I never should’ve tried to make it through a full day of classes. My leg’s gone numb, and my head is killing me. Maybe it’s good that Coach Mac won’t take me back on the team, if I can’t even manage seven hours in a desk. (He looked sad when I showed up at practice. And suspicious. He said I was on probation.)
I take a quick, quiet shower, and when I climb into bed, I feel every bone in my body groan happily.
Crowley, I missed this bed. Even though it’s dusty and lumpy, with goose quills that sneak through the ticking and poke you.
My bedroom at home is enormous. All the furniture at home is hundreds of years old, and I’m not allowed to hang anything up or move anything around because it’s all registered with the National Trust. Every few years or so, the local paper comes in and does an article.
My bed there is heavy and draped, and if you look close, you’ll find forty-two gargoyles carved into the trim. There used to be a step stool at the head because the bed was too tall for me to climb into by myself.
This bed, at Watford, is more mine than that one ever was.
I roll over onto my side, facing Snow. He’s sleeping, so it doesn’t matter if I stare at him. Which I do. Even though I know it doesn’t do me any good.
Snow sleeps in a knot: his legs pulled up and his fists drawn in, shoulders hunched high, head tucked low, and his hair a crush of curls on the pillowcase. What little moonlight there is catches on his tawny skin.
There was no light with the numpties. Just one endless night of pain and noise and blood.
I’m at least half dead, I think. I mean, just normally, when I’m walking around and feeling good—I’m at least half gone.
When I was in that coffin, I pushed myself closer.
I let myself slip away…
Just to staysane.Just to getthroughit.
And when I felt myself slipping too far, I held on to the one thing I’m always sure of—
Blue eyes.
Bronze curls.
The fact that Simon Snow is the most powerful magician alive. That nothing can hurt him, not even me.
That Simon Snow isalive.
And I’m hopelessly in love with him.
33
BAZ
The operative word there is “hopeless.”
That was evident the moment I realized I’d be the one who was most miserable if I ever succeeded in doing Snow in.
It dawned on me during our fifth year. When Snow followed me around like a dog tied to my ankle. When he wouldn’t give me asinglemoment of solace to sort through my feelings—or try to wank them away. (Which I eventually tried that summer. To no avail.)
I wish I’d never figured it out. That I love him.
It’s only ever been a torment.
Sharing a room with the person you want most is like sharing a room with an open fire.
He’s constantly drawing you in. And you’re constantly stepping too close. And you know it’s not good—that there is no good—that there’s absolutely nothing that can ever come of it.
But you do it anyway.
And then…
