My grandfather played, too. He could cast spells with his bow.
I forgot my violin here when I left for school—I wasn’t in my right mind—and I’m a bit stiff now from the lack of practice. I’m working on a Kishi Bashi song that my stepmother, Daphne, calls “needlessly morose.”
“Basilton … Mr. Pitch.”
I let the instrument drop from my chin and turn. Vera is standing at the door. “I’m sorry to interrupt. But your friend is here to see you.”
“I’m not expecting anyone.”
“It’s a friend from school,” she says. “He’s wearing your uniform.”
I set the violin down and straighten my shirt.
I guess it could be Niall. He comes over sometimes. Though usually he’d text first … Not usually—always. And he wouldn’t be in uniform. Nobody would; we’re on break.
I pick up the pace, practically trotting through the parlour and dining room, wand in hand. Daphne’s at the table with her laptop. She looks up curiously. I slow down.
When I get to the foyer, Simon Snow is standing there like a lost dog.
Or an amnesia victim.
He’s wearing his Watford coat and heavy leather boots, and he’s covered in snow and muck. Vera must have told him to stay on the rug, because he’s standing right in the middle of it.
His hair is a mess, and his face is flushed, and he looks like he might go off right there, without any provocation.
I stop at the arched entrance to the foyer, tuck my wand in my sleeve, and slip my hands into my pockets. “Snow.”
He jerks his head up. “Baz.”
“I’m trying to imagine what you’re doing at my door.… Did you roll down a very steep hill and land here?”
“Baz…,” he says again. And I wait for him to get it out. “You’re—you’re wearing jeans.”
I tilt my head. “I am. And you’re wearing half the countryside.”
“I had to walk from the road.”
“Did you?”
“The taxi driver was afraid to come down your drive. He thinks your house is haunted.”
“It is.”
He swallows. Snow has the longest neck and the showiest swallow I’ve ever seen. His chin juts out and his Adam’s apple catches—it’s a whole scene.
“Well,” I say, pointedly lifting my eyebrows. “It was good of you to stop by—”
Snow lets out a stymied growl and steps forward, off the rug, then steps back. “I came to talk to you.”
I nod. “All right.”
“It’s…”
“All right,” I say again, this time cutting him some slack. I don’t actually want him to get so frustrated that he leaves. (I never want Snow to leave.) “But you can’t come in the house like that. How did you even get like that?”
“I told you. I walked from the main road.”
“You could have cast a spell to stay clean.”
He frowns at me. Snow never casts spells on himself—or anyone else—if he can help it. I slip my wand out my cuff and point it at him. He flinches but doesn’t tell me to stop. I “Clean as a whistle!” his boots. The mud whirls off, and I open the front door, sweeping the mess outside with my wand.
When I close the door, Snow is taking off his sodden coat. He’s wearing his school trousers and red jumper, and his legs and hair are still wet. I lift my wand again. “I’m fine,” he says, stopping me.
“You’ll have to take off your boots,” I say. “They’re still dripping.”
He crouches to unlace them, wet wool trousers straining ridiculously over his thighs.…
And then Simon Snow is standing in my foyer in his red-stockinged feet.
All the blood I’ve got in me rises to my ears and cheeks.
“Come on, Snow. Let’s … talk.”
54
SIMON
I follow Baz from one giant room to the other. His house isn’t a castle, I don’t think, but near enough.
We walk through a dining room that looks like something off Downton Abbey, and there’s a woman at the table, working on a flash silver laptop.