I hated him so much that spring. I hated the sight of him—I hated what the sight of him did to me.
When Fiona told me she’d found a way to “take the Mage’s Heir out of our way,” I was more than willing to help. She gave me the pocket recorder, an ancient thing with an actual tape, and warned me not to speak when it was on; she made me swear on my mother’s grave.
I don’t know what I was expecting to happen.… I felt like I was in a spy movie, standing by the gates and pushing the button in my pocket the moment I could see Snow start to lose his temper.
Maybe I thought I was entrapping him.…
Maybe I did think it would hurt him—or kill him.
Maybe I didn’t think anything could kill him.
Then came Philippa bloody Stainton running across the lawn to embarrass herself. (She wouldn’t leave Snow alone that year, even though he clearly wasn’t interested.) The recorder swallowed up her voice in one horrible squeak, like a mouse being sucked up in a vacuum. I hit stop as soon as I heard her.… It was too late.
Snow knew I did it, but he couldn’t prove anything. And no one else could either—I hadn’t touched my wand. I hadn’t said a word.
Aunt Fiona was hardly bothered by the mistake. “Philippa Stainton—she’s not one of ours, is she?”
I remember handing the recorder back to my aunt, thinking of the magic she must have poured into it. Wondering where she got that much magic.
“Don’t look so glum, Basil,” Fiona said, taking it from me. “We’ll get him next time.”
A few days later, in Magic Words, Miss Possibelf assured us all that Philippa would be fine. But she never came back to Watford.
I’ll never forget Philippa’s face when her voice ran out.
I’ll never forget Snow’s.
That’s the last time I tried to hurt him. Permanently.
I throw curses at Snow. I harass him. I think about killing him all the time, and someday I’ll have to try—but until then, what’s the point?
I’m going to lose.
On that day. When Snow and I actually have to fight each other.
I might be immortal. (Maybe. I don’t know whom to ask.) But I’m the kind of immortal you can still cut down or light on fire.
Snow is … something else.
When he goes off, he’s more of an element than a magician. I don’t think our side will ever put him out or contain him, but I know—I know—that I have to do my part.
We’re at war.
The Humdrum may have killed my mother, but the Mage will drive my whole family out of magic. Just to make an example of us. He’s already taken our influence. Drained our coffers. Blackened our name. We’re all just waiting for the day he takes the nuclear option—
Snow is the nuclear option. With Snow tucked in his belt, the Mage is omnipotent. He can make us do anything.… He can make us go away.
I can’t let that happen.
This is my world, the World of Mages. I have to do my part to fight for it. Even if I know I’m going to lose.
Snow is standing in front of his wardrobe now, trying to find a clean shirt. He stretches one arm over his head, and I watch the muscles shifting in his shoulders.
All I do is lose.
I sit up and throw my covers off. Snow startles and grabs a shirt.
“Forget that I’m here?” I ask. I stride over to my wardrobe and lay my trousers and shirt over my arm. I don’t know why Snow lingers over his clothes like he has big decisions to make. He wears his uniform every day, even on the weekend.
When I close my wardrobe door, he’s staring at me. He looks unsettled. I’m not sure what I’ve done to unsettle him, but I sneer anyway, just to drive it home.
I get dressed in the bathroom. Snow and I have never dressed in front of each other; it’s an extension of our mutual paranoia. And thank snakes for that—my life is painful enough.
When I’m dressed and ready and back in our room, Snow is still standing near his bed, shirt on but not buttoned, tie hanging round his neck. His hair actually looks worse than it did when he woke up, like he’s been tearing his hands through the curls.