Bronze curls.
The fact that Simon Snow is the most powerful magician alive. That nothing can hurt him, not even me.
That Simon Snow is alive.
And I’m hopelessly in love with him.
33
BAZ
The operative word there is “hopeless.”
That was evident the moment I realized I’d be the one who was most miserable if I ever succeeded in doing Snow in.
It dawned on me during our fifth year. When Snow followed me around like a dog tied to my ankle. When he wouldn’t give me a single moment of solace to sort through my feelings—or try to wank them away. (Which I eventually tried that summer. To no avail.) I wish I’d never figured it out. That I love him.
It’s only ever been a torment.
Sharing a room with the person you want most is like sharing a room with an open fire.
He’s constantly drawing you in. And you’re constantly stepping too close. And you know it’s not good—that there is no good—that there’s absolutely nothing that can ever come of it.
But you do it anyway.
And then …
Well. Then you burn.
Snow says I’m obsessed with fire. I’d argue that’s an inevitable side effect of being flammable.
I mean, I guess everyone’s flammable, ultimately—but vampires are oily rags. We’re flash paper.
The cruel joke of it is that I come from a long line of fire magicians—two long lines, the Grimms and the Pitches. I’m brilliant with fire. As long as I don’t get too close.
No …
The cruel joke of it is that Simon Snow smells like smoke.
Snow whimpers—he’s plagued by nightmares, we both are—and rolls onto his back, one arm reaching for a moment before he lets it fall over his head. His ridiculous curls tumble back onto the pillow. Snow wears his hair short on the back and on the sides, but the top is a thatch of loose curls. Golden brown. It’s dark now, but I can still see the colour.
I know his skin, too. Another shade of gold, the fairest. Snow never tans, but there are freckles on his shoulders, and moles scattered all over his back and chest, his arms and legs. Three moles on his right cheek, two below his left ear, one over his left eye.
It doesn’t do me any good to know all this.
But I’m not sure it makes it any worse either. I’m not sure it could get any worse.
The windows are open; Snow sleeps with them open all year long unless I throw a snit about it. It’s easier to sleep with extra blankets on my bed than to complain. I’ve got used to the weight of them against me.
I’m tired. And full. I can feel the blood sloshing around in my stomach—it’s probably going to wake me up to piss.
Snow moans again, and tosses back onto his side.
I’m home. Finally.
I fall asleep.
34
BAZ
Snow doesn’t give a shit about waking me up.
He likes to be the first person down to breakfast, Chomsky knows why. It’s 6 A.M., and he’s already banging around our room like a cow who accidentally wandered up here.
The windows are still open, and the sunlight is pouring in. I’m fine in sunlight—that’s another myth. But I don’t like it. It stings a bit, especially first thing in the morning. Snow suspects, I think, and is constantly opening the curtains.
I guess we used to fight more about stuff like this.
And then I almost killed him, and squabbling over the curtains suddenly felt ridiculous.
Snow will tell you I tried to kill him our third year. With the chimera. But I was only trying to scare him that day—I wanted to see him wet his pants and cry. Instead he went off like an H-bomb.
He also says I tried to throw him down a flight of stairs the next year. Really, we were fighting at the top of the staircase, and I got in a lucky punch that sent him flying. Then, when my aunt Fiona asked me if I’d pushed Simon Snow down a flight of stairs, I said, “Fuck yes I did.”
But the next year, fifth year, I actually did try to take Snow down.