“You’re not supposed to do that on my side of the room,” I say.
“You haven’t got a side of the room,” he says, letting the sword drop.
“We’ll have to negotiate that.” I walk past him to the bed. My violin is still sitting there. I pick it up and rest it on my shoulder. Simon swings his sword again, watching me. “Are you going to tell me I can’t play violin on your side of the room?” I ask.
“I would never tell you that,” he says, pointing the sword. “You can play violin wherever and whenever you like.”
“Your landlady might disagree.”
“I’ll cut off her ears.”
“That sword is already a bad influence.”
He climbs onto the bed next to me, still holding the sword. (Is he going to sleep with it?) “I should give it back,” he says. “To Jamie.”
“Snow, he insisted that you keep it.”
“Yeah, but what do I need with a sword?”
“What doesJamie Salisburyneed with a sword? I’m surprised he still has all his fingers. You, however, have spent your whole life wielding one.”
“Yeah, but . . .” He shrugs with the sword. (I really think he might sleep with it.)
“Just keep it for now,” I say. “It’s like the smallest thing in your life that you need to figure out.”
He laughs. “You sound like my therapist.”
“A lot of your insults are compliments, I think.”
Snow leans back on the headboard. “You’re both always telling me that I have bigger things to worry about.”
“Or—” I rest my chin on my violin and pull the bow over the strings. “—maybe we’re both telling you to worry less, in general.”
“I don’t think that’s what she meant.”
“You should call her and ask.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “You’re not clever.”
I play another note. “I am.”
Simon holds the sword out in front of him, twisting his wrist, then tossing the hilt gently, switching his grip.
“Does it feel like handling an incredibly rare and precious antique?”
“It feels fucking solid,” he says. “Maybe even better than the Sword of Mages.”
“I wonder if it has a name . . .”
“They said it’s Excalibur.”
“They said it’sanExcalibur. Like, that’s the brand name. It might have a family name.”
“Yeah . . .” He’s looking at the sword, frowning.
I play the beginning of a song.
After a minute, Snow brings his free hand up and wipes his cheek with the back of his wrist.
