Baz has stepped up beside me, smooth as silk. “Lady Salisbury?”
“Yes?” she says, looking a bit concerned again.
“My name is Basilton Grimm-Pitch.”
“Grimm-Pitch … Natasha’s son?”
“Yes.”
“Oh! ” She holds her hand over her heart. “Well, you’re a grown man, aren’t you! When did that happen? And so handsome! Snakes alive. Natasha Pitch’s son.” She takes his arm and squeezes it. “I knew your mother. She was a dear friend once. And your grandmother! Basilton Grimm-Pitch.
Tyrannus, isn’t it? As I live and breathe. You know, your aunt was just here— Oh.” Her face falls. She clutches both hands to her chest. “You’re here about my Jamie, aren’t you? Do you have news of him?”
“No,” Baz says. “No, we don’t have any news, I’m sorry. But we were hoping you could tell us more about his disappearance.”
Lady Salisbury looks confused, maybe a little wary. “You were?”
“My stepmother is missing, too.”
BAZ
Lady Salisbury shows us into her drawing room—a big, airy room, crowded with antique coffee tables and richly upholstered furniture. “Here,” she says, still sounding rattled. “Sit. I’ll get some cake. Would you like some cake? It’s homemade.”
“Oh, no, we couldn’t,” I say.
“Sure, we could,” Simon says.
She laughs. “Good answer. I was going to make you have some anyway.
Should we have tea? I prefer milk with cake, myself.”
“Milk is great,” Simon says.
“You boys sit. I’ll be right back.”
We look around the room. There are plenty of seats to choose from. I sit down in an antique bergère chair, embroidered with peacocks. It wobbles, but holds. Simon sits on a rose-coloured sofa and sinks to the springs. I stifle a laugh. His blue eyes meet mine, and it’s good. For just a moment. It’s unexpectedly good. He looks too handsome in my clothes. He looks too handsome in his own terrible clothes; he’s bloody unbearable in mine.
Lady Salisbury is back soon enough with a tray. She still seems tearful. “I hope you like chocolate,” she says, serving Simon a mountainous wedge of cake.
“Who doesn’t like chocolate,” he replies, earning another smile.
She hands me a slightly smaller slice—fair enough, I didn’t kill the Mage —and sits down next to Simon to pour the milk.
Lady Salisbury is a large woman. Tall and sturdy looking, even at her age.
She must be about 70—a full generation older than my mother. I wonder how they became friends … She’s wearing a long mauve sweater, loose grey yoga pants, and patent leather Dansko clogs. Her hair is a yellow grey, and she wears it in a large, loose bun, with bluntly cut bangs that make her look like a Scandinavian tourist. I don’t know if she’s a “Lady” in the British sense or the magickal sense—I suppose she could be both. I think her husband may have been active in the magickal community before he died … Perhaps that’s how she knew my mum.
Clearly, Lady Salisbury wasn’t a fan of the Mage. Which could mean she’s sensible and progressive—or could mean she’s petty and corrupt. （For my own family, it’s a bit “all of the above.”） She might just miss the old days, when families like mine and hers ran things. Whatever else, her cake is very good. Snow is inhaling his.
“So,” Lady Salisbury says, sitting back in the sofa, “did Malcolm send you to talk to me? Is he frustrated with the Coven as well?”
“Oh,” I say. “Well. No. My father—”
“We took this on ourselves,” Simon cuts in. （If ever someone was emboldened by baked goods.） He takes a moment to swallow. “When I heard that there were people claiming to be the Greatest Mage, you know, you can see why I’d be concerned.”
Lady Salisbury is smiling sadly at him again. “Many still believe that title belongs to you, Mr. Snow.”
Simon’s face is wide open. “No. That was never me.”
“But you’re the most powerful mage—”
“No. Not anymore.”
I know that Simon is a hopeless liar, but I wish he wouldn’t tell people the truth so easily. There’s no harm in letting them believe he’s still powerful.
“Probably I was never a magician,” he goes on. “The Mage was just using me.”
“But they say you gave yourself flaming dragon wings…”