“Baz, we watched him cast the spell.”
He drops his head back on the pillow and tugs on my tail. “We should dig up what we can on his family . . . I’ll bet he isn’t even an orphan.”
I hook an arm around Baz’s waist. He’s solid. I like it. “Why would anyone lie about being an orphan?”
“For sympathy,” Baz says, scooting closer to me, “and because orphans are alwaysmarked by destiny,aren’t they? They’re never just some poor kid. They’re always Luke Skywalker. Or Moses.”
“Hey . . .” I squeeze him. “I’m an orphan.”
“You’re only proving my point, Snow. I’ll bet you were born during an eclipse, too, but nobody bothered to write it down.”
“Orphans aren’t magickal,” I say. “We’re unfortunate.”
“I’ve spent my half my life saying so,” he sighs, “but the world didn’t listen.” He lowers an eyebrow at me. “I don’t know why you of all people would trust this guy, Simon.”
“I don’t know why you wouldn’t.”
He hums, his eyebrow still low. “Let’s give Lady Salisbury an update.”
“You think she’ll agree with you,” I say.
“I think we could use another opinion, and Penelope is still narked at you.”
I shrug and sneak my free hand under Baz’s neck. It isn’t really sneaking—he lifts his head up for me, smiles like he might be blushing, and settles his head back down on my arm.
“I don’t mind,” I say. “I like Lady Ruth. I think she’ll be happy if we find out that Smith-Richards actually helped her son.”
“I think she’ll be happy to find out Smith-Richards didn’t bury her son in a shallow grave.”
“Oh come on—you can’t think that’s a possibility?”
“Can’t I? He gives me a bad vibe. His teeth are too white. And he’s too earnest.”
“I’m pretty sure you’ve said all of that about me.”
“That’s just it.” Baz pokes my chest with the end of my tail. “He’s stealing your wholething.”
“He’s older than I am, so it was his thing first. Maybe I’m the one who stole it. Maybe it was meant to be him all along.”
Baz thumps his head against my biceps. “Are we going to argue about Smith Smith-Richards every night in bed?”
I grin. Suddenly I’m smiling so big I can hardly see.
“What are you laughing at, Snow?”
I’m not laughing. I shrug. I squeeze him. He’s solid. I like it.
47
AGATHA
Niamh is with a patient when I walk in.
“Your dad’s next door.” She’s got a three-headed dog squirming on her exam table, and she’s holding her wand over its heads.“Stay!”
All three heads whimper, but the dog stays put.
“I was looking for you,” I say, “but I’ll come back.” Or maybe I won’t. This is probably a bad idea . . .
