“Crowley, Snow—don’t break it again!”
I let go of his nose. And look in his normal-sized eyes. “I’m sorry . . .” I shake my head. “That I didn’t figure it out sooner. I—I would have liked to have had you for a friend here.”
He sets the reading glasses on the shelf next to him and puts his hands in my hair again, smoothing my curls down and watching them bounce back.
I think Baz would have liked it, too—to have me, here, on his side—but he says, “It was probably meant to happen like it did.”
“Do you believe in that?” I ask. “Fate?”
He shrugs. His back is still against a shelf. My weight is still against him. “Not exactly. But it’s hard to argue with the timing. My mother’s ghost, the Mage’s plan . . . My father says that some things—that some people—are written.”
“Like Smith-Richards?”
Baz’s eyes go hard, and he shoves at my shoulder. “Notlike Smith-Richards.” He steps forward, pushing me some more. “Make way, Snow. We need to get to the bottom of this nonsense.”
I step aside.
Baz puts the glasses back on and gets his wand out. He stands in front of the wall whereThe Magickal Recordis shelved.“Fine-tooth comb—Smith!”
The entire wall of bound volumes starts trembling.
“Oh fuck,” Baz says. He grabs my arm and pulls me back, just as a hundred books shake themselves off the shelves.
When the dust clears—not a figure of speech—there are less than a dozen volumes still on the wall.
“Itisa common name . . .” I say.
Baz just sighs.
49
BAZ
We could have used Bunce’s input—and her wand—but we’re making progress. I’d initially planned to get a broader picture of the Smith family. But narrowing the search to “Smith-Richards” gives us a much smaller stack of books to sort through: just two.
Snow starts re-shelving while I search through the first book. With Lady Salisbury’s reading glasses on, I can turn directly to the page I’m looking for—it’s a list of announcements.
Announcements constitute the bulk ofThe Magickal Record—births, deaths, and, after the Mage took power, arrests. Only huge magickal news warrants more detailed coverage inThe Record,something like an attack on Watford. (I wonder whether they’ll write up this rash of potential saviours.Meet the candidates.)
I scan the page for “Smith-Richards” . . .
“Here it is,” I say. “His birth announcement.” Simon comes to look over my shoulder while I read aloud:“Smith-Richards-comma-Smith. Jemima Smith and Hugh Richards of Skipton are delighted to announce the birth of their son, Smith. The child was named for his paternal grandfather, Smith Alan Richards, who died in June. Young Smith will inherit his grandfather’s oaken wand. His mother reports that the child was born during June’s solar eclipse. How auspicious!”
“Huh, look at that,” Simon says, “hewasborn under an eclipse.”
“Hmm. According to his mother.”
Snow pokes my shoulder. “Why would she lie about that?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s a veryboastfulthing to mention in a birth announcement.”
“So Smith is thirty . . . He looks good for thirty.”
“Does he?” I reach for the second book.
“I expect this’ll be his parents’ death,” Snow says.
He’s right. He rests his forearms on my shoulders, and I hold up the book, so we can both read the report:
