“Next time you can do it for you.”
“No way,” he says. “We’ve finally figured this shit out—you’re driving from now on.”
“I wouldn’t say we’ve figured anything out; we didn’t even get undressed.”
At that, he pushes away from me and manhandles me onto my back, straddling my thighs and scrabbling at the bottom of my T-shirt. He’s laughing, so I laugh, too.
“A mission…” I say.
His wings are spread above us. Simon’s chest is wider than mine and softer, and his pectoral muscles actually bulge—it used to be from all the sword work, but now I think it’s the wings. His chest hair is so sparse, it looks accidental.
He gets my shirt off, then grabs my hands, holding them over my shoulders. “Next time we go to Ikea,” he says, “we’re getting a lamp. I can hardly see you.”
“I could use my wand…”
“Keep it in your trousers, Merlin.”
I laugh, genuinely. He laughs, too. It makes his wings flap.
“I love you,” I say. I may as well say it, I’m thinking it. It’s all I ever think.
I’m an “I love you” gun with the safety off, a finger constantly on the trigger.
Simon lets go of my hands and settles down on top of me, his head on one of my shoulders, his hand on the other, his fingertips gently drawing circles.
“I love you,” he says. “It’s good.”
I wake up to someone knocking on Snow’s bedroom door.
“Baz? Are you in there?” It’s Penelope. She’s whisper-shouting.
“Yeah,” I say. My voice is rough. I try again. “Yes.”
“Your aunt is here.”
“What?”
The door opens a crack. “Your aunt Fiona,” Penelope hisses.
Fiona. What is Fiona doing here?
I climb over Simon, sticking a knee in his wing. He groans, rubbing his face. His bedroom is dark, even at—I check my phone—10 A.M. Fuck.
Where’s my shirt? Where’s my wand? There it is. I point it at myself. “Clean
as a whistle!” （Uch. I despise “Clean as a whistle.” Now I feel grimy and metallic all over.） Where is my shirt …
“Basil!” someone shouts. That is definitely my aunt.
“For fuck’s sake, Fiona,” I mutter.
“Fiona?” Simon croaks.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, grabbing one of his hoodies off the floor.
I walk through the living room, where Shepard seems to be eating a dozen Pret a Manger sandwiches. Bunce is at the front door, frowning at my aunt, who’s standing just inside the threshold. Fiona waves her fingers at me.
“Good morning, Nephew. I’m taking you to get a cuppa.”
“How did you even find me here?”
“I found you when you were buried under a bridge in a numpty den—did you think you could hide from me in Hackney Wick? Come on.” She looks serious. “I’ll bring you back soon.”
“All right,” I say, glancing back at Bunce and nodding like, It’s fine, I’ll be fine.
As soon as the door is shut behind us, Fiona smirks. “You live in some sort of unfurnished commune now?”
“Are we really having tea, or do you need me for a crime? I can’t be your getaway driver if you won’t let me sit up front.”
“We’re really having tea,” she says. “There’s a café up the street.”
There is. I let Fiona buy me tea and banana cake. We find a table, and she casts a spell so no one can hear us talk. I haven’t said anything yet.
“I know you want me to apologize…” she says, pushing her hair behind one ear. “And I don’t think I can.”
Colour me surprised. Why am I even here …
Fiona holds her paper cup in both hands and frowns down on it. Her hair falls back over her eyes. My aunt’s hair is the same colour as mine, nearly black, with a skunk stripe at one temple—I’m not sure if it’s natural or if she did it with magic to look cool. She’s normally wearing too much eyeliner and bright red lipstick, but not today. She looks tired without it. And less sure of herself.
“When your mum died…” Fiona shakes her head, then looks up at me, her eyes shining. “Your mum was the better of us, she always was. She was clearly our dad’s favourite”—she huffs a laugh through her nose—“and it didn’t even bother me, because she was my favourite, too. She was just so class, Basil. Smart, powerful …