Let me help you keep it safe.
And here he is.
Here he must be.
My Lucy’s child, my flesh and blood.
My Simon.
86
BAZ
“I’m sorry! ” Simon is looking frantically between Lady Salisbury and the candle.
“It’s all right,” I say, trying to get to him.
But Lady Ruth is hugging him again. “It’s you. You’ve finally come home. ”
“This is a mistake—” Simon insists.
“My sister had a child…” Jamie Salisbury says, standing beside his mother. “She told us that she had a child.”
“I can’t be—”
“You must be,” Jamie says gently, pointing at the sword. “Merlin, Simon, you even look like him.”
Oh …
He does.
Doesn’t he?
Those narrow eyes. That tilt of his head.
I thought …
I thought he’d learned it. Was imitating it.
Simon Snow is the Mage’s heir.
He was.
All along.
87
SIMON
No.
No.
Because that would mean—
It would mean—
No.
The Mage found me in a care home. He said he followed my magic.
（But that was a lie; I didn’t have magic.）
The Mage found me in care.
And he lied to me.
He used me—to what end, I still don’t know. I was part of a plot, a plan. I was a vessel, he said.
He found me. He made me his heir.
He lied to me again and again.
（The Mage had a name. The Mage fell in love. The Mage ran off with a yellow-haired girl, and then she disappeared.） It can’t be true, I’m not what they say, because that would mean— It would mean too much.
It would be too much.
The Mage lied to me. He lied to the whole World of Mages. He killed Ebb. He tried to take my magic. He hurt me. He hurt me again and again.
Then I begged him to stop.
And he did.
I can’t be Lady Salisbury’s child. Because I can’t be Lucy’s. Because I can’t be the Mage’s.
I killed him.
I killed him.
I killed the Mage.
I can’t be—
88
BAZ
Lady Salisbury won’t let go of Simon. He’s collapsed in her arms. Sobbing without tears.
“My child, my child,” she keeps saying. And I think she’s right—I think it’s undeniable. I’d cast “Flesh and blood” on them, but it would probably bounce right off of Snow like every other spell has so far.
I’m standing beside him. His wings are keeping me from getting close.
“It’s all right, love,” I say, touching his back.
He keeps apologizing into Lady Ruth’s shoulder. She’s crying, too. Only Jamie Salisbury is smiling, standing at Snow’s other side.
“Simon,” Jamie says, “don’t you know how happy we are to find you?
This is, like, the best news we’ve had in twenty years. We’re your family!”
Simon lifts his head. Confused. Like Salisbury is speaking Greek.
“We’re your family, ” Jamie says again, clapping Simon on the shoulder.
“We’ve been looking for you for so long, and now you’re here. We’re well chuffed!”
Simon is looking into Salisbury’s eyes. They’re about the same height.
The more I look at them—at Lady Ruth, at these photos of Lucy—the more I see. The more he seems to belong here among them.
“He’s right,” Lady Ruth says wetly. “We’re so happy to have found you.”
“But what if…” Simon shakes his head. “What if it isn’t true?”
Something cold whips around us—I’d call it a draught, but the window is closed, and it’s June—and Lucy’s candle flames up one last time, then fizzles.
None of us say anything.
That was better than a spell.
Or even a DNA test.
After a moment, Lady Ruth pulls away from Simon and takes his hand, the one not holding the sword.
“Come downstairs, child. There’s cake.”
89
SIMON
There’s chocolate cake with chocolate-orange buttercream.
And cherry Bakewell tart. And purple-iced éclairs with sugared violets.
There’s tea. And milk. And lemonade.
And big pink meringue kisses that look like clouds.
Plus Lady Salisbury made a thousand sandwiches …
How many have I have eaten, I don’t know—I’ve lost count. Cheese and pickle. Ham and mustard. Cucumber and cream cheese with sprigs of mint.