I can’t leave yet.”
“I’ll just pretend you’ve replied with a thumbs-up emoji.”
“Good night, Snow.”
“Good morning.”
“Daphne has left my father.
As far as I can tell.
He hasn’t told me so—magic forbid my father tell me anything other than ‘Tea’s ready’ or ‘The night mares are nearly ready for brooding.’
(He’s into heritage livestock now—the barns are full of rare magickal creatures. Battering rams and Judas goats. ‘The only lllama herd outside of South America.’)
But my stepmother isn’t here—and hasn’t been here in days, maybe weeks. A Normal woman from the village comes up on weekday mornings to take care of the children—who all have mobile phones and iPads glued to their faces. Even Swithin! He watches the same YouTube videos over and over, and cries if you take the thing away. These Grimm children are being raised by algorithms.”
“Bunce says you’re awake and running a lot of errands. I leave the city for three days, and suddenly you have errands.”
“Sorry.”
“That was rude.”
“I’m still camping out in the family room. I think you’d like this house better than the one in Hampshire. It isn’t haunted, for one. And the lighting is better.
You could come sleep on the sofa with me, if you like. My father is in such a state, I don’t think he’d notice.
There’s not actually room for you on the sofa, but there’s no room for me either. I wouldn’t be any less comfortable with you here. And I think you’d like the twins. All they do is eat jam and butter sandwiches and throw things at each other. It takes me back to our first year at Watford.
I wish I’d brought a change of clothes with me, but I never expected to stay this long. I’m still not certain how long I should stay. I’d thought ‘until Daphne comes home.’ But what if Daphne isn’t coming home?
I’m not raising my father’s ill-advised second family. (If I were raising them, we’d have a stern talk about screen time.)
I’m half asleep, can you tell?
You could come down, if you like. You don’t even have to text. Just show up on my door, caked with mud. Coat open. Snow in your hair.
It’s June, isn’t it?
Good night, Snow.”
“Mordelia walks from room to room, video-chatting with Normals. She says her mother is in London, taking classes, which seems unlikely. I’ve never known Daphne to be studious. Or to have any interest in a career.
Maybe she’s having a midlife crisis? (I’d be in constant crisis if I were married to someone like my father. He refuses to have a conversation about anything that’s actually happening!)
Anyway, I can hardly interrogate Mordelia. She’s 8.”
“Is this about America, Snow?”
“It’s going to be all right.”
“I change nappies now. And by that, I don’t mean that I know how to change nappies; I already knew how. What I mean is, it’s all I do. Daphne could have at least house-trained this child before she abandoned him.”
“This isn’t like Daphne.”
“All right, I’ve interrogated Mordelia.”
“I think I need your help with this, Simon.”
