I bloody well should marry Wellbelove. My father would love it.
Marry her. Give her the keys to whatever she wants keys to. Then find a thousand men who look exactly like Simon bloody Snow and break each of their hearts a different way.
Wellbelove isn’t very powerful, but she’s gorgeous. And she’s got a great seat; she and my stepmother could go riding.
Then my father could stop wringing his hands about the Pitch name dying with me. (Even though the Pitch line already died with me; I’m fairly certain vampires can’t have babies.) (Crowley, could you imagine vampire babies? What a nightmare.) (And why doesn’t Aunt Fiona pass on her bloody name? If my mother gave me hers, Fiona can surely provide the world with a few more Pitches.)
I think if I got married, to a girl from a good family, my father wouldn’t even care that I’m queer. Or who fathered his grandchildren. If the idea of passing on my mother’s name that way didn’t turn my stomach, I’d consider it.
Snow would probably find a whole new way to hate me if he knew I thought this coldly about love and sex and marriage. About his perfect Agatha.
But what does it even matter if my intentions are never good? My road to hell isn’t paved with good intentions—or bad—it’s just my road.
Go ahead, Snow. Forgive your girlfriend. I’m not standing in your way. Go stand on bloody hilltops together and watch the sun set in each other’s hair—I’m done being a nuisance. I’m done. Truce.
I didn’t expect to mend any fences with all this … co-operating. I didn’t expect to convince or convert Snow. But I thought we were making progress. Like, maybe when this was all over, he and I would still be standing on either side of the trench, but we wouldn’t be spitting at each other. We wouldn’t be spoiling for the fight.
I know Simon and I will always be enemies.…
But I thought maybe we’d get to a point where we didn’t want to be.
52
SIMON
With Penny (and Baz) gone, I spend a lot of time walking around the school grounds. I decide to look for the nursery.…
Baz thinks the Weeping Tower swallowed it after his mum died. Penny says that can happen sometimes when a magician is tied to a building, especially if they’ve cast blood magic there. When their blood is spilled, it hurts the building, too. The place forms sort of a cyst around it.
I think about what might happen if I died in Mummers House—after all the times I’ve spilled my blood to let our room recognize me.
This is one reason Penny doesn’t like blood oaths and spells. “If you’re as good as your word, words should be good enough.”
I’m quoting her again. I’ve been having conversations with her in my head all day. Sometimes Baz joins the imaginary conversation, too—usually to tell me I’m a twat … though he never uses that word, even in my head. Too vulgar.
I’m rattling around the Weeping Tower that way, talking to myself and poking my nose in corners when something out the window catches my eye. I see a line of goats moving through the snow across the drawbridge. A figure that must be Ebb trails behind them.
Ebb. Ebb …
Ebb’s been at Watford since she was 11—and she’s at least 30 or 40 now. She must have been here when Headmistress Pitch died. Ebb never left.
The goats are back in their barn by the time I get out there. I knock at the door—I don’t want to give Ebb a shock; she lives out here with the goats.
I know that’s strange, but honestly, it’s hard to imagine Ebb living around other people. Other staff members. She can do as she likes in the barn. The goats don’t mind.
“Hiya, Ebb!” I say, knocking some more. “It’s me, Simon.”