And it’s not just because she’s an endless corridor of magical revelations—and not just because she’s excruciatingly cute. I mean . . . That’s part of it. I am still human.Everythingis part of it. Everything is so much fun.
We wake up, I make tea. (I have a feeling that was Simon’s job.) Then we spend the whole day reading out loud to each other from books about magic, and telling each other stories. When Penelope gets excited about something, she’s much more likely to talk about herself. You wouldn’t believe her life—she’s fought werewolves, she’s invented spells. She has a real crystal ball, but she can’t find it. (I would like to help her find it.)
When we get hungry, I run down to the corner to buy dumplings and noodles, or to one of the sandwich shops. (There areso manysandwich shops.) (Penelope is partial to cheese and pickle.)
When she’s excited, I think she forgets that she’s only putting up with me. And I think she forgets what a losing proposition I am. She’ll jump off the couch to write something on the wall—“Aha!”—or lean into my shoulder to show me something ridiculous, laughing and waving around a piece of strawberry licorice—“Get a load of this, Shepard”—and I think maybe she’s having fun, too.
This can’t go on much longer, can it?
Penelope’s filled both walls with notes, and I’ve learned so much about magical weddings, I could probably officiate one. But I don’t think we’re any closer to breaking my engagement.
She’s going to see that we’re not making progress. She’s going to give up eventually. She’s going to send me home.
The sun is setting now. We had a late lunch, and we’ll probably have a late dinner. Penelope is lying on the couch with her legs up and hanging over one end, a book leaning against her thighs and keeping her skirt from falling. She always wears skirts or short dresses, never pants . . .
I’ve seen so much of Penelope Bunce’s knees. Her legs are short and curvy—they’re very goddamn cute, if I’m being honest, and her knees are the cutest part. And, okay, maybe I’m more affected by her cuteness than I want to admit, but what am I supposed to do? She’s right there, and she doesn’t get any less cute. Her cuteness doesn’tabate.It just gets worse the more I’m around her. The licorice thing is killing me. And she’s covered in chalk dust 24-7. It gets on her face and in her hair . . . I’ve never seen someone with so much hair pay so little attention to it—she’s either got the world’s messiest ponytail, or amopof thick, dark brown hair, curling every which way, falling halfway down her back. It’s cute. It’s real cute. I am not unaffected, okay? I am very affected. Very. Very, very aware of Penelope Bunce. And how cute she is.
“This is a dead end,” Penelope says. She lets the book she’s reading drop on her stomach.
I’m sitting on the floor and leaning against one of her chalkboard walls. I’ve been reading a book about magical genealogy—when I haven’t been distracted by her legs.
“All of these books are about magicians and mage customs,” she says. “Not marriage contracts. Maybe Debbie was right, maybe we do need a lawyer.”
“Are there magickal lawyers?”
She hums, thinking. “I know of two. But I doubt they’d take your case.”
I look down at my book. “I’m sorry I’m not as helpful as Simon and Baz would be.”
“Meh.” She sits up, and digs a bag of red licorice shoestrings out from between two couch pillows. “Don’t sell yourself short. They both get too emotionally invested and attached to their own ideas. You’re remarkably clearheaded, Shepard. It’s almost like we’re talking about someoneelsewho’s cursed to marry a demon.”
I think that was a compliment . . .
She holds out the bag. “Do you want some?”
“Sure.” I go sit next to her on the couch, taking a tangle of candy, even though I never eat this stuff. It tastes like chemical glue.
“Do you think the curse would allow you to get married?” she asks.
“In life?”
“Obviously in life.”
“I think so,” I say. “I could probably enter another arrangement that’s ‘till death do us part,’ considering my arms say, ‘at death do us join.’ ”
“Hmm.” She bites down on a string of licorice, then pulls it until it snaps. “My parents got married when they were my age—nineteen.”
“Wow . . .”
“Yeah . . . As soon as they left school. Mages get married young, but that’sreallyyoung. My mum says she knew what she wanted in life and didn’t see the sense in waiting.”
“My parents were in their late twenties,” I say. “My dad might have been thirty.”
“When did they get divorced?”
“When I was eight.”
She frowns. “I’m sorry.”
