of absolutely fucking nothing.

“How many more duels are there?” I say as Baz turns back, one eyebrow already raised. (I don’t know how he does it) (I have tried. I can only do both together.)

I don’t actually need to know this now, but to be fair, it has been bothering me since he mentioned it earlier. I didn’t want to ask his stepmum in case she thought I was an idiot for not knowing, but Baz already thinks I’m an idiot, so I might as well.

“Two more,” Baz says. He leans back against the door surround, crossing one ankle over the other. His feet are bare. “Three in total.”

That makes sense. It’s why the wedding is three days away, although I guess I only get to it if I win the next two duels. (I could pretend to lose, I suppose, but the Mage wouldn’t be very happy about it. And I know he’d smell a rat.)

“One of them will almost certainly be my father,” Baz says. “I’m not sure about the other – probably not Daphne. She’s only a Grimm by marriage. One of my uncles, perhaps. But definitely my father.”

“Great,” I say glumly, since Baz’s dad is basically terrifying. “I can’t wait.”

Baz makes a face. “My father’s speciality is in agricultural magic, Snow. As long as you can cope with a well-tended field, you should be fine.”

“Bullshit. Your family are all fire magicians.”

I ought to know – the Mage has told me often enough, and Penny, but Baz is shaking his head.

“He’s more used to bonfires and slash-and-burn cultivation than offensive magic. Stick to defensive ice and water spells, certainly, and be prepared to absorb some heat, but it’s still child’s play for you.”

I almost ask what he thinks he’s doing, why he’s helping me. But I do actually know. 

He helped me with the room because he doesn’t want me staying with him. (And because he doesn’t want his family to think I’ve sullied his virtue or whatever. Which is probably the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard, but since Baz’s family are posh and weird, I believe him.)

He must be helping me with the duels for the same reason his family are putting forward all these weak opponents. Because even though it’s mad and unbelievable, they must actually want this alliance. (I figured it out.) And I guess no one trusts me to win on my own – Baz must have told them I’m unreliable.

That means I don’t have to feel grateful to him. Which is good, because I don’t.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Baz asks, overly gracious - to make it clear that he doesn't mean it. As though I could ever possibly be confused about that.

I shake my head. “Just turn the lights off on your way out.”

He does.

Chapter Text

I wake up in another nightmare.

This time it’s not a dragon or a ghost – it’s two tiny dark-haired girls standing next to the bed, far too close to my face.

They’re both completely identical and although I’ve never actually watched The Shining (I don’t get to watch many movies – and when I do, I like them not to scare the shit out of me), I know the imagery. It must be based on real omens. Omens everyone else knows about because they were all raised with magic. It probably means I’m going to die.

I yell and try and roll out the bed on the other side, but there’s another girl there too. Older than the other two, but clearly part of the same set.

“Fuck!” I shout and drop back down into the centre of the bed. My heart is beating far too fast for whatever time this is in the morning.

The older girl tuts at me. (The little ones don’t even blink.) “You shouldn’t swear in front of children,” she says. Which makes me feel like a bit of a prat.

Right – kids. Baz has a lot of sisters. These are probably them, although what the fuck they’re doing in my room is anyone’s guess. Watching me sleep. To report back to him, maybe. (That doesn’t sound right. Baz doesn’t need other people to tell him whether I snore – he’s lived with me for years. He’s already told me I snore.)

“Well, you shouldn’t sneak up on people,” I say.

She makes a face. “I thought you were supposed to be brave.”

Merlin. I guess Baz isn’t the only one in his family who goes for the kill shot. Even the little kids are crucifying me.

“I am brave,” I tell her. I can see she doesn’t believe me. “I’ve fought the Humdrum every year since I was your age – and all the things he sends after me. And I’m going to marry your brother. That’s pretty fuc— I mean, that’s brave, right?”

There’s a giggle from one of the two small girls – I guess they liked that one. I grin at them as the older girl sits at the end of the bed and the giggler covers her face in her hands and shrieks. That makes the other one laugh. They’re actually kind of cute now I know they’re human. (Nothing like Baz, even the baby Baz in the picture. Different hair, different mouths. I guess they’re only half-sisters. And they’re probably not vampires.)

“What’re your names, then?” I ask them – because there’s not much you can ask kids this young. (What’s your name? What’s your favourite colour? Do you think your brother is trying to kill me or what?) They’re probably only about three years old.

“That’s Lily and that’s Mara,” the older girl says. And I have time to think, That’s not too bad. Definitely could’ve been worse, before she says, “And I’m Mordelia.”

Christ, Baz’s family have terrible names. Even “Lily” and “Mara”, which sound OK, are probably both short for something twice as long that sounds evil. It makes me glad that Baz and I definitely won’t have children. I don’t fancy having to argue with him about naming our first-born Maleficent or something else awful. He’s relentless. And really good at arguing. He’d definitely win. (I mean – that’s not the only reason I’m glad. But it is a reason.)

Mordelia is looking at me expectantly.

“That’s a lovely name,” I say. (Because I don’t get my kicks making kids cry.) “I’m Simon.”

“I know that,” she says. “You’re the Chosen One?”

“Er,” I say. (Was that a question?) “Yeah. At least, I think I am. Yes.”

“And you love Baz?” Mordelia looks incredulous.

“Er,” I say again.

I’m not sure how to explain a political marriage of convenience to a six (seven?) year-old.

Also, even though I hate Baz, I don’t think it’s for me to tell his kid sister that somehow, despite being much better looking than any of the blokes in our year, Baz has never successfully managed to pull anyone, let alone me. And that presumably he never will now, which means maybe no one will ever get close enough to love him. He’ll never let anyone in.

“I love him enough to get married to him,” I say eventually.

Fortunately, Mordelia seems satisfied with this answer. I can already tell she’s what Penny would call “frighteningly precocious” (it’s how she describes her youngest sister – it means Priya’s so smart even Penny finds it weird.) But I guess she isn’t quite ready for riddles yet, even basically shit ones. Meanwhile, thanks to the Mage’s quests, I’ve had quite a lot of training in them. You don’t want to upset a sphinx more than once. I learned that lesson young.

“I didn’t know men could get married to each other,” Mordelia says as one of the small girls (Mara, I think) starts climbing up onto the bed. I pull her up and the other one raises her arms for a lift, too. “I thought they could just marry women. But Baz says they can. He said it’s been legal for a year.”

“Well, Baz is usually right,” I say. Because he is. (It’s annoying, but true.)

Mordelia shakes her head sadly. “You like him too much.”

I move my face into what I hope isn’t an expression of horror and disgust. Anything neutral will do. I know I must have managed it, because Mordelia sighs. “I don’t get what you see in him at all.”

“He isn’t a good brother?”

She shrugs. (It's brutal.) “He’s all right. You’re the Chosen One.”

“You think I could do better?”

“Duh,” she says.

I start laughing, I can’t help it.

Obviously, she’s right – I could do better than a vampire who hates me, I have done (Agatha wasn’t a vampire) (and she didn’t hate me, either). But the idea of Baz’s little sister thinking that I’m somehow better than him is completely hilarious.

I mean, it’s Baz. He’s not exactly Watford’s least-eligible bachelor, is he? He’s ridiculously fit and I can’t think of anything he’s not good at. And he lives in a castle.

All the kids are looking at me like I’m having some sort of fit. I think maybe I am. This whole situation has made me hysterical.

“You should – tell him that,” I say when I can breathe enough to get the words out. “Please.”

Outside, there’s a knock at the door. It’s Baz, obviously. Like I’ve summoned him just by talking about him.

“Snow? Are you awake? Breakfast is almost over.”

“Yeah,” I shout back. “Your sisters woke me up.”

Baz yanks the door open. I’m still feeling a bit lightheaded so for a moment I have difficulty processing what I’m seeing. He’s wearing jeans (and a shirt, but I’ve seen him wear shirts before). I didn’t know Baz knew what jeans were. Or I guess I thought he did, but that he thought they were for poor people.

Maybe it’s just loose jeans are for poor people. (These definitely aren’t loose.)

He’s also scowling – although not at me for once.

“What the hell are you lot doing in here?” he demands as the girls scatter. The twins roll off the bed away from the door, shrieking with laughter; Mordelia stands with as much dignity as she can manage.

“Mum sent us to get the Chosen One,” she explains.

“Well done, then – you failed,” Baz says. “And don’t call him that.”

“Actually, you can call me whatever you like,” I say as Baz makes a freakishly quick dash for the other side of the room and scoops up one of the twins. “But I do prefer Simon.”

“Baz doesn’t call you Simon,” Mordelia says.

“No,” I agree. “Baz doesn’t.”

The other twin has done a better job of worming her way under the bed. Baz has to duck and pull her out. When he stands back up, he has one giggling three-year-old under each arm, and his hair is a mess. He’s wearing it soft again and it’s almost completely over his eyes. He makes an impatient huffing sound that I think is an attempt to move his hair out the way without dropping either of the twins, and then just flicks it all back like he’s in a shampoo advert.

“On second thoughts, perhaps you shouldn’t talk to him at all,” he says as he carries the twins out of the room, placing them on the floor in the corridor. “Or indeed, talk at all, Mordelia. Full stop.”

He stands back and indicates the still-open door to his final sister.

“You’re so mean,” Mordelia says. “I told Simon he was too good for you.” And with that she flounces out of the room.

Once she’s gone Baz turns his death glare on me.

“What?” I say. “It’s not like I agreed with her.” 

Baz seems unconvinced. I don’t blame him. His dignity is in tatters and I’m clearly still trying not to laugh. He narrows his eyebrows.

“Breakfast is in the dining room, Simon.”

He says my name like it’s a threat. (It probably is.) I actually shiver, but I don’t think Baz sees because he’s already shut the door behind him. Good.

Once he’s gone, I get dressed. Another suit – brown this time, with too many buttons and a waistcoat. (Even though Baz at least is smart-casual today, the Mage was very clear about “keeping up appearances” so I know it's this suit or another suit. I don’t think he’d have let me bring any trakkies at all, if I wasn’t also leaving the home.) Then, once I’m vaguely presentable, I try and work out where the fuck the dining room is. Downstairs, obviously. But after that, I have no fucking clue. I just wander around until I find a door that’s open, which fortunately turns out to be the right one.

It’s the same room we ate in last night – with the same long table. It’s not full today, though. There are just groups of people sitting together between other empty seats. Little birds are fluttering in and out of an open window, bringing people messages. One of the bigger birds is even carrying a newspaper, like we’re in Harry Potter.

The Mage isn’t here. Baz’s stepmother explains that he’s already gone out to pay his respects to the rest of the local magickal society, which I assume means: all the other local mages who weren’t rich enough to be invited to Pitch Manor.

Dev isn’t here either. Probably nursing a hangover, but I spot Baz down the end of the table, sitting with Mordelia.

He isn’t eating and in fact I think he’s probably just here to give Mordelia the third-degree. He’s keeping his voice low, but I hear him say my name as I help myself from the buffet, even if I don’t catch the whole of the sentence. But Mordelia either doesn’t understand their conversation is supposed to be private, or doesn’t give a shit, so I hear the next part extremely clearly.

“Yes, he did. He said he’s in love with you.”

I whip my head round. To my horror, Baz is staring right at me, with a weird look on his face that I think means he’s trying to work out where to bury my body. I shake my head frantically.  

“And he said you were always right,” Mordelia says, which isn’t even true. I only said usually.

I’m blushing, even though his whole thing is just a misunderstanding. (Baz must know it’s a misunderstanding.) Before it gets any weirder, I look away from him and back at my plate. I’m hungry and so far I’ve only taken one fried egg. There’s definitely lots more time I can spend at the buffet.

I fill two plates just in case. When I turn around, Baz is gone.

I walk all the way to the other end of the table, so I don’t have to sit with Mordelia, and end up opposite Baz’s aunt. I regret it immediately.

“That was a shit fight last night,” she tells me as I start on my breakfast.

I shrug. This is very much not my problem, but it’s also probably too late to change seats. A bird lands on Fiona’s plate and she pulls the message off its leg, reads it and bats the bird away.

“Five fucking minutes,” she tells me. “Barely worth leaving the house for.”

“Don’t bother coming tonight, then,” I growl. “Since I doubt your brother-in-law will last much longer. Or anyone else.”

Fiona cackles. Like this is all a massive joke to her.

“Is that a promise, Chosen One?”

“Yeah,” I say, although I’m sure Baz has told her not to call me that as well. “Bring it on. I’ll fight your whole family if I have to.”

“The Grimms aren’t my family,” Fiona says as another bird lands in front of me. “You wouldn’t be so cocky against a Pitch.”

I try and raise one eyebrow, like Baz always does, but it’s a mistake because I know I can’t do that. Fiona looks confused.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

I huff. “Forget it.”

“Are you trying to look hard? It’s not convincing.”

“How do you think Baz Pitch broke his nose, Fiona?”

“By being a div who never learned to block a punch,” Fiona says. She points at the bird, which has started to cheep annoyingly. “Are you going to get that, or what?”

I wasn’t going to. Because I assume it will be from the Mage and that it will say something annoying like, “Remember to use the forks provided” or “Don’t explicitly threaten to punch any of the people we’re supposed to be getting along with.”

But I also don’t want Fiona getting so pissed off that she reads the note for me. I’m guessing that will end badly for me, so I take the note from the bird and read it.

It isn’t what I thought it’d be, although it is from the Mage.

“Merwolves. Virginia Water. ASAP, Simon.”

He usually writes more than that. (He usually writes in full sentences.) It’s all the clue I need that things are really bad. I don’t even have time to finish my breakfast. How far away is Virginia Water? (I don’t even know where the fuck it is. I’m only guessing it’s a place.)

I’m trying not to look too twitchy as I ask Mrs Grimm to order me a taxi. (I can tell Fiona’s still watching me. And that she probably suspects something from the way I reacted to the message.) But I’m not very good at the bit before a fight. The bit where you have to wait, without being able to stop any of the bad things happening. It’s when I’m at my worst.

Fortunately, Baz’s stepmum is too polite to ask any questions, even though it must look suspicious that the Mage is gone and now I want to leave too. She just asks me where I’m going and then, when I tell her, suggests that one of the servants could take me.

“That’s OK,” I say, because I’m not exactly keen on showing up to a rescue mission with the fucking butler from the House of Pitch. “I don’t want to put anyone out.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble.” Which I suppose it isn’t. For her, anyway.

“Vera?” She leans out into the corridor. “Vera—? Oh, Basil, I don’t suppose you’ve seen Vera?”

“I’m afraid not,” Baz’s voice says from behind the door.

“Are you going out?”

“Just to the club – I’ll be back in time for dinner.”

“But that’s perfect. You can drop Mr Snow off in Egham on your way.”

It doesn’t sound perfect to me. And I very much doubt it sounds perfect to Baz, either. I assume that, like me, he was hoping we wouldn't have to see each other again until the evening at which point one or both of us could get drunk enough to forget the ‘He said he’s in love with you’ incident. It's probably why he’s leaving the house. So that he doesn’t have to see me.

“It’s fine, I’ll walk,” I say, even though I’ve got no idea where I’m going. (At least I speak the language this time. I don’t mind asking for directions.)  

“Don’t be silly,” Mrs Grimm says brightly, as though everything’s sorted now and we’re all going to be great friends. “Basil will take you.”

I follow Baz outside and onto the crunchy gravel driveway. (Because it was either that or make a scene.) (More of a scene.) He’s changed his clothes since I saw him at breakfast. Now he’s in white – shorts and a polo shirt. I guess he must be going to play tennis, since the wedding has taken over the courts outside his house.

Watford doesn’t go in for tennis. It’s football or lacrosse, mainly, and some of us do cross-country out on the hills. That means I’ve never seen Baz play tennis before. I didn’t even know he liked it. It must be something else he only does at home, like driving (which I also didn’t know he could do). Smoking. Wearing jeans.

Baz really was right, yesterday. Turns out, there’s loads I don’t know about him. (Although so far none of what I’ve found out seems dangerous, except for the smoking. Which is probably mostly dangerous to Baz.) I can’t even work out who he’s going to play against. Aren’t all of his friends here or on holiday? (He told me yesterday that Niall is in Tenerife and isn’t going to make it to the wedding.) Does Baz have other friends?

Unless – Fuck. hang on. Maybe he isn’t going to the club at all. Maybe that’s why he’s so pissed off that he has to take me with him. Because now he has to actually go to the club.

I mean, it’s more likely he just doesn’t want to sit in a car alone with me for however long it takes to get to this place. It does sound awful. Are we going to have to talk to each other? Make polite conversation? Or will he just spend the entire trip insulting me because he knows I have to take it. Merlin, I hope he doesn’t try and let me down gently about the whole ‘in love with him’ thing, it’s embarrassing enough already.

“You don’t actually have to drive me. I can find my own way,” I say as Baz presses a button on his keyfob and the car - a massive dark-red Jaguar - unlocks.

I’ve decided I have to give him one final chance to ditch me, now his stepmother’s not watching. That way, when he tries to hold it against me later, I can remind him I did give him an out.

Baz just scowls. “Just shut up and get in.”  

I do because the Mage is in trouble and I can’t afford to wait for a taxi. (Also, I can’t afford a taxi.)

We drive back up the road in silence – it’s like a replay of yesterday, except in reverse and with Baz instead of the Mage. I think about asking him to turn on the radio, but decide it isn’t worth it.

Baz is good driver, at least. (Because of course he is.) Confident. I’ve been in a car a few times with Agatha and while I always felt safe with her, she always goes about ten miles below the speed limit because she’s worried about getting a ticket. Baz drives like he plays football. Like he’s in complete control, even though he can only have been doing it a few years.

“Where exactly are we going?” he asks after a while.

“Er,” I check the Mage’s note again as Baz switches lanes, “Virginia Water? I’m guessing it’s a lake.”

He doesn’t ask why I’m going there. He doesn’t even point out that it’s stupid to go somewhere without knowing anything about it, although I can see him thinking it. (Probably, if Baz was going on a rescue mission, he’d waste the first hour collecting useless information about the local landscape. He’d probably only get there once it too late to save whoever it was.) He doesn’t say anything.

Normally, I’d be pleased. That Baz isn’t talking, I mean. It’s usually how we get along best, but I can’t help but feel like things would be better if we cleared the air.

“I didn’t say I was in love with you.”

Baz’s hands seem to clench on the steering wheel. “I know.”

“I just didn’t know what to tell your sister.”

“Understood.”

“Because she was asking me all these questions—”

“All right, Simon. I said I know,” Baz snaps.

Which effectively puts an end to that conversation.

I stare out the window. The silence is still really awkward, and my leg won’t stop jiggling. (Although that’s pre-fight nerves. I’m always like this. Penny says you could run half the grid off my nervous energy when I’m like this.) I need to be doing something useful. And right now, the only useful thing I can do is gather information.

I turn back to Baz. He hasn’t turned on a Sat Nav or anything, so he must know where we’re going. He must know what the thing we’re going to is.

“How far away are we from this Virginia Water?”

“Not far.”

“And it’s a lake, yeah?” I say, determined to get something useful out of this conversation. “Full of merwolves.”

Baz bares his teeth. (Baz hates merwolves) (I know him well enough to know that.)

“Not usually. Normally the lake is full of mermaids. Or at least, the largest lake is.”

Right. That explains a lot actually. There aren’t many mermaids left in Britain. And there are none at Watford, even though some of them can speak with magic. The Mage has been trying to get some of the kids to apply for years – I suppose he must have thought this was a good opportunity. It also explains why they weren’t invited to Baz’s house, even though they live really close by, since Baz’s house doesn’t have a swimming pool. Not that I’ve seen anyway.

I can’t think of anything else to ask (Penny probably would), but Baz has decided to participate properly in the conversation now. 

“Did you think to bring anything silver?” he says. Because he’s only participating if he can point out my mistakes.

Rather than answer him, I draw the Sword of Mages. (It isn’t silver, I don’t think, but I know it works. I’ve killed merwolves with it before.) Baz nearly swerves off the road.

“For fuck’s sake, Simon. This is a confined space!”

We pull into a carpark. There’s a sign (it doesn’t say anything about the mermaids) and a visitor’s centre. And behind that a lot of water that I’m guessing belongs to someone called Virginia.

“That’s the Mage’s car,” I say, pointing at the Land Rover and Baz pulls up next to it.

I unbuckle my seatbelt as soon as we stop, and then I’m out. Baz gets out too, which confuses me because he’s supposed to be playing tennis. He’s got his wand at the ready and he’s taken off his watch.

“You don’t have to come with me,” I tell him as the two of us run towards the edge of the lake. (There’s no point pissing around the edges looking for the Mage. The merwolves will be in the lake, so that’s where I have to go, too.) “I can do this on my own, thanks.”

“I know you weren’t listening to the speeches yesterday,” Baz says, “but the point of this marriage is actually for our families to team up against the Humdrum and the Dark Creatures. So yes, I do have to come with you.”

He’s right. Although I’m still not happy about him being here. I’m not sure I can trust him to have my back.

I hit the water and keep going. (It’s fucking freezing.) Somehow Baz is still walking on the surface. As I get deeper into the water, he stays at the same height so I’m gradually getting further and further away from him. I’m practically swimming now, while Baz is just casually pretending to be a really pale, athletic Jesus.

“We’re not married yet,” I point out.

“And I don’t want merwolves in my lake,” Baz growls, as though he isn’t talking to me and he definitely isn’t listening to me.

He stops and tucks his wand into the top of his shorts. Then, as I watch, he takes a short run up along the top of the water, jumps and then swan-dives below the surface.

It’s beautiful.

Breath-taking – even if it is just Baz.

“Fuck me,” I mutter (I don’t know how Baz does it; how he can be so graceful at absolutely bloody everything). Then I take a deep lungful of air and follow him under.

*

Hours later, I’m back in Baz’s car. I can’t stop grinning because I always get a bit giddy after we win a fight, and because Baz is still absolutely drenched and it’s hilarious. He used all his magic against the merwolves, so did the Mage (that’s why the Mage had to summon me), and Baz won’t let me dry him.

“Thank you, but I’d rather be wet, than incinerated.”

He looks like a drowned rat, admittedly one with really good chest muscles. (I’m not trying to look, but – Well, it’s really obvious. The tennis shirt is practically see-through and sticking to him. If he were a girl, I definitely wouldn’t be looking.) (And I don’t want to even get started on the shorts.)

He’s dripping onto the steering wheel and he’s got the heating cranked up to try and dry himself out. It’s been warm, but now it’s raining outside, which means the temperature’s gone right down. I can see Baz shivering.

I’m bone dry – my magic worked right for once, although the lake water and the quick drying have definitely ruined my suit. (What’s left of it – I lost the jacket at the bottom of the lake somewhere.) The shirt's covered in mud and the trousers are far too tight now.

“Wool,” Baz said vaguely (and unhelpfully), as I stripped off the waistcoat.

I was going to go back with the Mage, but he wanted to dispose of all the dead merwolves humanely somewhere else. That means I’m travelling back to Pitch Manor with Baz, but it isn’t nearly as bad as the journey out here, even if it is too hot.

At least it doesn’t smell of dead merwolf.

I’m actually happy to be here. I think I’m even happy to be with Baz. I’m not entirely sure whether I’m glad we’re going back to his house (more opportunities for people to make rude remarks about how I eat or fight; and I guess I’ll probably to have to fight Baz’s dad), but at least there will definitely be another ridiculous banquet. (Baz says we’re running late for it, given that we both have to change, which he seems to think will take at least an hour. But if yesterday is anything to go by, we could be much later than that and there would still be plenty of food left.)

For now, though, things are good, they really are.

“Will you please stop smiling at me?” Baz says. “It’s creeping me out.”

I can tell he isn’t really creeped out, though. Or angry. (It’s weird – I think Baz might actually not be angry with me for the first time in our entire lives. All I had to do was stop a merwolf ripping his arm off. I could have done that years ago.) A large drop of water slides down his cheek and off the edge of his chin.

“I can’t help it,” I say. Because I can’t. I just feel really good.

“Think about all the poor orphaned merwolf cubs you’ve left to grow up, unfriended and alone,” Baz says and I smack him on the arm.

“Thanks for that.”

“You asked to feel sadder.”

“I didn’t actually.”

“True,” Baz agrees. “I wanted you to feel sadder, then.”

“I think you take being my nemesis too seriously,” I say. “The Humdrum doesn’t put nearly as much work in.”

Baz grins at me, but I’m not having it. Not after that merwolf cub thing, and I think he realises it because he sighs and pushes his sodden hair out of his eyes.

“If it helps, merwolves aren’t sentient. And they literally live to kill other magickal beings – they don’t even eat them. They’re stupid and they’re evil.”

I pretend to consider this, even though it’s not exactly new information. The fact that Baz is trying to apologise for making me feel shitty is new, though. (Perhaps even Baz is on a post-battle high. It could happen.)

“Must be why you killed so many of them today,” I observe. I allow myself to grin again and the corner of Baz’s mouth twitches.

“Exactly.”

Normally I wouldn’t compliment Baz if my life depended on it (which fortunately it hasn’t, or he might have tried to make something of it), but I feel maybe he deserves one right now. For what he did under the water. And because he’s not being a jerk for once.

“You know, you were really great down there,” I say, letting the words rush out of me before I can stop myself. “It was almost like having Penny with me.”

Baz barks a laugh at that. But I think I see a faint flush of red on his cheeks as well, like he’s actually pleased.

“Thank you. You weren’t too bad yourself.”

I snort. “Come on, I was amazing.”

And I mean, I was. But I do this all the time, it’s my destiny. It’s literally what I’m here to do. Fight the bad things, save the World of Mages. But Baz is – 

Well, it's just that I’ve never seen him like that before.

It’s hard fighting under the water, if you’re not used to it. Mermaids live in heavily oxygenated water, so you can breathe if you get down deep enough, but it’s hard to cast spells with your mouth full of water. Even Penny struggled when we went looking for the selkies in fourth year.

Penny says the trick is to cast a shield around yourself before getting into the water. (I don’t bother obviously. I struggle with spells at the best of times.) It’s still not perfect, because you have to compensate for your spell hitting the wall of the shield first and losing power, but it works. And it keeps you safe if any of the things attacking you get too close.

I thought that’s what Baz was doing at first, casting a shield. Then I realised that he’d changed his voice to a different pitch (no pun intended), and I could hear him casting spells under the water.

He’d already taken out three of the merwolves with “Dead in the water” before I got my first one. Although he did get distracted when the Mage turned up with about ten mermaids inside a shield charm (clearly the Mage has been listening to Penelope). That’s when the merwolf almost got him. I had to shove him out the way so I could hack the creature’s head off.

But even Penny sometimes lets her guard down, so I’m not holding it against him.   

She can also be far too stubborn too, just like Baz – who is still shivering, like a complete numpty. (I should probably try and find him some newspapers to wrap himself in, that’s what numpties usually do. Or maybe some rocks to chew on.)

“Have you got your magic back yet?” I ask him.

He shakes his head. “It usually takes a few hours.”

“You should definitely let me dry your clothes out before you get sick,” I say, because Baz isn’t the only one who can channel Penny.

Obviously, I don’t mind if Baz gets sick. Or at least, I wouldn’t normally – but I don’t want Baz or his family to change their minds about helping us. (Today was good! I feel like it could actually work.) And they might change their minds, if Baz somehow gives himself flu in the middle of summer the first time he tries to do anything helpful.

He’s ignoring me, so I put my hand back on his arm to get his attention. (Possibly not a brilliant idea while he’s driving, but it seems reasonable.)

“Baz, you’re like an actual block of ice.”

“I’m fine.”

He really is like ice. Temperature wise, and he’s solid. No give. (Although I suppose that could just be muscle.) I can feel him heating up, though, under my hand. Just because I’m so much warmer than he is.

Weirdly, he doesn’t shake me off. Probably because he needs his arm where it is to control the gear stick. Or because he’s fucking cold and I’m a source of heat, even if he won’t admit he needs it.

I don’t really think about what I’m doing (I don’t really think, full stop), I just push some of my excess heat into him through where we’re touching. My hand on his arm.

If I had thought about it, I’d probably have assumed Baz wouldn’t notice. I thought he’d just stop shivering and gradually thaw out – but what actually happens is that he almost crashes the car.

“Aleister fucking Crowley!”

He’s lost control of the wheel (I think he jerked it too hard the wrong way when he felt … whatever it was I did to him) and now we’re heading for the edge of the road. I slam my hands against the dashboard, trying to brace myself, but Baz has good reflexes and he swings the Jaguar back towards the centre of the road before we hit anything.

He’s breathing hard. “What in snakes was that?”

“Sorry. I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“No. What happened?”

“I was just trying to warm you up.”

The dual carriageway is coming to an end. Baz navigates the roundabout and takes us off down a side street. Then he stops the car. I assume it’s so he can bollock me without being distracted by having to drive, but he doesn’t look angry. (He does still look wet, though, so I can only guess my heat non-spell didn’t work.)

“I’m not entirely certain, but I think you might have done something more than than that,” he says. I watch as he pulls out his wand (he’s been keeping it in one of his socks since we got in the car) and taps his own knee. “You’re getting warmer.” 

The car gets even more unbearably hot than it was before. The windows mist up. And Baz’s clothes and hair are suddenly soft and dry.

“Your magic’s back,” I say – pointlessly (it’s very obviously back) – but Baz is shaking his head.

“I don’t think it’s mine.

It takes me a moment to get it. “You think I gave you my magic?”

“I don’t know.” Baz’s eyes are wide. The rain patters harder on the roof of the Jaguar. “Is that something you can do?”

“It’s not something I’d want to do,” I say. “You’re too good already, you don’t need an upgrade.”

Baz looks like he isn’t sure whether I’m insulting him or complimenting him. Honestly, I’m not sure either.

“Anyway,” I say quickly, before he decides I am picking a fight (I’m not), “at least you’re not going to catch your death anymore. And your shorts are no longer see-through.”

“Wonderful. Thank you so much for pointing that out,” Baz says.

“Could’ve asked for help at any point, mate.”

Baz rolls his eyes – I think he’s blushing again – but otherwise ignores me. (I’m laughing – I love making Baz blush.) By now, the windows have de-misted enough that he can see out of them again. He reverses back down the street and pulls out again onto the main road.

“We also no longer have to worry about missing dinner,” he tells me. He taps the dashboard clock and casts, “Time flies.”

I’m not at all surprised when the spell works.

*

Baz’s dad challenges me almost as soon as I get into the house, which I’m not delighted about since I know I look a complete fright in my muddy shirt and too-small trousers and I was hoping to change upstairs before anyone saw me. The odds of him not telling the Mage, and the Mage not telling me how disappointed he is that I can’t listen to instructions (I can – it’s not my fault he dragged me out to a lake), aren’t low enough unfortunately.

Also, I’m clearly still on dark-creature-attack mode, because I shove Baz behind me and almost take Mr Grimm’s eye out with my wand as soon as he steps out into the hallway.

The whole thing is incredibly embarrassing and I know Baz thinks it is too because he doesn’t stop laughing all the way up the stairs to our rooms. It makes me glad he didn’t let me stay on his sofa last night – at least I’ve got somewhere to retreat to.

We are in time for dinner, even though Baz really does seem to spend all the time available getting dressed. He only turns up five minutes before the first course. Dark green today, with a pale gold tie – he looks like Oscar Wilde or something, so perfectly put together that should be impossible to imagine even touching him. Today, though, I keep remembering him in his wet tennis gear earlier (and the jeans), which means it’s hard to take him seriously.

This time I get to sit next to Dev instead, which isn’t terrible. He refuses to tell me embarrassing things about Baz, since he isn’t completely off his face today, but he is willing to tell me about all the video games he’s been playing. And he’s nice about what happened yesterday, which I wasn’t expecting.

“You’re like a superhero,” he tells me over the salad course. “Uncle Malcolm doesn’t stand a chance.”

He’s right. (And Baz was right yesterday.) Malcolm Grimm might look like a vampire, or the Godfather, or like the kind of snake that swallows you in one bite and slowly digests you – but his form is really sloppy. And like Dev, he just doesn’t move quickly enough.

I deck him with Head over heels and follow it up with You’re in deep water now, which I heard Baz use today against the merwolves, to slow them down. The rain helps.

Baz’s aunt Fiona boos as I help Mr Grimm back to his feet.

Baz himself is smirking under a massive umbrella – probably because I used his spell.

“Well done, Simon,” he shouts, and he must still be in a good mood, because it barely sounds sarcastic at all. I grin back at him – and then his dad’s hand tightens around mine and I realise I haven’t let go yet. Neither has he.

I try and pull back, but Mr Grimm has a strong grip.

“I think you and I need to talk,” he says and his voice is low and frankly more frightening than anything else that’s happened to me today. “Come and find me tomorrow after breakfast.”

I nod, even though it’s not a question, and then I trudge damply back to the house alone, since the Mage intercepted Baz’s dad immediately (good), and Baz and Dev have already gone.

*

I sleep better, the second night. The dragon’s already out cold and Nigel the ghost (wraith, Baz says – like there’s a difference) hasn’t come back. I’m also getting used to the bed, which is more comfortable than the one in my room back at Watford. But apparently mornings in Pitch Manor are exclusively awful.

This time someone is actually shaking me awake. Someone who smells like Earl Grey tea and our bathroom back at Watford.

“Simon. Come on – wake up.”

Baz. It’s just Baz. Which I assume means I can ignore him, because I always ignore Baz, but he’s persistent. He practically drags me out of the bed and only backs off when I can prove I’m conscious by speaking in full sentences.

“All right, I’m awake. What is it?”

My first thought is that breakfast must be ending early today, and that Baz has come to warn me (even though that is unexpectedly nice), but of course it isn’t that at all.  

“It’s Fiona,” Baz explains as I blink sleepily at him. He’s opened the curtains and it’s far too fucking bright. “She’s got it into her head that she needs to save me from a loveless marriage and an alliance with the Mage.”

I stifle a yawn. “Okay.”

“She’s insisting on being the third challenger,” Baz says, “even though she isn’t a Grimm. I think she might actually try and kill you.”

I’m not very surprised by this information, if I’m honest. As far as I can see, Fiona’s been trying to kill me for years, like all the rest of Baz’s family. I’m more surprised that Baz thinks it’s important enough to come and wake me up to tell me about it. And I was definitely more surprised by the jeans he was wearing yesterday. (He’s wearing them again today – and a floral shirt – but I’m more used to it now. I almost don't notice.)

I reach out and pull his wrist over towards my face so I can check the time on his watch – Baz looks alarmed but allows it. It’s eight o’clock. Early, but not too early, then. I probably should get up, but instead I flop back down onto the bed. It’s not my fault all the traditional Grimm duels take place at midnight.

“I can take Fiona.”

“Possibly,” Baz agrees, “but this isn’t anything like the other duels. Nothing like my father. Fiona’s really dangerous.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I press my face back into the pillow in the hope it will give Baz the idea of going away. “That’s what she told me, too.”

“Simon,” Baz growls. “This is important. The whole wretched alliance could be called off. I need you to help me stop that from happening.”

I crack an eye open again.

He’s still leaning over me, his hair falling around his face again. The light from the window is behind him now and all his edges are soft.

“I’ve just realised,” I say. “You haven’t called me Snow since yesterday morning.”

Baz looks confused. (Although he’s not the one who was asleep ten minutes ago. Frankly, I think he could be giving me more slack.)

“No,” he says. “You said you prefer being called Simon. Did you miss the part where I said my aunt is trying to kill you and ruin the truce?”

I close my eyes again.

Baz is probably right (Baz is usually right). I should be worried, but I don’t feel worried at all. I feel fine. A bit tired, a bit hungry (I'll get up soon), but fine. Good, even. Warm. Like I did in the car.

I’m pretty sure this will all work itself out.

“You’re right, Baz,” I tell him as I pull the covers up over my head. “I do prefer Simon.”

Chapter Text

It turns out Baz’s brilliant plan for saving me from Fiona isn’t me asking the Mage to forbid her from participating. (Apparently that would be beneath Baz’s dignity.) Or even me explaining to her all the benefits of our families actually being on the same side for once. (Which is a shame. I think I might be quite good at that after yesterday.)

Instead, he plans to tell her that we (by which I mean Baz and I) have been secretly dating for years. And that therefore she won’t be saving him at all by killing me, but actually leaving him to die alone and heartbroken. (Because apparently this plan isn’t beneath his dignity at all.)

“She won’t believe it,” I say as Baz tugs me down the corridor into another wing of the house.

“She will,” Baz says firmly. “I’ve laid the groundwork.”

He allowed me to get changed at least (another suit) (Baz left the room, although he made it clear he’d come back immediately if he thought I was trying to go back to sleep), but he didn’t give me any time to actually wake up properly. And I haven’t had breakfast yet, so I’m not at my best. Although frankly, I think I’d struggle with this plan even if I was. 

“What groundwork?” I say.

“She knows I’m gay,” Baz says without looking back at me. “I’m gay and you’re handsome. It’s not too much of a leap to think we might be together.”

He stops outside a door and knocks. The jangly guitar sounds from inside stop and someone (presumably Fiona) shouts, “Hang on – let me put some clothes on.”

I’m still reeling from the way Baz dropped this bomb into the conversation. (He’s gay? How can he be gay?) So fucking casual, like it was something we’d already discussed and I’m already well aware of it, which I definitely wasn’t.

Do his friends know he’s gay? Does Agatha? Merlin, what was he doing with Agatha in the woods that day if he wasn’t trying to get off with her? Has he always been gay? Maybe he’s only just realised.

I could tell him I don’t believe him (I don’t know if I believe him) but I don't do that because - well, it's rude, isn't it? To doubt his word. (And anyway, I don’t care if he’s gay – it doesn’t make him any less annoying.) Also, for this plan to work, with Fiona, I can’t stand around outside her room demanding to know more information about something I need to pretend I already know.

So instead I say the other thing that I’m thinking. The other thing that Baz just hit me with without any sort of warning.

“You don't think I’m handsome.”

I know I am. At least, I know I look all right. I’m not ugly. I don’t think Agatha would have gone out with me if I was, and her mum is always telling me how handsome I am, but I assumed she meant it more as a sign I was good enough for her daughter, and that I looked all right in photographs, rather than actually, literally handsome.

Baz is. Obviously. 

He’s gorgeous. Flawless. Even today, when he’s just in jeans and a shirt, he looks like a model. Like he’s so beautiful that other people would pay to just to stare at him. (Not that Baz would ever actually be a model – he’d get bored too quickly. And he’s too good at other things to want to spend all his time posing against columns.) Baz knows what handsome looks like because he sees it every day in the fucking mirror. I very much doubt he thinks that I qualify.

I mean, if he is gay, I suppose he must find some men attractive, but I think he’d go for someone more like him. Better dressed. Better cheekbones. Better—

Well, just better. Generally.

Baz gives me a cool, appraising look and then turns back to the door without saying anything. Which seems to about cover it. (I knew he was joking.)

“I still don’t know why I can’t just fight her,” I mutter instead of calling him on it.

Because I don’t. I still don’t, even after Baz has wittered on about how great Fiona is at offensive magic. I’ve fought a dragon for fuck’s sake. I’m the Chosen One. I can fight one aunt.

“We’re not risking the truce,” Baz snaps and then Fiona tugs the door open.

She’s got a cigarette in her mouth and she’s wearing a dressing gown over a band t-shirt. Baz immediately starts giving her the spiel about our supposed epic romance, which according to him has been going on since fifth year. And I stand next to him like a prat and try not to look like I’m hearing all this for the first time while Fiona’s eyebrows grow closer and closer together.

“Bullshit,” she says eventually.

“It’s not bullshit,” Baz says. “Simon?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I mean, no. It’s true.”

“Baz, he’s been dating the Wellbelove girl for years,” Fiona says, ignoring me.

I notice she doesn’t call him out for not being gay.

“That was clearly a cover story,” Baz says smoothly. “To protect the delicate sensibilities of my father and his guardian, something that is no longer necessary given the turn of events. I’m surprised you fell for it, Fiona. You’re losing your touch.”

Fiona frowns. For the first time she looks like she might believe him. “You’re telling me this is why you volunteered for this?”

I look at Baz, who is definitely not looking at me. (I think he’s blushing again.)

“It’s also true that Dev has a girlfriend,” he says, “and that none of the girls in our family are anywhere near old enough. It was obviously going to be me the Old Families chose – I just made it easier for them.”   

“And now you want me not to kill your idiot boyfriend.”

“Exactly,” Baz says. “I knew we’d get there eventually. Don’t kill him. I do want to marry him.”

He doesn’t tell her I'm not an idiot, which surely he would do, if we really were boyfriends. (Although I suppose it is Baz. I wouldn’t be surprised if he thought insults were just part of a normal relationship – I’ve seen the way he treats his sisters. And Dev, and they’re friends. At least I think they are.) Other than that, though, it’s convincing. I mean – I expect it’s convincing. If you don’t know the truth.

Fiona turns her suspicious glare on me at last.

“Is that what you want too, Chosen One? An easy ride?”

“Fuck off,” I snarl – and then I remember the plan, but it’s too late. Fiona’s already cackling.

“You want me to go easy on you?” she says mockingly. “So that Baz doesn’t have to cry himself to sleep?”

“Simon,” Baz says warningly, but I’m pissed off, now, and I ignore him.

“Don’t even think about holding back,” I tell Fiona, “because I won’t. I’ve been fighting worse than you when I was eleven.”

“There’s nothing worse than me, boyo,” Fiona says.

“Prove it,” I say. “I didn’t expect the House of Pitch to be a bunch of fucking pushovers when I said I’d beat the lot of you. I thought it might be hard.”

“Ha,” Fiona says. “Simon Snow, I challenge your right to my nephew’s hand. The duel is at midnight.”

“Yeah? I accept.”

“You’re on.” She grins. “Good choice, Basil,” and then she shuts the door.

“Sorry,” I say to Baz. “But she was asking for it.”

Obviously, I’m not really sorry, but Baz looks absolutely furious and I feel I need to offer him something. He’s already stalking off down the hallway. I trail after him in case he’s leading me back to the dining room so we can have breakfast.

“Hopeless,” he mutters. “I don’t know why I thought you could do this.”

“In my defence,” I say, “I never wanted to go along with your stupid idea. I always thought I should fight.”

“And now you’re going to – I hope you’re happy.”

“Yeah, I am, thanks.”

Baz turns to look at me, then. There’s a sharp crease between his eyebrows. And his lips are pressed together. I can’t work out what he’s thinking.

“Breakfast?” I say hopefully and Baz shakes his head (in despair, probably) and starts down the stairs.

“At least she likes you. I suppose she might not kill you.”

“All magicians like me,” I say, because it’s true. My magic means that I’ve never had to try to make friends at Watford. “You’re basically the only one who doesn’t.”

Baz huffs. “Well. None of the others have to live with you.”

“None of the others have the honour of living with me,” I say. “Think of it that way.”

“Crowley,” Baz says. “I’d rather not.”

But he’s smiling now, at least, which is good. It means he isn’t going to kill me before his aunt tries to – or before I can eat breakfast.

I wonder if Baz has thought about where he’s going to live after Watford. Once he’s free of me.

He could just live here, I suppose. There’s obviously plenty of room – there must be at least ten other people staying here (me and the Mage, Dev and his family, Fiona, that French lady) and it doesn’t feel crowded at all. The dining room is basically empty this morning, possibly because it’s so early. When Baz and I get there, an old man is just leaving. It's just Baz's stepmum left, drinking a cup of tea and typing onto a silver laptop.

“Harrods this morning?” she says when she sees us.

Baz nods as he sits down next to her.

“Just give Simon an hour or so to eat his weight in pastry and we’ll be ready.”

I make a face at him while his stepmother isn’t looking, which he pretends not to see. (The smirk is a dead giveaway though.) But he has got a point. About the pastries. There are a lot of croissants today and no one else seems to be here to eat them, I don’t want to be rude and let them go stale.

“Did you know Fiona is going to be the third challenger?” he says (presumably to his stepmum) as I help myself from the buffet.

“Yes. And I must say I thought it was lovely of her to take an interest.”

Baz laughs. “Fiona’s never done anything lovely in her life. She’s trying to ruin everything.” He raises his voice. “Simon, you’re missing the scones.”

“She’s just trying to protect you,” I say. “And I don’t see any scones.”

“Don’t tell me what to think about my own aunt,” Baz says, but he also joins me at the buffet, pulling the cover off a dish with a flourish. Underneath is an absolute mountain of scones. Before I can take any, he picks one of the scones up and holds it out to me, the way I imagined servants offering him grapes during the summer holidays.

“Voila.”

“I’m not taking that,” I tell him. “I don’t know where your hands have been.”

Baz raises an eyebrow. “Don’t pretend to be civilised – it’s too late.”

“Is it too late for you to pretend not to be a dick?” I say as he brings the scone higher towards my face, but I’m laughing.

“Definitely.”

I think Baz is laughing too although probably not at the same thing. I try and reach around him, but he’s blocking the dish effectively (Baz mostly plays striker, but he’s great at defence, too.) Even when I trap him between both my arms and push into his space, I still can’t get at the clean scones.

“Baz!” I whine.

I'm about to give in and take the one in his hand, when I hear his dad’s voice from across the room. “Mr Snow? That word, please”.

I spring back so fast I almost hit the table behind me.

Mr Grimm is in the doorway in another pinstriped suit. Behind me, Baz tucks the scone he was teasing me with behind his back and presumably tries to look like he wasn’t just fighting over pastry.

“Good morning, Father.”

Mr Grimm nods at him and then his eyes flick back to me.

“Mr Snow,” he says again crisply. “If you’d be so kind.” And I know he means that as a threat. That “If you’d be so kind” actually means “If you want to stay alive”.

I push my plate at Baz (I didn’t actually get to eat anything off it, thanks to him) and follow his dad out of the room. I feel like I remember Mr Grimm saying yesterday that we’d talk after breakfast, but I don’t want to bring it up in case it makes him like me even less than he already does.

He has an office next to the dining room, apparently. (A study? I’m not sure what the difference is.) There are certificates for something hanging on the wall, and some chairs and a large desk. He gestures for me to sit in the chair opposite, which I do, all the time trying to remind myself that I’ve already beaten him in a duel once and there’s nothing he can really do to me.

“Thank you for your time,” he says as he takes his own seat on the other side of the desk. I try and smile. To look like I don’t mind.

Mr Grimm laces his hands together in front of him. “I’d like to ask about your intentions towards my son.”

This isn’t what I was expecting.

“Intentions?” I say and he nods. “Towards Baz?”

Another nod.

I don’t know what to say, but I think Mr Grimm is happy to wait me out until I give him something.

(There’s a picture of Baz’s mum on the top of the desk, next to pencil pot and another picture of Baz’s stepmother and the rest of the family. Is that weird? It feels like if you get married to someone else you should take down all the photos of your dead wife. And her degrees.)

“Er,” I say. “I don’t really have any intentions. Anymore. I was trying to get him expelled for being a—” one of Mr Grimm’s eyebrows rises dangerously and for a moment he looks just like Baz. (Is being able to raise an eyebrow genetic? It could be.) Quickly, I change the word I was about to use into, “—dick. But er, I’m not now.”

Mr Grimm’s eyelashes flicker. I think he’s trying to find strength for this conversation. I recognise that from Baz, too.

“I understand,” he says slowly, “that you intend to marry my son.”

It must be another test. Another tradition. I assume I’m going to be asked to prove how much I want to marry Baz in a moment (fortunately Baz isn’t here if I have to bullshit – it’d be too embarrassing), but for now I just shrug and hope that’s enough.

Mr Grimm gives me a tight smile. “When I agreed to this … arrangement,” he says, “nobody so much as hinted that the two of you might have genuine feelings for each other. That upsets me.”

“Why would it upset you?” I say. If there is a test, I’m probably failing it right now. But this isn’t going how I expected. “I mean, it’d be good, right? If we were – well, like, we told Fiona.”

“And what did you say to Fiona?”

“Doesn’t matter. It didn’t work.”

“It matters,” he says, “if you’re here under false pretences.  I understood the two of you loathed each other, but now—”

“What?” Now I’m really confused, although no less than he is, apparently. “And sorry, are you actually saying you’d prefer Baz to marry someone he hated, than someone he likes?”

I expect him to deny it, but he doesn’t. He agrees with me.

“If it was someone like you, then yes. I would. Yes.”

“Someone like—?”

And then I get it. What he’s not saying. What the problem is with me – and Baz. Being together.

“Is this because he’s gay?”

I’m still not entirely sure Baz is gay (he could have been lying, Baz is good at lying) but the way Mr Grimm flinches is very convincing.

“I’d rather you didn’t use that word in connection with my son,” he says.

“Why not?” I say. “He uses it.”

I’m staring at him; he isn’t quite making eye contact with me.

“That's it, isn't it?” I say. “He’s gay and you didn’t want him to marry a bloke. But you were all right with it as long as it was someone he’d never go for. Because then it wouldn’t be a threat.”

“This alliance is important to me,” Mr Grimm says. “To my entire family. But that does not mean that I’m content to let this pass uncontested. For Basilton’s sake.”

“Can you even hear yourself?”

I’m getting angry. I don’t even have a dad, I don’t have a family, but I wouldn’t fucking want one if this is what they’re like. I’m on my feet because I don’t think I can just sit here and take this.

“It’s like you don’t even love him. He’s your son. You should want him to be happy,” I say – well, I guess I’m shouting now. “Not just straight.”

“How dare—” he begins, but I scoop up the picture of Natasha Pitch and wave it in his face.

“Don’t you think she’d want him to be happy?”

His expression closes down, just like Baz’s does when I know I’ve really got one over on him. When I know I’ve really hurt him.

Good, I think. You deserve it.

I drop the picture back on the desk, although not hard enough to break the glass. I don’t feel nearly as pissed off now, I just don’t want to leave holding it. Mr Grimm takes the picture and props it back up next to the pencils.

“I do want him to be happy,” he says quietly.

“Then act like it,” I say. “I’m going back to breakfast.”

“You are in love with him, though,” Mr Grimm says as I pull the door open. “Aren’t you.”

“I don’t have to tell you that,” I say because I don’t want him to know that he doesn’t have to worry. That he’s going to get what he wants, even though it’s a shitty thing to want because Baz deserves to be loved. (I mean, everyone does, even really evil people. And Baz isn’t evil. He’s just hard work.)

A few more people have arrived for breakfast by the time I get back to the dining room. Baz’s stepmother is gone, but Baz is still there. It feels weird to go and sit with him after that, but he’s saved my plate for me. It’s sitting in front of an empty seat along with a plate of scones that Baz has probably gone through and touched individually (he’s definitely buttered them) to make sure I get whatever germs he was trying to give me earlier.

“I heard you shouting at my father,” he says as I sit down.

I shrug but don’t say anything. (My mouth’s full because I decided I’m too hungry to worry about whatever Baz has done to the scones.) (They’re good scones.)

“I couldn’t hear words,” Baz continues, “the walls are too thick, but I could smell your magic from here. I assume the wedding’s been cancelled.”

I shake my head and swallow the first scone. “I think your dad wants to apologise to you, though.”

Baz looks surprised. “To me? What did you say to him?”

I don’t tell him.

I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t take it the right way, whatever the fuck that is.

*

The food halls at Harrods are amazing. If I die fighting the Humdrum, I think I’ll probably end up in a heaven that looks like this. (Assuming I get into heaven. But if saving the World of Mages doesn’t get you in, I don’t know what would.) They have everything. Cheese. Wine. Tea. Little pastries. Tonnes of meat. Fish, including sushi. Cakes. Merlin, even the vegetables look delicious.

“We’re not stopping,” Baz told me as he led me through. “We don’t actually need anything from here, but I thought you’d want to see it, since you’re completely obsessed with food.”

“I’m not obsessed,” I said because I’m not. (It’s like whenever Penny accuses me of being obsessed with Baz, which I’m also not.) I need food to live.

Then, on the way out, I pretended to hang onto the one of the columns, so he had to drag me away.

What do need – apparently – is a whole bunch of stuff for the flat that Baz has just been given to live in. (On the way up to London, I tried to argue that Baz clearly has enough stuff already and that I really didn’t think he needed anything else, but both he and his stepmum seemed to think I was joking, which I wasn’t.) For some reason, I need to be here too, even though Baz says I don’t have to live in the flat if I don’t want to. It’s small apparently.

“More like a football pitch, than a lacrosse pitch, then?” I suggested.

“More like our room in Mummers House. Divided into a few other rooms.”

Fortunately, I do already have plans for after Watford. I’m going to live with Penny, we’ve talked about it before. But neither of us have much money, and I know she might go to America at any point. So it’s probably not a bad idea to have another option in case that falls through, even if the flat is small and even if Baz will be there. At least it’s got more than one room. That sounds like an improvement to the way Baz and I live now.

So far, we’ve picked out towels, cushions, curtains (Dev’ll be happy), a coffee machine, and various pans and things that I don’t think Baz knows how to use.

I thought I’d be bored immediately, but Baz’s stepmum is so pleased with everything I suggest that at least I feel useful. Also, it is funny to see all the stuff rich people will pay for if you say it’s ‘designer’. (Five grand for a blanket - it’s not even nice.) If Penny were here, we’d barely be able to breathe for laughing. Baz doesn’t seem to be enjoying it, though. He keeps tuning out.

“You all right?” I say eventually after he ignores me asking him about what plates he likes for the third time. I wave one of the plates in front of his face. “Baz? White or this other white?”

He shakes his head. “Sorry. I’m still thinking about how to get out of this thing with Fiona.”

Merlin, I think to myself. Not this again.

“I told you – we don’t need a way out.”

“But what if you lose?” he demands. His eyes are hectic.

“Then I lose,” I say. “But firstly, I won’t. And secondly, I can write you a fucking note, if you like, saying that if I die, my last wish was that our families would work together and that I’d like to be buried under the food hall.”

Baz makes a face. I think he’s trying to stay worried, but not quite managing it.

“That’s not very hygienic.”

I shrug. “I don’t care, I’ll be dead. Choose a plate.”

“They’re both hideous,” Baz says taking them off me. “How have you managed to find the only hideous things in the entire shop?”

“They’re white,” I say.

“Exactly.”

He chooses some that are square and painted with leaves and little birds, which I can’t imagine ever eating off of. Since Baz never eats, I suppose it’s fine.

“Incidentally,” Baz says as though he’s just thought of it, “what colour are planning on wearing tomorrow? Assuming you don’t die before then, of course. Please tell me, it isn’t white.”

Tomorrow. The wedding. He means tomorrow the day of the wedding. What am I wearing to the wedding. Our wedding. (It still sounds wrong.)

I try and remember all the different suits the Mage bought for me and if there are any I haven’t worn yet. I feel like he probably did tell me to set the nicest one aside, but it’s all a bit of a blur right now.

“I dunno,” I say. “Black?”

“Hm,” Baz says. He doesn’t look happy.

“Now you hate black too?”

“No,” Baz says. “I’ll be wearing black, but it’s too dark for you. Grey would be better. And it’s traditional.”

I shrug. “Well, I’m wearing black. Or blue, I guess.”

“Unless—” Baz says. He frowns. “I could— I could I buy you something. Here. If you wanted.”

“Baz. I really don’t mind,” I say, which Baz seems to take as full and immediate agreement, even though what I actually meant was that I don’t mind what I wear tomorrow as long as it doesn’t get me into trouble. It’s not important to me, but it is to Baz. He must really like clothes. (Which I hope isn’t stereotyping him. Baz is gay, after all. But he also seems to like clothes.)

“Mother, I’m just taking Simon to the menswear,” Baz announces and then he practically drags me downstairs to look at it all.

After an hour, I’m wishing I said no – or that I’d said no more clearly than I did – because all the suits look the fucking same but for some reason Baz still wants me to try them all on.

“This one,” he says eventually when I’m back in what I swear is the first one he gave me. “The lines are cleaner.”

He’s squashed into the changing room with me, so he can cast “A perfect fit” without any of the Normals noticing. The smell of his soap is everywhere. And I can see him in the mirror behind me, smiling and smoothing out the fabric over my shoulders, making sure it lies flat. (It seems all right to me.) He’s obviously still the best looking out of the two of it (and it is really obvious with the two of us together like this), but I guess I see what he means about the suit.

I look good. I look right – like I deserve to be here.

Like I could be someone who could be standing next to Baz. And not just by accident or because I was there. Like this is how it's supposed to be.

I want to ask him again if he’s changed his mind about me being handsome, but I can’t work out how to do it without it sounding weird. It still doesn’t matter.

And it is just a suit. I haven’t changed that much since this morning. My hair still hasn’t grown out, but the grey makes my skin look warmer than it in any of the suits the Mage got me. And somehow my eyes are now as blue as the bluebells on Baz’s shirt, set off by the tie he chose and a white shirt.

“My suit matches your eyes,” I say, as I realise it.

Baz’s hand on my shoulder freezes. His eyes flick up to meet mine in the mirror – so grey. Grey like smoke. Like the rock at the top of a mountain. Like steel, like the Sword of Mages, but soft too and framed in black.

“Yes,” he says, “well observed. It also matches my skin.”

“Don’t be stupid,” I say – Baz’s skin isn’t grey; it’s porcelain – but of course he’s not listening to me anymore.

“Get back into your own clothes,” Baz says, opening the door of the changing room. “Then we can find Daphne – pay and go home, giving enough time to prepare for your fight to the death.”

“I’m not going to kill her,” I shout back as he closes the door behind him.

“Ha.”

When I get out, I’ve got the new suit hanging over my arm and I’m back in the one I wore in. Baz is leaning over a tray full of stupidly expensive cufflinks.

“I don’t need cufflinks,” I tell him. (I really don’t care about cufflinks – they’re buttons, but worse.) (And I don’t even like buttons.) “Especially not for two hundred quid.”

“That’s fine,” he says. “You can just wear some of mine. One of the benefits of a same-sex relationship.”

I stop myself from saying, Is this a relationship, Baz? Because it clearly is. Or it will be. Even it’s only technical.

“I suppose you probably thought you’d be doing this with someone a bit different,” I say. And, then suddenly, before I can stop myself, “Um. What kind of men do you go for?”

I guess I’ve been wondering about it since he told me he was gay. I’ve never seen Baz interested in anyone, apart from Agatha and apparently he wasn’t actually interested in her. I just can’t work out who he thinks would be good enough for him.

Baz reacts badly, of course. (I think he thinks I’m judging him, which I guess I am. But not negatively.)

“None of your business.” He looks vicious and I know he’s going to say something pointless and cruel, which he does. “What kind of women do you go for? Or would you go for if you weren’t being shackled to me against your will.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Clearly you think it does.”

“I don’t know,” I say. I can see Baz thinks I’m avoiding the question, but I really don’t know. I’ve been dating Agatha for years. I haven’t had to think about what I like because I was already sorted. “Nice ones?”

Baz is scowling. And I know I’ve ruined this, somehow, whatever this is, although I’m not sure what I’ve done. Or how I can make it better. 

“Let’s go,” he says. “We don’t want to keep Daphne waiting.

He’s quiet on the train home. Thinking about the truce, I guess. And what happens if we lose.

If I lose.

We’ve got a set of four seats together. Baz is sitting next to the stuff we’re taking back with us today – the rest of it’s being delivered to Baz’s flat directly – and Daphne sits next to me and shows me photos she has of Baz on her phone. There’s not a lot. Nothing over a year old, since the phone’s fairly new, and in most of them Baz isn’t even looking at the camera. Just moving through the background of other staged photos of the kids.

“These are all terrible.” She flips faster through the photos. “But I know I have a video of him playing that depressing song he’s been working on all summer here somewhere.”

“No,” Baz says heavily. “He doesn’t want to see that.”

“Yes, I do,” I say. “What song?”

“There, you see,” Daphne says to Baz. “He does want to hear it. I don’t know what it’s called,” she tells me. “Something about the antichrist. Ah – here it is.”

“He’s just being polite, Mother,” Baz says as the video starts.

“How refreshing,” she says.

Baz stares out the window all the time the video’s playing, his chin in his hand. (The song is beautiful, I’ve never heard it before. Sad and dark. Like raindrops at first before it flows into a smooth ocean of sound. I even like it when Baz in the video gets it wrong and swears at himself – it’s nice to know he still gets things wrong. That he’s not perfect.)

He doesn’t look at either of us, even after it’s over.

*

By the time midnight rolls around, I’m knackered and really wishing someone would challenge me to a traditional fight to the death at four in the afternoon. Nine in the morning maybe. Really any time before ten fucking pm. I guess tradition doesn’t have to make sense.

I heard Fiona telling one of the Grimm cousins about how she’s been asleep most of the day as we walked over to the tennis courts. I don’t think it bodes well for me. And I'm guessing, Baz doesn't think so either.

“Remember, her favourite spells are Burn, Baby Burn and Drop it like it’s hot,” he tells me, like he hasn’t been constantly repeating this information for the last hour. “And you can counter both with Ice Ice Baby.”

I haven’t told him I don’t know that spell, I don’t want to worry him. He’s upset enough as it is.

I did try telling him that since Fiona knows Baz knows her favourite spells, and since she also knows Baz wants me to win, it’s quite likely she’ll use something else. Baz told me that was no reason not to be prepared. Then he tried to tell me every other fire spell he’d ever heard. (It was so bad I started wondering whether he was trying to freak me out on purpose, to throw me off my game. But I think this is just Baz trying to be helpful. And that ‘trying to be helpful’ is one of the few things he’s shit at.) That was an hour ago, when he started speaking to me again, after dinner.

I still don’t know what I did to make him stop speaking, although I do know what forced him to break his vow of silence. Which he did in the most dramatic way possible, leaning over me as I tried to finish my desert, so I was suddenly surrounded by the smell of cedar.

“My father just told me he approved of my choices in life,” he told me. “I can't work out why. Even I don’t approve of my choices.”

“Relax,” I say now, even though I know it’s pointless. (Baz is definitely not relaxed.) “I’ll be fine. And if I’m not, at least I probably won’t know about it.”

“That doesn’t help me,” Baz retorts.

“Oi,” Fiona yells from inside the courts. “Chosen One. Are you ready?”

“Yeah,” I shout back. I give Baz my jacket to hold and my tie, and loosen my collar. (I didn’t bother taking off my jacket the other times, but I know I’ll need the mobility if this is a proper fight.) “Well. See you on the other side, I suppose.”

Baz grabs at my sleeve with his free hand as I try and leave.

“Marry me anyway,” he says urgently. “Whatever happens. Fuck tradition, we don’t need it.”

“Yeah. Good one,” I say, although it’s not that funny.

I pull away from him as I enter the court. The wire-framed door of the tennis courts closes and seals us in. It’s laced with protective spells - Baz told me. It's what makes the tennis courts a duelling ground. You can throw whatever you want at your opponent, apparently, and everyone watching should be safe.

“Although I’m not sure what will happen if you go off,” he told me, looking more worried than ever. “It’s never had to handle that much power.”

Also not reassuring, since that was essentially my back up plan if everything went to shit. I guess if it happens, Baz can tell everyone to run.

Fiona raises her wand and bows. I bow too.

“On the count of three?” she says. “Three. Two—”

I let the first spell hit me, since I know I’m not going to be able to block it. Drop it like it’s hot. (Another point to Baz.) I grimace and I do drop my wand, but I wasn’t planning on using it right away, so this isn’t a problem. I’m already summoning the Sword of Mages.

“In justice. In courage. In defence of the weak. In the face of the mighty. Through magic and wisdom and good.”

I don’t want to kill Fiona, even if she does want to kill me, but a sword isn’t a purely lethal weapon. (Not like a grenade. Or poison.) You can use it to knock people out, or just really, really hurt them.

Also, it’s magic, which means that when Fiona tries to use Drop it like it’s hot on me the second time, it doesn’t work.

I swing the flat blade of the sword up and around onto the shoulder of her wand arm. I figure I can do the same thing to her, make her drop her weapon, but Fiona’s tough and she kicks me in the chest before I get there. I grunt and step back.

“Steel yourself,” she shouts as I swing at her again. A black sword appears in her left hand. There’s a gasp from the crowd. I’m briefly hopeful that perhaps she doesn’t know how to use it when she parries clumsily (Baz has never touched a sword in his life) (as far as I know anyway), but then she swaps the sword into her right hand, keeping her wand in her left. The blade is steadier now and she’s grinning again.

“Nice try, Chosen One. Now Stand your ground.”

This one I know – she used it against me in fifth year, so I do know the counter spell. But I haven’t picked up my wand yet, so just knowing it isn’t all that helpful.

I almost fall over as the spell slams me to a stop. “Fucking hell.”

I didn’t mean to swear out loud, to let her know she’d got to me, but it just falls out of me.

“Simon!” Baz shouts from the crowd, as though that’ll help. (I suppose, at least he didn’t shout, "Get your wand". I worked that out for myself, although I wouldn’t put it past Baz to think I hadn’t.)

Fiona’s walking towards me, shaking her head. “Language,” she tsks. And then, “Good at languages, are you, Chosen One?”

And then she says something in French absolutely laced with magic that I definitely can’t counter because I don’t know what it is.

I don’t think I need to, though. It sounds like it’s a pure battle spell. Pure destruction.

I pull my sword into guard to help me absorb whatever it is. (Ebb taught me that. That you don’t always need to know the spell or how to stop it, if you’re powerful enough. You just have to be willing to take the hit.) I let it tear through my magic and burn itself out, it’s all right – I have enough. I’m not wasting it.

Even better, the excess of magic seems to have shaken me loose from Fiona’s Stand your Ground. I drop the Sword of Mages and dive for my wand, skidding along the concrete.

I aim towards her. “Head over heels!”

She absorbs it. Just like I did.

I gape at her and she grins.

“You’re not the only one who knows that trick.”

“And we all fall down,” I yell, but Fiona’s hit her stride now. She shakes it off and turns her wand back on me.

“Burn baby, burn.”

I can’t absorb this one, since it’s not aimed at me. The fire’s all around me, a wall of spitting, crackling heat. I assume somewhere I can’t see right now Baz is hissing the counterspell (“Ice Ice Baby”), sure I’m about to cast it, but I know it won’t work for me and if I’m going to die, I don’t want the last sound I hear to be Baz’s whole family laughing as I fail. Instead I just hurl myself over the flames, rolling as I land.

I can smell my shirt burning – I can feel my shirt burning – but Baz’s thrown fire at me too often for it to upset me too much. I just try and stop it burning as quickly as possible, beating it out with the palm of my free hand.

“You’re a complete fucking lunatic,” Fiona says.

I don’t answer.

The tennis court is still on fire. It’s behind me now. I can feel the heat of it at my back. My hand aches.

I stoop and pick up the Sword of Mages, the metal cool against the blistered skin on my palm – stand and rebalance myself.

I don’t think I’m going to win anymore.

I don’t really know what to do.

I’ve never fought anyone like this before. No one who knows magic and how to use a sword. No one who knows how to absorb magic except Ebb, and Ebb isn’t anywhere near as ruthless as Fiona Pitch.

But if I don’t win, I can’t marry Baz.

And I have to do that.

I have to marry Baz, so we can have an alliance. I have to marry him. I have to. No one else can do it. And to do that I have to win. I have to win.

I have to. 

I just don’t know how.

I try “Cat got your tongue” and “The pen is mightier than the sword.” (Which I know is a spell, although I can’t remember what it’s for.) (I think I’m hoping it’ll turn her sword into a pen.)

Fiona absorbs them both. Then she points both the sword and her wand straight at me.

“Fire in the hold!”

Baz has thrown that one at me too. I knock it back with, “Blown out of the water.” But I miss her next spell, which is in French again, and causes the water I’ve just cast to freeze under my feet. I almost lose my balance.

“Fuck!”

Someone in the audience laughs.

This isn’t the first battle I’ve been in where I knew my opponent was better than me. (They’re almost all better than me.) But usually that pisses me off. Usually, my magic would be everywhere – I’d be halfway towards going off, and damn the consequences. But I’m not angry now and so it isn’t. I just feel frantic. Like the solution is there but just slipping away from me. Like everything is slipping away because I’m not good enough.  

Penny would know what to do, I know she would. And Baz would.

I’m sure he does, I’m sure he knows, although now – when it might actually be good if he said something – he’s quiet. I glance over at him and see him standing where I left him, his hands clenched in the fabric of my jacket. His face white, like porcelain.

I feel like shouting, “What should I do, Baz? Tell me. Please.” Although it’s probably against the rules. I don’t want to be disqualified. So I keep quiet, but I do try and work out what he’d say. What he’d tell me to do.

What’d he’d do, I guess, if he was in this fucking awful situation. It’s not hard. Because I know Baz. Even if I didn’t know he could drive or that he smoked. I didn’t even know he was gay, which in retrospect I could have guessed (I mean, it explains why he never took Agatha away from me even though she liked him and he’s much better than me). But I do know him. The real him.

I know how he thinks.

What did he do yesterday against the merwolves? 

I know this.

He fought. Until he couldn’t fight anymore. Until he’d run out of magic. He hurled spell after spell at them (none of which are all helpful against fire) until he had nothing left. Until he was so exhausted he couldn’t even dry his own clothes with magic – I’m grinning just thinking about it again.

And then I just start grinning.

Because now I know how I’m going to win.

Chapter Text

“I don’t know what you’re smiling about,” Fiona says. “You haven’t landed a hit yet.”

I laugh, which I think weirds her out even more. She raises her wand, but I’m ready for her.

When she casts, “Come on baby, light my fire,” I don’t even flinch. Not even when the flames rise high enough to block out the audience completely.

“That’s another big spell,” I tell her as fire licks at the bottom of my trousers. “I know you’re powerful, but you can’t have much more magic left. I do, though. I never run dry.” 

It’s too hot to think properly. There’s fire everywhere.

I concentrate and push more of my magic than I’d normally go for into this next spell. Something simple, not Baz’s fancy specific countercharm. Something just to put an end to this. A kid’s spell.

“Make a wish!”

The fire goes out. Suddenly. Shockingly, even for me.

I raise my eyebrows – both of them this time – at Fiona.

“Why not get it over with? Admit I beat you.”

For a moment, I think she’s not going to go for it and that we’re going to have to spend the next hour slamming each other until all her magic runs out – but then she laughs and vanishes her sword.

“Jesus, you’re a cocky little shit,” she says. “Fine. I yield - but only because he likes you. I could have gone on for hours.”

Merlin, I’m glad she didn’t. I definitely need to sleep before tomorrow if I don’t want to fall asleep at the altar.

That thought stops me in my fucking tracks.

The altar.

The wedding.

The wedding is tomorrow. Because – shit – I’ve done it, haven’t I? I've beaten all the champions, I did what I had to do marry Baz. I’m going to marry Baz tomorrow.

Baz is going to marry me.

I look around to see how he’s taking it (he’ll be relieved, won’t he? Happy. Because he wanted it to go ahead), but I can’t see him at the edge of the court anymore. No sign of his pale face and dark hair and well-cut suit.

He must have already gone.

Which is fine, obviously. I’m tired too and Baz was up earlier than I was. I just thought he’d want to see what the result was – since it really affects his life. But if he doesn’t care, that’s fine. He didn’t have to stay.

I mean, it's not really fine.

For some reason, I feel like all the colour’s gone out of the world, like everything is as grey as Baz claims his skin is. But it should be fine. It definitely should be.

I just—

I mean, I thought—

I don’t know. I think I just wanted him to be here. I think it was important.

I put the Sword of Mages away. And Fiona shakes my hand. And I try and smile because I guess I am still glad I didn’t lose.

“That was well done,” the Mage tells me as I leave the courts. “Eventually. A good strong show of power.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You were insane,” Dev says. He claps me on the shoulder. “You both were. I never knew Fifi was such a badass.”

“It wasn’t a secret,” Fiona says sniffly – she’s just behind me. Then - as if to prove that she is, in fact, a badass - she grabs a small bird literally out of the air and shoves it towards me. “This’ll be for you, I expect. A letter from your beau.”

I have literally no idea what she means, but I unfold the note anyway. It’s dark because it’s well after midnight and I have hold the note up towards the lights in the trees to try and read it.

“Once you’ve extracted yourself from your well-wishers, come and find me. Baz P.S. How hard is it to remember ‘Ice Ice Baby’? It’s three words.”   

Now, I’m grinning.

Fiona sees me and rolls her eyes. “Like I thought. Go on, piss off then.”

I’m about to, but – “I don’t know where he is.”

Fiona sighs and points back towards the main road. “Try the pond. Or a finding spell.

“Right,” I say. “Thanks. Yeah.”

It’s even darker once I get more than a few metres away from the tennis courts (pitch black – as Baz and Fiona would probably say). There are stars out but there’re not bright, even away from all the pollution. I cast “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” and think about Baz.

Waiting for me somewhere.

My wand tugs me across the lawn and I follow it. Which is basically a stupid thing to, since I know there’s a pond out there somewhere, but before I fall into it, I see him.

Fiona was right – he’s by the pond. (I wonder if it’s a place he usually comes. If she’s found him here before and what he was doing, if she did.) Right now, he’s sitting on a blanket that, as I get closer, I recognise as my jacket but spelled bigger. He’s holding a small flame in his hand, staring into it, although he looks up when I arrive. He even smiles, his face shaded a warm gold from the fire.

“I don't know why I doubted you'd come -  I know you can't resist following me."

“Well, you made your note fairly insulting,” I say, sitting down next to him. “I had to come and find you if I wanted to tell you how much of a prick you are. Did you see me win?”

Baz rolls his eyes. “By default,” he says (because he really is a prick.) “But yes. I left just after that.”

I want to ask him why he left, but I’m guessing from the way that his skin is pinker than usual that it was probably a vampire thing. (Baz still hasn’t told me he really is a vampire, but I took my cross off when I got home today because I thought maybe that was what was pissing him off.) There are woods around the Manor – maybe Baz has been off hunting squirrels. Or maybe he just got bored.

He leaves the flame hanging in the air and reaches inside his own jacket.

“I wanted to give you this. Before tomorrow.” He hands me a small black box, hinged. About the size of my palm. It’s hard to tell in the firelight, but I think he’s blushing again. “It’s – not what you think.”

“I definitely said I didn’t need cufflinks.”

Baz laughs. “All right, it’s really not what you think.”

He falls back onto one of his elbows to watch me as I crack the box open. Inside is a pale silver disc. A coin, which seems to shine somehow without giving off any light.

When I take it out, I feel how it’s drenched in magic. Baz’s magic, I’d know that anywhere (Baz’s heat and strength, all of it painfully intense) and something else, too. Something older.

I’ve messed around with enough ancient magickal objects – cups and swords and rings, all full of more power than half a dozen mages – to know that what I’m holding is some serious shit. I look at Baz curiously.

“It’s the moon,” Baz says, almost dreamily. “I called it down from the sky for you and put it into that box.”

“It’s what?”

“It’s a gift,” Baz explains. “A betrothal gift. The same magic my father did for my mother when he accepted her. These duels – aren’t my family’s only tradition.”

He’s watching me more intently now. To see how I’m taking it, I guess.

I don’t know how I’m taking it. I don’t know what this coin is. (There’s literally no way it can be the actual moon. Firstly – because the moon is round, it’s not flat, even I know that. And secondly because it’s not the moon.)

“You mean you put some of the moon’s power into this?” I guess, but Baz shakes his head.

“I mean, it is the moon.”

I look up at the sky. It’s dark. No moon. I can’t remember whether I saw it yesterday. Whether there’s no moon because there’s just no moon, because that’s just the phase it’s in, or whether there’s no moon because Baz has given it to me.

“Why?” I say. “I mean, what’s it for? Aren’t people going to miss it? What about tides?”

(I know about tides – I went to Normal school for a while. Baz didn’t. He might not know.)

He just smiles. “I’ll take care of it.”

I think he means it.

“I still don’t understand why, though,” I say.

“Because it’s lovely,” Baz says. He closes his eyes. “And most people want lovely things they can’t have, trust me. I wanted you to be the exception.”

“Baz,” I say helplessly. (This is one of the moments where I wish my hair was longer, I’d definitely be pulling it.) I look down at the coin – at the moon – in my hands. “You know I can’t accept this. I can’t own the moon. I need to put it back.”

Baz cracks an eye open. I thought he’d be upset – I don’t want him to think I’m rejecting his gift, even if it is a really weird gift and even though I am rejecting it. But he doesn’t seem angry. I think he’s more amused, than anything.

“I said it belongs to you. You can choose what you do with it.”

“Well, then,” I say firmly, “I definitely want to put it back.”

Baz pushes himself into a more upright sitting position and grabs his wand. He takes my hand, the one holding the coin, in his left hand (he’s so cold – it can’t be right for him to be out here this late without a coat) and helps me stretch my arm above my head.

“Simon Snow hung the moon,” he whispers. And right at my arm’s highest point, I feel the sky sort of catch on the coin in my hand, like a magnet.

I let go.

And suddenly the sky isn’t black anymore. It’s a rich dark blue, lit by the full moon - hanging like a shiny silver coin above us - and speckled with stars amidst deep-grey clouds. I feel my jaw drop.

“Merlin and Morgana.”

Sometimes I forget how much I love magic. Not the big, world-saving stuff and definitely not any magic I can actually do. I love magic that feels magickal. Unbelievable. The kind that takes your breath away.

This is that sort of magic. 

I look at Baz, who is looking at me. (I must be grinning like a complete lunatic.) For a moment, I can see the stars reflected in the grey of his eyes. He leans towards me slightly, and I feel like I’ve hung the moon again. Like something else magickal is about to happen.

Then he shakes his head with a quick, tight smile.

“Anyway. So, yes. Pointless, but—”

I kiss him before he can ruin the moment.

Before he can think better of it; before I can.

Baz’s hand is still wrapped around one of mine. I feel it clench – in surprise, probably – and I almost back off, even though I think he was about to kiss me. But then he melts against me. Pushing back into my mouth, his free hand clutching at the back of my neck. 

It’s cold, Baz’s hand. And his mouth is cold. Although it’s getting warmer as I kiss him. (Maybe this would have been a better way to heat him up yesterday after the lake when he was soaked, I think to myself. And then I get a bit distracted by the memory of Baz’s wet shirt clinging to him, which I’m now realising was probably a sexual awakening or something, even if I didn’t figure it out at the time.) 

Baz is gay. He wants to kiss boys. And he’s kissing me.

I’m a boy and Baz wants to kiss me. Baz is kissing me. I’m kissing Baz. Merlin and Morgana.

I only learned he was gay this morning and, honestly, I’ve found it difficult not to think about it constantly since then, even though I’m usually really good at not thinking about things. It’s a relief to find out I was probably bothered because I wanted him to like me like that. And not because I was like his dad. I’m definitely not.

I like Baz.

I think wanting to kiss Baz – kissing Baz – means I’m gay too. Or at least, gay for Baz.

I don’t know what I’d think about that normally. What I’d have done if I’d realised what I wanted while I was with Agatha. But right now, I feel really good about how I’m probably gay. Because it means I can do this. Kiss Baz. Push my tongue into his mouth (Baz makes a startled noise when I do it, but he grabs my head between both his hands when I begin to pull away and drags me back into him) and slide my fingers through his thick, silky hair.

I think Baz’s new to this too. Even if he’s the most beautiful man on the planet and could have anyone he wanted, I don’t think he’s kissed much before. That means I should probably take it slow, but I don’t know how to now I’ve started. I feel like I have to make up for lost time.

“Simon,” Baz whispers as I move down to kiss his neck (I love the way he says my name. And I love feeling his throat move under my lips – in fact, I love everything about this). He sounds lost. (I love it.) “Simon, please—”

I’m not sure what he wants me to do to him (pretty much anything sounds good at the moment), or what I should be doing, but in case he wants me to leave his neck alone (it could be a vampire thing) I go back to his mouth – I like Baz’s mouth, I’m realising. Particularly when he isn’t using it to say shitty things to me. And I really like that when I kiss him, he seems to forget everything else and just focus on what I’m doing to him. Like for Baz, kissing me takes up all of his brain. Like I make him stupid.

I can’t imagine Baz being stupid. I also can’t imagine having this much of an effect on anyone, but I guess Baz and I have always driven each other mad. I’m always forgetting what I want to say around Baz. I thought was because he was so much smarter than me, or because he made me so angry I couldn’t think properly. But maybe my brain was just trying not to think about too many things. How soft his skin is. How nice he smells. How much I must have been wanting to do something like this – hold onto him, keep him close, show him just how mad he’s making me with my mouth.

“Please,” Baz says again as I let our lips slide apart. “Simon, you don’t have to—”

I try and close the gap again, because what he’s saying sounds pointless and wrong. (I definitely do have to.) But this time he tilts his head away before I can get there. He’s still holding onto me though, which I think is a good sign.

“You don’t have to do this, if you don’t want to,” he says again. “It’s not part of the deal.”

That makes me laugh, because the idea not wanting Baz suddenly makes no sense to me. I feel like I’ve wanted him for years, without knowing it. Like kissing Baz has suddenly made the rest of my life come into focus for me in a way it never has before. For the first time, I’m seeing that a wedding – like the one I thought I was going to have with Agatha – isn’t the happy ending I thought it was. It’s the beginning.

“I know,” I say.

I lean forward to kiss him again, but Baz is still blocking me. He’s not getting it.

“You’re not obligated, just because I told you I was gay—”

“Baz, I fought three duels for you.”

He’s frowning. “That barely counts. The Mage told you to.”

“Yeah,” I say. “And I wanted to. I want this.” A nasty thought appears in my head before I can shove it back down. “Do you want this?”

I thought he did. I thought he was going to kiss me after he cast that spell – but I could definitely be wrong. I’ve never been good at knowing what Baz is thinking.

Instead of answering, Baz leans forward. His lips press against mine and open. His hands scrape forward up the back of my head, the short hairs rustling against the callouses on his fingers. He lets me tip him back onto the blanket so I can get at more of him at once. And when I bite at his lip, he moans into my mouth in a way that makes me want to do more things to him that I don’t know the names for yet, and his hands seem to clench above my head. It’s probably a good sign.

(Is this what it’s going to be like being married to him? Will we get to do this all the time? Merlin.)

“I miss your curls,” he confesses as I nuzzle his ear. I’m laughing, like I’m drunk on him.

“Pretty sure they’ll grow back.”

“So you say.”

I kiss his neck and his eyelids and his chin and his absolutely perfect mouth until my lips hurt.

Even then I don’t think I’d have stopped if I hadn’t felt the rain hitting the back of my neck. Just a few drops at first, and before it becomes a full-on rainstorm, which reminds me of the piece Baz was playing in the video Daphne showed me.

Baz is swearing now and fumbling for his wand. It’s quite funny – or at least it would be, if Baz being wet didn’t remind me of yesterday all over again. (So distracting.)

I move off him as he casts, “Dry as a bone,” but it’s really just a spell for light showers and it doesn’t work. Just sort of slows the rain down. (To be fair to Baz, Penny’s always said weatherisation spells are really difficult. Although I also don’t think he’s at his best.) We’re still getting wet – just more slowly.

Baz shakes water out of his hair. “We should go back inside.”

That’s all right with me, I know I need to go to sleep soon, but Baz looks really annoyed and I also don’t mind staying out here if it means we can get back to snogging.

I take his face between my hands. “We don’t have to.”

Baz frowns. “Kissing in the rain isn’t—”

And then his eyelashes flicker as I push my magic into him. The same as I did yesterday, only this time it’s not by accident. I just want him to have it.

“Simon,” Baz breathes and the sound is so lovely (everything about Baz is so fucking lovely) that I almost forget what I’m doing. The air around us is shimmering, and not just from the rain.

I want him to have everything.

“Try again,” I murmur against his lips.

*

When I wake up the next morning, it takes me a while to remember why I’m happy. Probably because all the things I'm happy about are fairly unbelievable.

That I kissed Baz after he did a piece of stupidly beautiful magic for me.

That Baz and I spent most of the night kissing outside under a canopy of magic that was partly his and partly mine, until Baz lost concentration (my fault) and all the rain fell in on us in one massive wave.

That Baz and I are getting married today. That after today Baz will be my husband and I’ll be his. And we can do husband stuff together. Like kiss. And stay in his flat with those fucking awful plates.

I keep having to repeat it to myself (and to Baz). We’re getting married.

We’re getting married.

“Baz, we’re getting married,” I told Baz yesterday as the two of us staggered back along the corridor to our rooms last night. We were both soaked by that point, but even Baz was laughing.

“I know. I was there when you won the duel. My aunt called you a cocky little shit.”

“I think your family uses insults to disguise affection,” I told him.

“That’s because you’re an idiot,” Baz said and then he snogged me hard enough that I knew I was right.

He didn’t ask me to spend last night in his room, which I was relieved about. Last night. Everything was all moving a bit fast, and I didn’t want his dad to find out since obviously we’re still not married. But once we are married, I’m sure that will change.

I’m also pretty sure I'm looking forward to it.

Not because of sex stuff. (I don’t know if I’m ready for sex stuff – Agatha and I never talked about it.) I just really like the idea of falling asleep next to him. Hearing him breathing. Smelling his hair. I can do that tonight.

Fuck me, this week has been weird. Not even a week. Just three days. And now I’m lying in bed thinking about how much I want to smell Baz’s fucking hair.

(Although, actually – is that new? I guess I might have thought it before. Once or twice. Merlin, maybe I've been crazy about Baz the entire time.)

I roll my face back into the pillow, which I’m seeing for the last time this morning, and try and get my expression under control. I’m grinning far too much. If any of Baz’s family barge in (which I’m guessing they will do, if the last few mornings are anything to go by), I don’t want them to think that I’m completely insane.

In the end, it’s Daphne who knocks on the door, but not until I’m mostly dressed, which is an improvement on any other morning in Pitch Manor. Also, I like Daphne. She’s practically the only one here who isn’t terrifying. And she actually seems to like me.

“Oh,” she says softly, once I let her in, “Simon. Is that the suit Basil picked for you?”

I nod. (That seems safer, right now, than talking.)

“Well, he has very good taste.” She smiles back at me – much more normal – and hands me a small box like the one Baz gave me yesterday. “These are for you. He said I’d need to help you with them, I hope that’s all right.”

This time it is cufflinks (embossed with the Pitch fucking crest, like Baz is marking me up as his before we’re even married, which is a bit rich) (obviously I don’t mind – I actually quite like it – but he doesn’t know that). Daphne hooks them neatly in place and then re-does my tie for me.  

“He also said to tell you, your friends are in the library,” she says as she tightens the knot.

“What?”

I’m halfway down the stairs before I realise that I haven’t been to the library before and I don’t know where it is. Fortunately, Daphne catches up with me and steers me in the right direction before I’ve gone too far wrong.

I know Penelope’s in America (the Mage told me when I asked) so I’m not expecting her. I’m guessing it might be Agatha. Or maybe Ebb. Gareth?

That means that when I open the door to the library and it is Penny – actually Penny, Penelope Bunce, in Baz’s house, combing through his books – I’m so overwhelmed that I actually hug her.

The less good news is that it is also Agatha – who I haven’t officially broken up with yet – and that I haven’t told either of them that I’ve changed my mind about Baz and now I do want to marry him. Penny’s already come up with a whole plan to get me out of it, even though both she and Agatha are dressed in posh wedding gear.

The plan involves faking a Humdrum attack (assuming we can’t get a real one) and a fast getaway car. I let her tell me all about it because someone (Daphne probably) has left a plate of sandwiches for the girls and I haven’t had breakfast yet, but I do have to stop her when she starts dragging me out the library.

“It’s all right,” I say, swallowing the sandwich. “I don’t mind staying.”

“That’s because you’ve been brainwashed by your authority figure!” Penny says. (I assume she means the Mage.) “But you’re being sold in marriage, Simon. It’s not OK.”

“I always assumed I’d be the one to be sold in marriage,” Agatha says. “It’s quite a relief watching it from the outside – no offence, Simon. But at least you’ve got Penelope to get you out of it.”

“I don’t want to get out of it,” I say – quite loudly.

Weirdly, I don’t feel upset that Agatha isn't upset to find me marrying someone else. Or that I don't actually think she ever wanted to marry me at all. It’s not important, since I don’t want to marry her either, now, although it probably would have been nice for her to say something about it sooner. It might have helped. Penny has been telling me for years that Agatha and I weren’t going to last – you’d think she’d be happier to be right about all of it.

But both of them are looking at me like I’ve grown an extra head.

“I want to marry Baz,” I say at a more normal volume. “And I’m going to. So yeah. Thanks for coming. It’s great to see you. There’s going to be cake.”

Now Penny and Agatha look at each other. And I know what they’re thinking before Penny even says it. It’s what I’d say to me, if … well, if I wasn’t me.

“But Simon – you hate Baz.”

I sigh. I think I’ve got used to all of Baz’s family – who don’t know me – just assuming I’m in love with him (which it turns out, I might be.) (It’s probably too early to tell – I think about him all the time and I want to kiss him and be with him. Does that mean I love him? Maybe. I mean, I thought I was in love with Agatha and I think she just compared being my girlfriend to being a mail-order bride, so it’s possible I’m not the greatest judge.)

It means I don’t know how to deal with my actual friends, who do know me, and who all know I’ve spent the last seven years talking about what a tosser Baz is.

I mean, he is a tosser. But I don’t mind it so much now I know he doesn’t mean everything he says. Also, I think he’s at this worst when he’s worried he might get hurt, which is why he’s always been a complete dick to me. Because I’m the one who hurt him the most.

I know it probably sounds strange, but I think I like that about him. That he cares enough about me to be hurt by things that I do. But most of all, I like that I don’t have to hurt him anymore. And that he doesn’t have to hurt me.  

I’m looking forward to not hurting Baz. Looking after him. It’s not just the spell – it’s that things are going to be different, I can’t explain it. 

I wish Baz were here. He’d know what to say.

Also, I just wish he was here. I feel like I haven’t seen him for ages. I should have asked Daphne where he was.

“Look, I know this is weird—” I say to Penny and Agatha.

“It’s really weird,” Penny says.

“Simon, Baz is evil,” Agatha says. “He’s a vampire.”

“That’s not confirmed,” I say quickly.

Penny shakes her head. “Nicks and Slick, Simon. You're really in deep here.” She frowns. “I wonder if Baz’s hypnotised you. Or maybe he used his vampire thrall—”

I huff. “All right, he probably is a vampire. But that doesn’t mean– Look, I just. I dunno. I like him.”

I look at Penny, trying to make my eyes say all the things that I can’t say with words – Penny and I have always been good at talking without words. It’s why we’re such good friends. I don’t want her to believe Baz has hypnotised me, I want her to feel happy for me. Eventually she sighs.

“I suppose I have always said you were obsessed with him.”

“Yes!” I say. “You have.”

“So, you’ve always been gay?” Agatha says. And I can see she’s a bit annoyed at the idea that I might have been, even though she also doesn’t want to be with me.

“No,” I say. Then I think about how obvious it felt to run my hand through Baz’s hair, and how the idea of kissing him didn’t feel shocking at all, and I change my answer to: “Maybe. I don’t know. I’m still working it out.”

Oddly Agatha seems to accept this.

Penny’s still frowning. “Baz, though,” she says. “Really, Simon? You couldn’t have chosen someone else less… Baz to be gay with?”

“Well, he is very good looking,” Agatha says thoughtfully.

“He’s so good looking,” I agree. A bit too quickly – Penny and Agatha both look horrified

“Ugh,” Penny says, like she’s realised how the next few years are going to go for her and doesn’t like it. “Don’t think this means I’m changing my rules about talking about him. Ten per cent or less, Simon. Ten per cent.”

*

Baz has gone back to Watford with his dad. They’ve gone to visit his mother’s grave, but they’ll be back in time for the wedding, which is at noon. I find all this out from Mordelia who finds me wandering around outside the house looking in all the marquees that have been hastily put up in the grounds because of the shit weather.

“You can still change your mind, you know,” she tells me.

“Thanks,” I say. “I don’t think I will.”

I wish Baz had taken me with him (I would have gone, although I’m guessing it’s a personal thing for him and his dad) or told me he was going. 

At least there’s lots more people here I know now, not just Penny and Agatha (which is good because I lost both of them when I left to find out what’d happened to Baz). Like Penny and Agatha’s parents, for example.

Penny’s mum tells me I have to use my elevated position in society to fight for positive change. I nod (even though I have no idea what she’s talking about) and Penny’s dad gives me a thumbs up behind her back.

Agatha’s mum sighs when she sees me. “Oh, don’t you look handsome, Simon. You are really sure about this, aren’t you? Because you know Agatha’s still very fond of you.”

Doctor Wellbelove drags her away.

I talk to Dev and - because I can’t work out how to get out of it - Penny’s brother Premal (he's come in the uniform of the Mage’s Men and tells me he really appreciates my sacrifice). I even see the Mage himself. He tells me about a nest of cravens he thinks I ought to sort out after the wedding’s over. I tell him I’ll think about it and walk off before he can shout at me.

I’m still trying to find Penny, but instead I end up in one of the tents where Fiona is twisting pegs on a massive flat stringed instrument

“It’s a dulcimer,” she explains. “All the women in our family play. Which means it’s a tradition that’s about to die out.”

“I could learn,” I say bullishly, even though I’m shit at all instruments – because I’ll be damned if I give Baz’s family any excuse to regret who he’s marrying.

Fiona laughs. “Well, I’m not teaching you.” But she does at least show me how it works.

I leave the tent just before midday, sure Baz will be back.

No one seems to be around, though.

All the other tents are empty. (Fiona must have been stalling me.) There's just Baz’s dad, who looks like he’s been crying, leaning against the railing around the house where I saw Baz that first night.

“Is Baz all right?” I ask him, stumbling slightly on the steps as I hurry up them. “Where is he?"

Mr Grimm flaps his hand vaguely as Daphne joins him at the railing. She puts her arm through his and squeezes it.

“Try the duelling grounds,” she says, handing me an umbrella.

The two of them follow me as I take the now all-too-familiar path out into the grounds, trying not to slip on any of the mud. Someone’s turned the whole "duelling ground" into a marquee, rigging up a tent roof over the top of the tennis courts, and surrounding it with other smaller tents for people to sit and watch in.

Baz is standing in the centre of the court, looking somehow more gorgeous than ever, which I’d have thought was impossible. He’s slicked his hair back again. Normally it looks better loose, but today it makes him look sharp and elegant. And he’s all in black (black tie, black shirt, black suit), except for a white rose on his lapel. So hot.

For a moment, I’m frozen. Mr Grimm has to push me into the court so he can close the door behind me.

“Hey,” I say weakly.

I’m trying to work out if this is the wrong time to kiss Baz, or whether it’s exactly the right time. I’ve never been to a wedding before, although I have seen them on television. Can you kiss the other person before it starts, or do you have to wait for permission?

Baz is no help. His lips twitch – I think he’s pleased with my reaction (which he should be. I think my brain has short-circuited just looking at him). Then he raises his wand, which has been in his hand the whole time, and points it at me.

“Simon Snow – I challenge your right to my hand. Defend yourself.”

My jaw drops.

Three duels. I remember Baz saying there were going to be three duels, and we’ve had three.

Was he lying?

He can’t have been lying. Baz wouldn’t lie to me, not after last night.

Unless all of it was a lie. And he isn’t even gay, and he isn’t even mine, and he doesn’t even want this.

I haven’t brought my wand. I didn’t think I’d need to because I honestly thought we were good. I thought I’d done everything that I needed to do. I thought I was going to be happy.

But maybe I’m just an idiot, like Baz kept trying to tell me I was. Maybe Baz is really evil, like Penny tried to tell me he was. Christ, maybe I should have changed my mind, like that fucking six-year old tried to tell me to.

I know I’m not thinking clearly, but I also don’t hesitate.

I take a few running steps towards him and swing my arm back and my fist squarely into his face. Something crunches – probably his nose.

“Snakes,” someone says from outside the court (I think it might be Penny) as Baz stumbles back, blood dripping down his face.

“Oh my goodness,” someone else says.

Baz is swearing, mostly at me, although I notice he isn’t trying to curse me. Which is either a good sign or a bad one, depending on how you look at it. But he does shake my hand off when I try to touch his arm and starts past me for the door of the tennis courts, which is definitely bad.

“It was fucking symbolic, you complete wanker.”

His voice is muffled, like he’s got a cold.

“Baz.” I’m chasing after him. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t know what was—”

“Out of my way, Snow.”

The door is yanked open before he gets there and Doctor Wellbelove races in, his jacket flapping open. Baz waves him off too.

“I’m fine.”

“Son, your nose is clearly broken.”

“If he says he’s fine, he’s fine,” Fiona says firmly. She’s waiting just outside the door to scoop Baz up. “It’s not even bent this time.”  She steers him into one of the smaller marquees where Daphne and the kids are waiting. “You just need a sit down. Right, Baz?”

It must be a vampire thing, I realise. They don’t want a doctor looking at Baz and working out what he is. Everyone must be terrified. Baz must be terrified.

“I’ll talk to him,” I tell Doctor Wellbelove, who pats me on the shoulder (that’s good, he must not suspect anything), and then I try to get past Fiona towards Baz, but it’s impossible.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going, Chosen One?”

“I want to see my fiancé,” I say – although frankly I wouldn’t be surprised if Baz called the whole thing off now. And, fuck, even thinking something like that makes me feel like I’m suffocating. I can smell my magic everywhere. My vision’s blurring. I’m very much not OK, but I know I will be if I can see Baz. If I can protect him. (I can’t believe I thought I wasn’t going to hurt him again. Literally just this morning.) “You have to let me see him.”

“Let him through, Fiona, for Crowley’s sake,” Baz’s voice says from behind her. “Before he burns the whole place down. I don’t think he’s going to hit me again. Are you, Snow?”

Baz’s whole family seem to be here, surrounding him like a pack of bodyguards while Baz sits on a spindly chair with an icepack pressed to his face. No one looks pleased to see me. Even Daphne looks cross.

At least I can feel myself calming down now. Now I can see him.

“What do you want?” Mr Grimm says and once again I get the impression that he’d be much happier if he never had to see me again, ideally because I’d died in a freak but painful accident.

“Can I speak to Baz?” I say. “Alone?”

A few of them glance over at him, and he nods.

“But I’ll be watching you,” Fiona says darkly as she follows the rest of the Pitches and Grimms and heads for another marquee.

Baz lifts the icepack away from his face. His nose is red and bruised, and I think he’s getting a black eye. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Baz look this bad.

“Well?” he says. “What is it?”

“Are you not calling me Simon anymore?” I say.

“Is that what you came to say?”

It’s not, although it hurts. It’s like a wall coming down between us.

I shake my head. “I know I fucked up.”

Baz raises an eyebrow as though to say, You think?

And yeah, he’s right, but I still let out a growl of frustration and run my hand over the back of my head. “Look, no one told me any of this was going to happen. You said there were only three duels—”

“There are only three duels,” Baz says unhelpfully.

“Which is why I thought you might be trying to kill me,” I say.

“Why would I try and kill you?”

“I don’t know!” I say. “For the same reason you’ve always been trying to kill me. I know you want the alliance with the Mage, and I know you’re gay – and we snogged, but how am I supposed to know if things are actually different for you? You haven’t even said you like me.”

“I did,” Baz says and I shake my head. (Now I’m thinking about it, the only thing he actually said was that I didn’t have to kiss him if I didn’t want to. And that I was an idiot – not exactly epic romance material.)

“I did, Snow,” Baz says, exasperated. “I said you hung the moon.”

I frown. “You mean the spell?”

“Yes, the spell you can only cast if you’re stupidly in love with an idiot,” Baz snaps. “That spell.”

He looks away as I stare at him. His hair’s started to fall loose out of the gel. And there’s blood on the petals of the rose in his buttonhole.

“You’re in love with me?” I say.

He doesn’t answer.

It’s like when Baz told me I was handsome. I almost don’t believe him (because it’s not believable), but it’s easier when I think about the spell. If I think back, I know what I felt in that moment. And it did feel like that. It felt like he loved me. Even if I can’t work out why he would. What I have to offer him.

Maybe that’s the problem. That I know Baz is too good for me.

But that just means I have to fight harder for him.

I kneel down next to his feet (I don’t know what I’m doing, I never know what I’m doing) and take his hands in mine. They’re colder than usual, from the icepack. I feel like I already have too many favourite parts of Baz, but his hands are definitely up there with his eyes and his mouth. They look elegant, his hands. Like the rest of him. Soft. And they are, but underneath they’re hard, like Baz is.

Musician’s hands. Magician’s hands.  

“I didn’t even know I was gay until yesterday,” I tell him. “I’m still figuring out a lot of things. Like pretty much everything about my entire life, how to defeat the Humdrum—”

“Get to the point,” Baz says impatiently.

“I know I want marry you,” I tell him. “And not because the Mage told me to. Because I’m obsessed with you. I like to look at you—” Baz scoffs at that (still pissed off about his nose, I guess.) “And you’re smart,” I say. “And strong. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you, even if you’re also a complete dick and you think I’m an idiot.”

Is that enough? It doesn’t seem like it can be – Baz called down the fucking moon for me – but I can see him smiling.  

He leans down towards me. “You are an idiot,” he tells me just before he kisses me.

I push up into him, and he grunts, “Careful,” but doesn’t let me back up a single inch. Just drags me into the chair with him, which is OK. It’s what I wanted.

“Wedding still on, then?” Fiona’s voice says and I look up guiltily from Baz’s lap to see her looming over us, hands on her hips.

“Um,” I say because I’m not sure whether Baz actually agreed anything (beyond the obvious). I look back down at him. Baz raises an eyebrow.

“Yes,” he tells me, very firmly. Like there’s no absolutely doubt in his mind. “The wedding is definitely on, Simon.”

I grin at him and he grins back at me. And after that, everything actually goes pretty well.

Except for the pictures (Baz was right about that too).

The pictures really are terrible.