“Mum’s ring,” she says, eyes wide. She looks from my hand to my face. “Basil, did you rob your own mother’s grave?”
I shake my head. “My father gave it to me. Years ago, as a keepsake. He told me that my mother used to wear it every day . . .”
“She did,” Fiona says, her voice breaking.
I hold my hand farther out to her. “Take it.”
She looks away. “No. Your dad’s right. You should have it to remember your mum.”
“I’ll see it more often on your hand than I will if it stays in a box.”
She peers back at me, biting her cheek, but still doesn’t take it.
I look down at the ring. “I think my father hoped I might give it to a girl someday . . .”
Fiona snatches it from my palm. “Simon Snow isnotgetting my mother’s sapphire.”
I laugh. “Homophobic.”
“It isn’t because he’s a boy,” she says. “It’s because he’s a pain in my arse.” Then she screws up her face at me—like she feels guilty, and it’s my fault. “Well, shit . . . Did youwantto give it to him?”
“No,” I say, still laughing. “Take it.”
She beams at me. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She grabs me into a hug, rocking us back and forth. “Thank you, thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Fiona.”
She pulls away and opens her fist, holding the ring so she can admire it. “I know you think I’m mad . . .”
“As a hatter. Are you telling anyone else about the wedding?”
“Can you imagine? Pitches on one side of the Chapel, vampires on the other.”
“That would put me in a very awkward position.”
She bumps her shoulder into my arm, smiling at me. “Wasn’t planning a wedding. But Nicky’s going to move in.”
“I figured as much.”
“And we’re going to make it legal the Normal way.Theyhaven’t stricken him from their books.” She quirks an eyebrow at me. “We could use a witness . . .”
I consider knocking at Snow’s door. But it’s still early, and I have a key.
His flat’s quiet. I’m quiet, too, in case he’s sleeping. I’ve brought scones. I set them on the kitchen counter.
“I thought you were a goblin,” Simon says. He’s standing in his bedroom door, holding a dinner knife like a dagger. He slept in his knit boxers—he still looks half asleep.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I say. “Goblins are fit.” Simon rubs his face and walks back into the bedroom. When I get there, he’s under the duvet again.
I sit on the edge of the mattress. “Are you sleeping with a full set of cutlery or just the knife?”
“Don’t have a sword,” he mumbles, like that explains it. “Come back to bed.”
“I wasn’t in bed.”
