“Can I help?” he asks.
“I’ve got it. Just sit down, Snow.”
He sits on my bed. Holding the violin in his lap. He looks like an 8-year-old waiting for the bus.
It would be easier if I were bringing everything. Then I could just open my suitcase and have the bags pack themselves, Mary Poppins–style.
I lay my shirts and jackets out on the bed, then find my duffel bag and take it to my chest of drawers. I open the top drawer. （Am I really doing this?
Taking pants to Simon Snow’s flat?） I rest my hand on a stack of boxer briefs and clear my throat. “Are you sure about this?”
“Are you?” Simon asks.
I turn around. “I asked you first.”
He’s looking at the floor. His tongue is in his cheek. Like he’s frustrated.
Or angry.
I turn back to my pants. Right. Simon isn’t sure. Of any of this. I’m putting all of my eggs in his basket, and it’s a ramshackle basket—he already warned me.
I close my eyes for a second. Right.
I open my eyes and scoop up the entire stack of boxers, then dump them in the duffel. I empty the whole drawer. I grab most of my T-shirts, as well, and half a dozen pairs of jeans and trousers. I’m going to need another bag for shoes.
Simon watches me pack. He’s still hugging my violin.
I zip up the duffel and look at him. “I’m sure,” I say.
When we come out, Fiona is still guarding her bedroom door. Still puffing on her nicotine whistle like a second-rate Instagram influencer. She looks at my bags. “Going somewhere?”
“I’m going to stay with Simon for a few days.”
“A few days or a few months?”
I lower an eyebrow at her. “You’re going to get lung fungus. And the worst part will be that everyone will know you got it from vaping.”
She sneers over my shoulder. “Take care of my nephew, Simon Snow.”
Simon is already sneaking out the door.
“Take care of my aunt, whoever you are!” I shout.
40
SHEPARD
For the first time in two years, I know exactly what the tattoos on my arms say. Debbie translated the incantation that Ken gave me, too—most of it.
Now I know what I said that day, to summon the demon.
I finally see how I ended up like this.
I never thought I’d get this far or understand this much—and it only happened because of Penelope Bunce. Who isn’t speaking to me and won’t even look at me.
I don’t blame her.
I shouldn’t have lied. It didn’t start as a lie … It just happened … That day on Agatha’s balcony, with Penelope’s hand on my collar. I just thought, I’m probably never going to see this girl again, and I’m never going to meet another girl like her, and the last thing I want her to know about me is that these tattoos are a fucked-up engagement ring.
I sit across the aisle from Penelope when we get on the train. To give her space. She doesn’t say anything, just stares out the window. She’s got the end of her ponytail in one hand, and she’s twisting it.
Penelope’s look today is a giant purple T-shirt with the neck cut out—so it lies wide and open on her shoulders—and a flared denim skirt that just grazes the tops of her knees when she’s standing. She’s sitting now.
I don’t think Penelope thinks about her skin. Or her hair. I don’t think she twirls her ponytail around her fingers because she knows I’m watching. I don’t think she thinks about me looking at her at all—so I try not to.
I don’t think she thinks about me liking her …
So I try not to do that either.
I should have told her the truth. All of it. As soon as she offered to help me. Definitely before I got on the plane. I should have known that Penelope was smart enough to crack this—that she’d get to the bottom of my mess before I could come up with a good way to break it to her. Because there is no good way to break it. There’s no version of the truth that doesn’t make me seem worse than foolish. Worse than cursed. Worse than taken.
When we get to her stop, I follow her off the train. Then I follow her to her flat. She unlocks the door and holds it open for me.
“I’ll just get my backpack,” I say.
“Sit down, Shepard.”
I’m not sure why she wants me to sit, maybe so that she can chew me out some more. Anyway, I do it.
She stands in front of me and holds out her hand. “Let’s see it.”
I’m not sure what she means. My arms?
“The translation,” she says, snapping her fingers.