I’m facing the board; he’s standing next to me, facing the room. He leans towards me a bit, without looking at me, and bumps his arm against mine, ruining the word I’m writing. “Ornot,” he says.
I erase the word and start over. I’m working on theEverythingwe still don’tlist. I’m tempted to write:everything importantand also:whether Simon Snow is actually gay.And:whether I’ll live forever.
“I’ll help you find out who killed your mother,” he says again, like he’s laying out a plan. “And you’ll help me stop the Humdrum—that’s a shared goal, yeah?—and then we’ll worry about the rest later.”
“Is this how you get what you want? By just repeating it until it comes true?”
“Isn’t that how you cast a spell?”
My chalk hand drops, and I turn to him, exasperated. “Simon—”
“A-ha!” he shouts, springing up and pointing. It scares the hell out of me. I’ve seen him kill a dog with less effort. (He said the dog waswere;I think it was just excited.) “You did it again!”
“Did what?” I say, slapping his hand away from my face.
He sticks his other hand in my face, pointing. “Called me Simon.”
“What would you prefer—Chosen One?”
His hand dips. “I prefer Simon, actually. I… I like it.”
I swallow, and it must be obvious how nervous I am, because he looks down at my neck. “Simon,” I say, and swallow again, “you’re being idiotic.”
“Because I like this better than fighting?”
“There is no ‘this’!” I protest.
“You slept in my arms,” he says.
“Fitfully.”
He lets his hand fall, and I catch it. Because I’m weak. Because I’m a constant disappointment to myself. Because he’s standing right there with his tawny skin and his moles and his morning breath.
“Simon,” I say.
He squeezes my hand.
“It’s not that I don’t preferthis.It’s that…” I sigh. “I can’t even imagine it. My family objects to everything the Mage stands for.”
“I know,” he says emphatically. “But I actually think we have bigger problems than that. If we find out who killed your mum, and then we go after the Humdrum together—maybe we can help everyone see that we’re better off uniting, and then—”
“And then the whole World of Mages will see how much better it is to work together, and we’ll sing a song about co-operation.”
“I was thinking we’d stop cursing each other,” he says, “and locking each other up in towers.”
“Potato, potahto.”
He pulls at my arm and I fall forward a bit. Or maybe I’m swooning—it’s not beneath me. (Snow is. Beneath me. Always. By at least three inches.)
“How can you be like this?” I whisper. “How can you even trust me, after everything?”
“I’m not sure I do trust you,” he whispers back. He reaches out with his other hand and touches my stomach. I feel it drop to the floor. (My stomach, that is.) “But…” He shrugs.
He’s rubbing my stomach, and I close my eyes—because it feels good. (So good.) And also because I want him to kiss me again.
Snow kissed me last night until my mouth was sore. He kissed me so much, I was worried I’d Turn him with all my saliva. He held himself up on all fours above me and made me reach up for his mouth—and I did. I would again. I’d cross every line for him.
I’m in love with him.
