“Why not?” Baz demands.
“Because if you wanted to hurt him, you would have! You had infinite opportunities! You’ve never cast a dangerous spell on him, Basil. At the height of the Mage’s war with the Old Families, you were tying Simon’s shoelaces together and getting in shoving matches.”
“I pushed him down the stairs!” he says.
“I always thought that was an accident,” I say softly.
Baz wheels on me. “Are you fucking serious? You never shut up about it!”
I touch his arm. “I’m sorry.”
Baz’s grey eyes are wide and shining. He looks completely miserable. “I tried to take your magic, Snow! Your voice! It was supposed to be you!”
This is the confession I always wanted from him, and now that I have it, I just want to tell him that it doesn’t matter. I lived. I lost my magic anyway.
But at least now I have him. I know it wasn’t a direct trade-off, but I still feel like I got the better end of the deal.
I touch his cheek. “I forgive you.”
He just barely shakes his head. “How could you, Snow?”
I push my lips together. I shrug. “I just do…” I stroke his cheek. “Do you forgive me? For everything?”
He stares down at me, his mouth twisted to one side. “Yeah. I do.”
We just look at each other for a minute.
“It was an accident,” he says quietly, “when I pushed you down the stairs.”
“I know,” I say. “I always kind of figured.”
“You fucking menace,” he whispers. “You literally never shut up about it.”
I rub my thumb along his cheekbone. “Let’s go help Philippa,” I say.
“Yeah?”
Baz nods. He looks smaller than he did a minute ago. “Yeah.”
65
AGATHA
It’s a Saturday, so the clinic is only open for the morning. I haven’t seen Niamh, and Dad’s kept me so busy I haven’t been able to look for her. She said she was going to check on the goats again today. What if the pregnant doe went into labour last night? Niamh didn’t think the goat was that close, but it could have been. Did Niamh leave for Watford without me?
“Is Niamh in today?” I ask the receptionist when I get a chance.
“James Dean?” the receptionist says. “Just showed up. Not sure why. She didn’t have any patients today.”
I walk back towards the exam rooms, poking my head in every open door.
“Agatha?”
I spin around …
Niamh is standing in the hall behind me. Not dressed for the office. She’s wearing jeans cuffed high over brown work boots, and a green T-shirt that clings to her shoulders and breasts. And … well … and …
She’s cut her hair.
And combed it back.
Like she did at school. When she was Brody. （She’s still Brody…） （Has been all along, I suppose.）
Niamh cut her hair the way I suggested.
Which means …
Well, it means that she knows good advice when she hears it.
Good for her. Good for Niamh. With her whole … face situation. The nose and the, um … chin, like a hatchet. The everything like a hatchet. Sharp.
And heavy. I think she blow-dried her hair. Good for her. That’s good. This whole … thing is good for her.
“I’m leaving,” she says. She looks angry—which never means anything useful with Niamh, but it’s honestly still a good look on her.
“You’re…” I already feel ten steps behind this conversation. “What?”
“Are you coming or not?”
“Where?”
“To Watford? To check on the goats?”
“To Watford, ” I say, catching up. “To check on the goats. ”
Niamh frowns at me.
“Yes—Yes, I’m coming. I told you I wanted to help.”
Niamh frowns even harder. Like she’s really putting her back into it.
“Well, I’m leaving now.”
“Then let’s go.”
My dad needed his Volvo today, so we’re back in Niamh’s stifling Ford Fiesta, with the windows down. We have to shout to be heard over the wind.
Well, I’m shouting. Niamh largely ignores me. Are we back to this then, not talking?
We talked last night, plenty—until the pub closed.
Niamh told me about veterinary school. （She likes it.） And living in London. （She doesn’t.） About what she’s learned from my dad, and how she wants to start her own practice, and how she’s going to run for the Coven someday. Niamh has a lot of opinions about how things should be done. And what’s practical.