“That’s what I always say, Baz!” She’s swinging that ponytail again. She’s shouting, too. “ ‘Simon needs me’—that was always my excuse!”
“Your excuse for what?”
“For doing whatever I wanted! For making him do what I thought best. I was more like a commanding officer than a friend.”
“You kept him alive.”
“Barely! I kept him alive after goading him into danger.”
“I wouldn’t say you goaded him,” I mutter. “Snow never needed goading.” I hate how little sense she’s making. I hate this note. I hate Snow’s messy handwriting; it looks like a child’s. I hate the view I have of his empty wardrobe.
“Baz, I’m not going after him. I promised him I wouldn’t.”
“Bunce . . .” I hate this.
“No.”
I hate it. “Bunce, please.”
“I know it’s different for you,” she says. “Maybe it’s worse.”
I hate—
I don’t—
We landed at Heathrow, and I went off to get Fiona. Simon offered to help, but I said I didn’t need it. I kissed him good-bye. That felt like a risk, saying good-bye; I wasn’t sure where we were with each other at the moment. But it seemed fine. I said I’d text him. He said . . . What did he say?“See ya,”I think. Nothing was any different than it’s been. Nothing was any better, but nothing was anyworse.
He’d said those awful things in America. On the beach. But that was inAmerica.And that was about me, not him, about whetherIwas happy. (I’m not happy, but I’m smart enough to realize that losing Simon would only make it worse.)
And there were other moments in America. Better moments. Before the beach. In the desert. In the back of Shepard’s truck.
I don’t believe Snow would justleavewithout telling me. That he would leavemewithout telling me.
“He left me a note, Penelope. After everything we’ve . . . We’re . . . He’s my . . . And I’m supposed to just . . .‘I’m sorry’?What am I supposed todowith this?”
Penelope is crying, fat tears running down her red cheeks. “I don’t know, Basil. Maybe it’s true what they say—if you love someone, set them free.”
“That isn’t atruth,it’s just a spell! When I was six, my shoelace got caught in an escalator, and my Aunt Fiona cast it to get me clear. Simonneedsus, Penelope.” I take her by the shoulder. “We have to find him. Let’s go.”
She steps away from me. She shakes her head. “No. He needs me to let him make his own decisions.”
I let my hand fall.
I nod.
I look at Bunce the way I used to look at her—when she was my worst enemy’s best friend.
“Fine then. Perhaps he just needs me.”
12
SIMON
There’s a goblin in my stairwell. Not even in disguise. Just sitting there, picking his teeth with a dagger. He better not have eaten my landlady.
I’ve only had this flat for a day. It’s a house that’s been split in two. The landlady’s got the main floor, and I’ve got the upstairs. I convinced her that I’d be a quiet tenant. No drugs. No parties. (Goblins are worse than parties.)
“Hello, Mage Prince,” the goblin says. He’s red-lipped and green-skinned. Dead handsome, like every goblin.
