I can feel my cheeks burning. “Then why couldn’t you pass through the fairy fog?”
“I think it’s because time passes differently with the fairies…”
“Oh, sure,” I say, getting it, “it’s another sort of immortality!”
“Or altered mortality,” he agrees.
“Huh.” I stand up and find my chalk. I make a note of it on the wall: C.V.
can’t be made immortal. And— “Engagement” doesn’t interfere with sexual congress.
“Not how I’d put it,” Shepard says.
I tap the chalk against my chin.
“What happens in the stories?” he asks.
I turn back to him. “Hmm?”
He looks sheepish again. “To the beautiful maidens?”
“Oh, they get out of it, of course. They find a loophole. Or they trick the old creepy guy. My dad used to love to tell this story about a beautiful magician who secretly married her true love and … Oh! Oh my words!!
Shepard!!! I have an idea. ”
43
BAZ
I thought we were going to have to do some detective work to find Smith-Richards’s residential centre, but apparently someone gave Simon a leaflet at the meeting. （No one offered me a leaflet.） （No one ever wants me to join their religion, either.）
Penelope still hasn’t called. Or texted. Simon’s in a funk about it, but hopefully he’ll rally. I sprung for a taxi, so he wouldn’t pout about having to take the train or a bus.
“Pull over here,” I say to the cabbie.
Simon squints out the window. “Here?”
“Apparently,” I say, paying the fare.
We climb out and look across the street. There’s a brick building with a tower and a belfry; it might have been a church once. A small, grey-haired man is hurrying away from the door.
“Is that Professor Bunce?” Simon says.
“Penny’s mum?”
“The other Professor Bunce, her dad.”
“Don’t know.” I pull Simon’s arm. “Come on. And don’t forget to invite me in if no one else does.”
We jog across the street. Simon looks like he’s going to call out to Professor Bunce, but the man is already half a block away.
The building ahead of us has a large, stone doorframe with the words HOME FOR WAIFS engraved in the lintel. “A little on the nose,” I mutter.
“Is it an orphanage?” Simon asks.
“Was, maybe.” I push the buzzer.
Simon smooths down his hair.
“Don’t forget to invite me in,” I whisper.
“When do I ever forget?”
“When we tried to have breakfast at Dishoom.”
“That was one time.”
“I miss America,” I say. “All those ‘welcome’ mats and ‘come in, we’re open’ signs…”
Simon snorts. “You do not miss America—”
The door opens. The girl I recognized at Smith-Richards’s meeting is standing there. Chomsky, how do I know her? She’s got to be around our age … Fair skin. Short, brown hair. I know she wasn’t at Watford. Are we related somehow, is that how I know her? Her eyes get big when she sees Simon.
“Hi,” he says.
The girl’s already rushing away from us, down the hall. Talk about starstruck. She’s left the front door open. Simon steps in and looks around.
I fold my arms, waiting.
He turns back to me and grins.
“This is a good game,” I say flatly. “Can we play this for the rest of our lives?”
Snow reaches out and grabs my elbow, pulling me across the threshold and against him. He’s laughing silently and kissing my cheek. （For someone who is afraid of looking gay in public, he sure gets off on public displays of affection.） （That’s probably connected.）
“Simon!” We both turn towards the voice. It’s Smith-Richards himself.
Dressed like a very wealthy folksinger. “I was hoping I’d see you again,” he says, clapping a hand on Simon’s back.
Simon doesn’t know how to respond to that. He looks a bit dazed. （Snow is very easily impressed by Smith-Richards.） （Or maybe he’s just worried that Smith-Richards can feel his wings.）
I hold out my hand. “Hello,” I say. “Basilton Pitch.”
Smith-Richards looks at me for the first time, his hand still on Simon’s shoulder. “Pitch…” His eyes light up. “Daphne’s son!” He reaches out with his free hand. “It’s so nice to meet you. Did you come to visit her?”