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Baz
It was Mordelia's idea, by which I mean it was Simon's idea, by which I mean it was Bunce's idea, by which I actually mean it was Shepard's idea. This whole accursed plan. If you could even call it a plan.
Every day, I swear to Crowley, we're on a new holiday to America. Snow's bankrolling us, this time, though he gets mad if I try to tease him about ‘spending daddy's money.’ (It doesn't stop him from teasing me, though.)
I wasn't even going to go. Not until-
"I'm starting Watford next year," Mor said.
"That you are." I was back home, at the house in Oxford, making the kids sandwiches. Simon and I were staying in the renovated barn for the summer while I applied for jobs and he prepared for his last year at uni. Both of us keeping an eye on the kids. (And an eye on Daphne.)
Simon had been insisting I learn how to cook, but sandwiches were still the only thing that felt safe. Buttering both pieces of bread was a force of habit. I wasn't even looking at Mordelia.
"I won't be home when you visit anymore," she said. "Not until Christmas."
"I wasn't planning on visiting much when you're not around, anyway."
"I miss you!" she blurted.
I poked a hole through the slice of bread. (Whatever. Sophie would pitch a fit, but Petra would still eat it.) "I'm right here."
"Not usually."
So, fine. America. Again. It's fine, I'm fine, and I like the opportunity to fly hours across the Atlantic pressed up close against Snow, en route to spend all Halloween night waiting in a pumpkin patch by Shepard’s house (Which is apparently a thing. Americans and their endless fields of native crops.) for a potential appearance from the Great Pumpkin. Which, Shepard insists, is also apparently a thing.
When we get on the plane, it's like Snow actually wants to be there. The first time we took a flight to America, I spent the whole time worrying that Snow was about to fall apart. (Or that the plane was about to fall apart.) It’s gotten easier.
Mordelia also really wants to be here. She claims the window seat and then, when I move to file in after her, she practically drags Simon around me.
“Simon will sit next to me,” Mordelia says, smug.
Well, Simon will also sit next to me, but I’m not about to get into a fight with my eleven-year-old sister over my own boyfriend. I know Mordelia has a crush on Simon, but she’s a child and she’ll get over it. (I never got over it, but that’s different.)
I didn't realise how nervous Simon was on planes before. It was hard to see over the...everything else. I watch his ease sitting next to Mordelia turn to jittery fidgeting as the plane starts to taxi down the runway, and I take his hand and squeeze. He doesn't let go for at least an hour. That's okay. I couldn't need that hand for anything more important.
I actually do fall asleep on his shoulder, this time. It's the kind of dizzy on-and-off plane sleep where it barely counts as restful. At one point, I wake up and Simon is playing with my hair. I smile into his neck and try to stay awake so I can enjoy it, but sleep takes me back all the same.
I don't actually wake up until I hear Mordelia and Simon talking. Quietly. (They're very nearly like toddlers. I never have to worry about them until they go quiet.)
"School's important," Simon is whispering. I nuzzle into his cheek before I register the words. Before I register my complete lack of context.
"I'll still go to school," Mordelia says.
"Obviously." I sit up and turn to look at her.
She glares at me. "Were you eavesdropping?"
"I can't eavesdrop on a conversation you're having with my pillow, Mordelia."
"Hey," Simon says.
"Mum says I don't have to go to Watford if I don't want to," she says, already spoiling for an argument. She really is my little sister.
"Good thing you want to, then," I say. I think about going back to sleep.
"I'm not going to Watford." She doesn't even try to let me down gently.
“Mordelia, what the fu--I mean for Cro--Circe.” I rub my face in my hands. I think I’m getting a headache.
“I know the ‘fuck-word,’ Baz.”
“Not helping your case.” I sigh. "School is school, Mordelia. You're going. Otherwise, you'll end up like your mum."
"I’m telling mum you said that."
"Sure," I say. "And I'll tell her about all the nappies I changed while she was out at her 'magic lessons.'"
Simon puts his hand on my knee and I'm suddenly thankful we're on a plane where our voices don't really carry.
"The whole reason we came on this trip was to celebrate you starting school next year," I say, meaningfully.
"I know," Mordelia says. "That's why I waited until we were already on the plane to tell you."
Simon
It's a miracle when I get Baz and Mordelia to stop fighting. I think she wanted me between them as a buffer. Which was fine. It was funny, actually. I've seen Baz hold himself back in a physical fight. (Against me. Apparently, multiple times.) But in a verbal fight? He was like a puppy play-fighting. All gum, no teeth. I loved it. I love him.
It’s night when we land and it'd already started snowing days before we got to Nebraska, but Penny called Shep to get us from the airport, and he said our plans were still on.
Which is great, because Baz still gets uncomfortable talking about magic in front of “the Normal.” Despite everything. So I hope that means they won’t argue about Watford all night.
Shep picks us up from the airport and drives us to his house in his since-recovered truck. Penny claims shotgun, because she hates me, so I end up squashed in the middle of the back row, even though either Baz or Mordelia would fit better.
They’re both sitting with their arms crossed, same expression on their faces. Scowling at themselves in the dark windows. Baz is leaning into the window and I’m leaning into Baz and I feel like I should be regretting telling Mordelia about Penny planning this trip. But it’s hard to regret anything when I’m pressed up against Baz, foot to shoulder. Even if I have to look at Baz’s pouty face reflected back at me if I want to try and look out the window. (I don’t really mind. It’s almost nostalgic.)
When we get to Shep’s place, both Baz and Mordelia hold their doors open for me. I go out on Mordelia’s side and Baz rolls his eyes at me. Which is rude, but is also something of a comfort.
“No need to be jealous of Morgue,” I say.
“You have a special nickname for her?” Baz actually sounds hurt.
“Uh. I don’t have to?”
“No, no, it’s fine,” Baz says, his voice crisp and formal. It sounds like when he talks to his father at dinner. While he refuses to eat.
“Baz,” I say, catching his arm. Penny and Shep are tugging the girls’ luggage up to the house, Mordelia skipping along behind them. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Snow,” he says. “Just tired from the flight.”
His eyes cut over to Mordelia, and I feel kind-of bad. I did sorta trample on his serious-sibling conversation on the plane.
“Are you thirsty?” I ask.
“I’m fine.” He tugs his arm out of my hand.
“Okay,” I say. “Love you.”
We get our luggage into Shep’s house and make our way to what we came here to do: sit in a pumpkin patch for the night. Shep’s got a patch out behind his house. I’m not sure if it’s part of his garden or not. Nobody has fences around here. It’s all just open space.
Shep puts a couple blankets down on the ground, which is still freezing, and hands more to us. Mordelia didn’t even want to go trick-or-treating, which I thought was the wrong choice, but she didn’t want to risk missing the Great Pumpkin’s arrival. Mordelia’s wrapped herself up in a blue blanket that looks like a giant version of Baz’s mum’s scarf.
“We just sit here and wait, now?” Penny pulls her skirt lower over her knees.
“It shouldn't take long,” Shep says, like he’s rehearsed this. “Each year, the Great Pumpkin rises out of the pumpkin patch that he thinks is the most sincere. And this patch itself is very sincere.”
“Sincerity is our strong suit,” Penny says with an eye roll, so we’re not off to a great start.
“Baz needs to hunt first,” I say.
Baz raises an eyebrow at me, which makes me roll my eyes.
“He does,” I say, like I need to convince everyone else here. “We’ll go for a walk.”
Mordelia tugs at me. “Baz, you can go. I’ll wait here with Simon.”
Baz raises both brows at her. He really is so pretty when he’s annoyed.
“Don’t worry,” Mordelia says, prim and business-like as she smooths out the blanket next to her and pats it for me to sit. “I don’t have a crush on him. He’s my future brother, anyway.”
I try to catch Baz’s eye. I’m not sure why. Either so I can tease him or communicate to him that I really would marry him, if he’d let me. But he’s still just glaring at his sister.
“You mean future ‘brother-in-law,’” Baz says. “You only get two brothers, Mordelia. Deal with it.”
“Babe,” I say. “Let’s go for our walk.”
“I don’t need to go for a ‘walk.’”
“You need to drink something.”
Baz shakes his water bottle at me. I do my best to give him an unimpressed look.
“You need blood,” Mordelia says.
Baz’s jaw drops. “Who told you that?”
“Nobody. I figured it out. Then I asked mum and she said you were in a vampire attack as a baby and you’d tell me about it only if you wanted to.”
“I told you it was obvious,” I say, which makes Penny start making frantic “you’ve surpassed your Baz quota” motions at me. I press a kiss to his cheek to stop myself from saying anything else.
“Do you drink Simon’s blood?” Mordelia rocks forward, hands wrapped around her knees.
Baz is close enough to me that I hear him take a slow, patient breath through his nose. Then I feel his whole body cringe.
“I’m going for a walk,” he says, and he leaves without waiting for a response.
I don’t like letting Baz wander off alone. But Nebraska is flat and open, and I can still kinda see the shape of him if I squint against the night. He’d be angry if he knew I was watching. (Even though I can’t see anything.) I love him too much to look away.
I can’t believe that Mordelia implied we’d be getting married one day. I can’t believe Baz didn’t correct her.
I think I’d like to. To marry Baz. Every day, I realise I need to add new things to my list of things I’ve always wanted to do to Baz. This one is quickly climbing the ranks.
I close my eyes and lean back on the blanket. It really is cold out here. Shepard’s telling some story about how this whole region used to be covered by glaciers in the ice age.
“I actually met a Woolly Mammothman once,” he says. “They’re not extinct, apparently.”
That’s good to know, but it doesn’t make it less uncomfortable outside.
“What kind of gifts does the Great Pumpkin bring?” Mordelia interrupts.
Shepard shrugs. “I’ve never met a Great Pumpkin before. We’ll just have to find out together.”
“The gift of its presence is going to be enough for you, I presume,” Penny says.
He leans into Pen. “I like to talk to people. What can I say?”
I sigh. I wish Baz would talk to me. I watch him make his way back towards us, and I hope he found enough to drink.
I make room for Baz on the blanket when he gets back. Between me and Mordelia, so I don’t have to keep sitting in the crossfire.
“Better?” I slip an arm behind him, resting my knuckles against the small of his back.
“No,” he says, and Mordelia huffs in response.
She looks small and exhausted already. If we were back home, I’m pretty sure it would be hours past her bedtime. (Daphne always scolds us when I keep her up too late, but I can never remember what ‘too late’ is, and the sun sets so late in the summer in Oxford.)
“I’m going to let Shepard kick you out of the pumpkin patch if you’re just going to argue,” Penny warns. “I didn’t fly all the way here to sit in the least sincere pumpkin patch in America.”
“No, no,” I say. “We’re having fun. Right Baz? I mean. It’s Halloween. You’re a vampire. This is like your birthday, basically.”
“I already have a birthday. One which you’re already all too familiar with.”
“We should’ve thrown a party.” I run my fingers up his spine.
He turns to me and cocks his head like he’s trying to make sure I see him raise an eyebrow. I think it’s supposed to be a threat, but I take it as a challenge.
“We should have a party. While we wait. Do they do Halloween piñatas in America?”
“No.” Shepard laughs. “We could carve pumpkins, though. Or bob for apples.”
“I’m not bobbing for apples. These two share enough spit without involving any freezing water.” Penny says.
"What d'ya say, babe?" I elbow Baz. “Wanna share some spit with me?”
"Gross." Mordelia doesn't even lift her head from the pumpkin that's become her pillow.
"Later," Baz whispers.
"Gross," Bunce echoes.
"Gross," I agree, even though I’ve been waiting for hours to get Baz alone. It’s gross. We’re gross. I embrace it.
Mordelia perks up after Shepard goes inside and brings back pumpkin carving supplies. She’s a good artist, better than I’ve ever been, so I let her take the sharpie and design a pumpkin for me, too.
She draws with her tongue poking out of her mouth, then turns it around and shows it to me. A jack-o-lantern with two hearts for eyes and a smile with two triangle teeth.
“Wow.” I laugh. “Is that Baz?”
She nods.
“It looks just like him.”
“I’m going to take art classes next year,” Mordelia says as Baz pulls the pumpkin towards him. (Which I’m glad for. I’m not letting her use a knife, good artist or not.)
“I heard Headmistress Bunce was reinstating the art program at Watford,” Baz says, plunging the mini knife into the skin of the gourd.
“I told you I’m not going to Watford,” Mordelia says.
“Crowley, Mordelia, why the fuck not?”
Mordelia’s mouth twitches the same way Baz’s does when he wants to say something he knows will cause trouble. (Last time, it was that he thought Penny’s mum is a little too overblown with some of her anti-pixie stuff, which started a two-hour argument about every hypocritical thing either of them had ever said. We went out for ice cream afterwards.)
“I don't want a roommate,” Mordelia finally says.
“Baz didn't either, and look how well that worked out for him,” I say. It probably comes out a little smug, but I am proud of myself.
Baz turns to me. “What are you insinuating?”
“I'm insinuating that the Crucible is a great matchmaker.” I rub my knuckles up his spine again.
He leans forward, over the pumpkin and away from my hand. “What about Bunce and her pixie? Or Dev and Niall? Or Rhys and Gareth?”
“Whatever point you think you're making right now-- is your point that it only works for boys? Because Keris told me once--”
“Seven snakes,” Penny says. “I’m right here. Can we not?”
“Roommates are good,” I say. “They give you a roommate so you’re forced to have a friend.”
“I can have friends at Normal school.”
“You can’t do magic at Normal school,” Penny says. “You want to do magic.”
“Everyone wants to do magic,” Shepard agrees.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “You don’t wanna miss your chance.”
Baz
Mordelia is afraid of fire. She won't even let me light the tea light inside the jack-o-lantern she carved. She is not my mother's daughter.
The older she gets, the more she looks like me. She’s asleep now, curled up on a blanket and sheltered from the cold by Simon’s wings, the same deep red as the liquorice scattered near her head from when I told her to stop eating while laying on her back, and that she would choke.
“I’ll take her inside,” I say. “Which room can I leave her in?”
“Third on the left,” Shepard says. “Need help getting her in there?”
“Nah.” I scoop her up. She’s light in my arms, though I think she’d be heavy in my father’s. I wonder when the last time anyone picked her up and carried her was. I wonder if this is the last time anyone will. She’s getting so big, and I’m not sure when it happened. While I was at school. Everything with Mordelia happened while I was at school. She was born while I was at school, for Crowley’s sake.
I manage to keep her asleep all the way until I deposit her onto the bed and pull the covers up over her shoulders.
“Baz,” Mordelia says, “Where am I?”
“Nebraska. Shepard’s house.” I sit down on the bed next to her.
“Oh. Baz. Dad says not to tell people that you’re a vampire. Or that you’re gay.”
“I know.” I smooth her hair back. Nobody else will ever find out I’m a vampire and I was aware my father doesn’t even want my queerness as public as it is. But I didn't think he was sharing that complaint with Mordelia. “I only tell important people. Like my boyfriend. He should know I’m gay.”
“No, he told me not to tell people.” Mordelia pauses. Frowns. “You can tell me.”
“You want me to tell you I’m a gay vampire? I thought you already knew.”
“Yeah.” Mordelia yawns. “But mum said you’d tell me one day.”
Well. I can’t make Daphne a liar, can I?
“Hi, Mor,” I say. “I’m gay and I’m a vampire. Now go back to sleep.”
“You’ll get me if the Great Pumpkin comes.”
“We’ll get you.”
“Okay. Love you, Baz.”
“Love you, Mordelia. Go to sleep.”
I close the door to Mordelia's room on the way out and rest my head against the door. She's getting so big, when did she get so big? Fuck, I missed it all, didn’t I?
Mordelia plays the violin because I play the violin. I play the violin because my mother did, because her father did. She inherited her calloused hands from a bloodline that isn't her own.
I go to every Christmas concert. The children play terribly. I try not to cry.
I’m not sure how long I stand outside the door. It isn’t long. But Simon comes up behind me and wraps his arms around me before I even really register he's there. He presses a kiss where my shoulder meets my neck. Not right on my scar, just a centimetre or two below. A spot that's all his own.
"You've been gone a while," he whispers. "I missed you."
“I’ve been hearing that one a lot.” I turn around so I can press my face into his hair. He smells like the coconut oil cream I bought for him. I'm probably getting my face all greasy.
“Is that a bad thing?”
I hesitate.
“It’s not a bad thing.” He nuzzles upwards and kisses my cheek. “I missed you so much every summer. I’m pretty sure missing is just the same thing as loving.”
“If it was the same thing, we wouldn’t have two different words for it.”
“Maybe.” He catches my lips with his.
I love kissing Simon. He holds me against him like he needs to be touching every part of me. He’s got a hand splayed out between my shoulder blades, just slightly rubbing like he can sense the tension. I wonder if he can.
I could kiss Simon forever. I could thread my hands in his hair and tug until I couldn’t pull any harder without yanking us apart. I could let him nip at my bottom lip to his heart’s content. (He once told me he was trying to turn me pink. I blushed. He called it a success.)
I could hold him tight against me.
He's already better with Mordelia than I am. I’m supposed to be happy that she loves him. I’m supposed to be happy that she wants him for a brother.
I know it’s too much to ask that she like me best.
I pull away. He crinkles his forehead, half-confusion, half-glare, wholly familiar. He’ll have terrible wrinkles there one day.
“Don’t give me that look, Snow.”
“Come back outside.” Simon tugs at my arm. “Shep’s setting up for us to bob for apples.”
“I thought Bunce nixed that on hygienic grounds.”
“She doesn’t have to play. C’mon babe. I want my spit all over your face.”
“You really are gross, you know that right?”
Simon licks a line from my chin to my eyebrow.
“You love it,” he says as I push him away.
He’s right, though. I do.
Shepard already has a cooler set up outside, filled with water and apples.
“Baz is gonna play,” Simon announces. As if this is an incredibly exciting development.
“Good,” Penny says. “Then I don’t have to.”
“We could actually do it where two people play at once,” Shepard says. “If y’all want to finally have your ‘final battle’ out here.”
“Who told you about that?” Everyone knows about it back home, but it feels like it should be private. That everyone in the world doesn’t need to know that I was supposed to be killed by the love of my life.
“Doesn’t matter,” Simon says. He looks good like this, covered in goosebumps and moonlight. “Let’s finally settle it. Baz versus Simon.”
“I don’t think I can,” I say. “It might not be possible with my…mouth.”
“Your fangs would probably help. You should get them out.”
“Stop flirting with me.”
“No,” Simon says. “I like flirting with you too much to stop. And I like your fangs.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m not sure why I’m still pushing back against this. They’ve all seen me drink blood, for Crowley’s sake. Who am I trying to fool?
Myself, mostly. Into thinking I don’t have to be a monster if I never mention it. Even if everyone knows. Even if nobody cares.
Or, rather, even if everyone knows, and they still care about me anyway.
What do I have to hide?
I feel my fangs slide into place.
Simon blinks slowly, his tail flicking in the dirt. "You're so pretty with your fangs."
"You'll find me less pretty when I beat you."
"Baz. Do you know me at all?"
Shep ties our hands behind our backs and we kneel at either side of the cooler. "No cheating," he says.
Simon looks at me, bound and kneeling, and honest-to-Circe winks at me. I'm not sure if it's an admission that he plans to cheat, or if he's trying to be suggestive.
It was an admission that he planned to cheat. Fucking Snow and his fucking tail. The instant Shepard says, “Go,” Snow’s got the spade in my face, trying to push me back. It’s impossible not to laugh. The game’s so stupid without being hit by extra appendages. When I laugh, it makes Simon laugh too, but his mouth is already on an apple, so he ends up coughing up water as he does it. I should stop and make sure he’s alright, but he’s still got his tail bothering me, now wrapped loosely around my neck (as if he thinks that’s a threat) so I take the opportunity instead.
I manage to hook my fangs into the same apple Simon’s got. And then I drag it underwater. He lets go with a gasp and I come up victorious, the apple still stuck to my teeth.
(Simon has to help me remove it.)
He kisses the corner of my mouth where my fang presses into my lip. "Good game."
God, it's fun to have fun with Simon. It's so good. He's so good. I feel like I've been wasting time. With him. With everyone. How many more years could I have had with him? How many more years should I have spent with Mordelia? How can I tell her to leave home and go to Watford when I know she'll feel the same way about Swithin that I do about her, given less than even a decade?
(I'll be 30. Fucking Crowley.)
A bead of water from my hair runs down my face. (I’m not crying.)
Simon looks at me and grabs my hand. “Let’s go dry off.”
We end up in the kitchen, a too-small colourful little place that probably hasn’t been redecorated in 40 years, except to add more family photographs. Simon hands me a dish towel with a cartoon beagle on it while he starts opening cupboards.
“You’re awfully familiar with this kitchen,” I say as he grabs mugs, stretching up on his toes to reach. I bump him out of the way and take a fourth mug from the top shelf before he breaks something.
I run a hand over his wing and he relaxes, folding it back in.
“I told Shep I’d bring hot chocolate before, but you distracted me.” He shrugs. “Making up for it now.”
“You distracted yourself. I didn’t distract you.”
“You always distract me.”
He finds the milk in the fridge and passes it to me. I'm still looking for a pot to heat it in when he returns with packets of chocolate powder covered in bold microwave instructions.
“We’re not making this in the microwave,” I say.
“Yeah we are.” He tosses them onto the counter. “Is it really the end of the world if Mordelia doesn’t go to Watford?”
“Yes.” I start to pour the milk, sloshing some over the edge as I turn to look at him. Simon wipes it up with the towel we just used to dry our hair.
“Is it?”
“It’s her legacy,” I say. “Her birthright.”
“Now you’re just saying things I know you don’t believe.”
“Do you wish you hadn’t gone to Watford?
“No. I had a good seven years.” Simon pulls me against himself. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me," he whispers.
It could have been different. It could have been so much better. But I got to learn magic. I got to live in my mother’s favourite place. I got to share that with her. And with Simon. It stings that Mordelia doesn’t want to share that with me.
My siblings are different from me. I can hear it in their voices. I can see it in the shape of their smiles. It’s there, in the colour of their skin. They’re not Pitches. They’re barely even Grimms. They’re just babies.
Mordelia will get older. Sophie and Petra and Swithin will get older. I’ll get older. I get to get older.
I get to get older with Simon.
He kisses me again, quick and chaste. Not like how he kisses me when he’s trying to shut me up. As if he’s still hoping for a response.
I wish I could give him one.
We finish making the hot chocolate and carry it back outside, a mug in each hand and with Simon’s tail wrapped around my waist.
We bundle back up with Bunce and Shepard in the pumpkin patch, even though waiting is starting to feel more and more like a fool’s errand. We drink in tired silence. Simon’s more wrapped around me than ever, tail around my calf, wing around my shoulders, his free arm pulling me against him.
“You ready to tell me the real reason you’ve been in such a bad mood all day?”
I want to say something mean. Why is my first instinct always to be mean?
“Yeah.” I put my face on his shoulder so nobody can see if I start to cry. Simon takes my mug away from me. Probably puts it in the dirt so it’ll be disgusting. “I miss my siblings.”
“You love them a lot.” Simon pauses. “You’re really good at loving people a lot. You don’t have to keep it a secret.”
“I love you,” I say. “I’m sorry it took so long for me to tell you.”
There's a rustle somewhere behind us.
It’s the pumpkin Mordelia designed, come to life. The one she claims looks like me.
“The Great Pumpkin,” Shepard gasps.
“I need to get Mordelia,” I say. Even though there’s a part of me that knows I’ll never live this down.
“I’ll get her.” Simon runs into the house. As if the Great Pumpkin might leave without seeing her. (I suppose I don’t know anything about how long the Great Pumpkin tends to stay for, but if anyone could stall for time, it’s Shepard.)
I stand back while Penelope and Shepard remove the top of the pumpkin and stick their hands in to receive their gifts. I’m wondering if I can get away with not taking anything when Shepard motions me over.
I don’t know what kind of creature this is. But it seems like it smiles as I approach.
“Happy Halloween,” it says. “My treat for you is something you’ve needed. Please take just one.”
I do as I’m told, as much as I don’t want to reach my fingers past the leftover strings of pumpkin entrails. I come back with a dirty hand and a simple gold ring. It looks like a wedding band with a small diamond embedded into the metal. I don’t have time to ask before Mordelia comes running down to meet us, far more awake than she has any right to be.
I slip the ring into my pocket while I wait for them to take their turns.
“What’d you get?” Bunce asks when Mordelia returns to us. Simon is crouched by the pumpkin, still.
“A bracelet,” she says. It’s a charm bracelet and it clinks like music when Mordelia waves it around to show us. I think the three of us all recognize it as magic immediately.
“Try to cast a spell with it,” I say as Simon joins us.
Mordelia frowns. "I'm not good at magic."
“Is that why you’re trying to avoid Watford?” I ask. “You know the point is to learn how to get better.”
She shakes her head. “I won’t be good enough to go.”
"So? I was never good at magic either, and they let me in," Simon says.
Mordelia scoffs. "You're famous. Everyone knows you were good at magic."
"Nah, I was awful," Simon says. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I never went for it first. I hated it, sometimes. Ask Baz. He'll tell you."
Mordelia looks at me expectedly.
"He was the worst," I say. “It made me like him even more.”
“See? And I’m still glad I went.”
I want Mordelia to make her own choices. We’ve had enough of predestination to last a lifetime.
"I can’t force you to like magic. And I won’t make you go. Watford is yours," I say, "but only if you want it."
Mordelia frowns. I watch her suck on her eyeteeth. (Did she learn that from me?)
"Will you hate me if I don't go?"
"Of course not."
Mordelia sighs, stands straighter like a weight has been lifted. "I'll try it?"
"You'll try it," I say, "and you'll come right home if you don't like it."
We turn in for the night afterwards. I think we’ve been awake for nearly 24 hours by now. (Though I’m not too tired to watch Simon change into his pyjamas. Even if he refuses to wear any of the sets I buy him.)
I bump against him, gently, after he pushes his wings through the holes in the back of his shirt. “What’d you get?”
“Oh. From the pumpkin? He said he left my thing with you.”
“Hmm.” I roll the ring in my pocket across my fingertips. Was that really what the Great Pumpkin meant? That I’m supposed to propose, in America, running on no sleep? With Mordelia, Penelope, and Shepard in the other room?
We could tell them when they wake up in the morning.
“Can I have it?” He looks so eager. He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for.
“Only if you really want it,” I say, which only confuses him.
“Of course I want it.”
I’m terrified, but I want to do it more than anything else. The idea of waiting is almost worse. I’ve spent so long wanting him. Waiting. Missing him from no more than a metre away.
“Simon,” I say, “I don’t ever want to miss you again.”
I take his hand, squeezing the ring between our palms.
When he takes his hand back from me to look at it, I can barely look him in the eyes for how bright he’s smiling.
“Good,” he says. “Then don’t.”
Simon lets me slide the ring onto his finger. He barely gives me time to get changed before he drags me over to the bed and doesn’t even complain when I collapse on top of him.
“We could have a summer wedding,” I say. “To make sure Mordelia can come.”
“Oh my god.” Simon laughs. Kisses me again. “Stop planning our wedding and go to sleep.”
We’ll tell everyone in the morning.
(Mordelia, I think, will be thrilled.)
