They hurried back into the fortress, side by side, both of them pushing their fists into their pockets.
Baz was taller, but their strides matched exactly.
Simon wondered whether they’d ever walked like this before. In six years—six years of always walking in the same direction—had they ever once fallen into step?
“Here,” Baz said, catching Simon’s arm and stopping at a closed door. Simon would have walked right past this door. He must have a thousand times—it was on the main floor, near the professors’ offices.
Baz tried the handle. It was locked. He pulled his wand out of his pocket and started murmuring. The door came open suddenly, almost as if the knob were reaching for Baz’s pale hand.
“How did you do that?” Simon asked.
Baz just sneered and strode forward. Simon followed. The room was dark, but he could see that it was a place for children. There were toys and pillows, and train tracks that wound around the room in every direction.
“What is this place?”
“It’s the nursery,” Baz said in a hushed voice. As if children might be sleeping in the room right now.
“Why does Watford need a nursery?”
“It doesn’t,” Baz said. “Not anymore. It’s too dangerous here now for children. But this used to be the place where the faculty brought their children while they worked. And other magical children could come, too, if they wanted to get an early start on their development.”
“Did you come here?”
“Yes, from the time I was born.”
“Your parents must have thought you needed a lot of extra help.”
“My mother was the headmaster, you idiot.”
Simon turned to look at Baz, but he couldn’t quite see the other boy’s face in the dark. “I didn’t know that.”
He could hear Baz roll his eyes. “Shocking.”
“But I’ve met your mother.”
“You’ve met my stepmother,” Baz said. He stood very still.
Simon matched his stillness. “The last headmaster,” he said, watching Baz’s profile. “Before the Mage came, the one who was killed by vampires.”
Baz’s head fell forward like it was weighted with stones. “Come on. The hare is this way.”
The next room was wide and round. Cribs lined the walls on each side, with small, low futons placed in a circle in the middle. At the far end was a huge fireplace—half as tall as the high, curved ceiling. Baz whispered into his hand and sent a ball of fire blazing through the grate. He whispered again, twisting his hand in the air, and the blue flames turned orange and hot. The room came to life a bit around them.
Baz walked toward the fireplace, holding his hands up to the heat. Simon followed.
“There it is,” Baz said.
“Where?” Simon looked into the fire.
“Above you.”
Simon looked up, then turned back to face the room. On the ceiling above him was a richly painted mural of the night sky. The sky was deep blue and dominated by the moon—a white rabbit curled tightly in on itself, eyes pressed closed, fat and full and fast asleep.
Simon walked out into the middle of the room, his chin raised high. “The fifth hare…,” he whispered. “The Moon Rabbit.”
“Now what?” Baz asked, just behind him.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, now what?”
“I don’t know,” Simon said.
“Well, what did you do when you found the others?”
“Nothing. I just found them. The letter just said to find them.”
Baz brought his hands to his face and growled, dropping into a frustrated heap on the floor. “Is this how you and your dream team normally operate? It’s no wonder it’s always so easy to get in your way.”
“But not so easy to stop us, I’ve noticed.”
“Oh, shut up,” Baz said, his face hidden in his knees. “Just—no more. No more of your drippy voice until you’ve got something worth saying. It’s like a drill you’re cranking between my eyes.”
Simon sat down on the floor near Baz, near the fire, looking up at the sleeping rabbit. When his neck started to cramp, he leaned back on the rug.
“I slept in a room like this,” Simon said. “In the orphanage. Nowhere near this nice. There was no fireplace. No Moon Rabbit. But we all slept together like this, in one room.”
“Crowley, Snow, was that when you joined the cast of Annie?”
“There are still places like that. Orphanages. You wouldn’t know.”
“Quite right,” Baz said. “My mother didn’t choose to leave me.”
“If your family is so grand, why are you celebrating Christmas with me?”
“I wouldn’t call this a celebration.”