“Good night, Snow.”
“Good morning.”
“Daphne has left my father.
As far as I can tell.
He hasn’t told me so—magic forbid my father tell me anything other than ‘Tea’s ready’ or ‘The night mares are nearly ready for brooding.’
(He’s into heritage livestock now—the barns are full of rare magickal creatures. Battering rams and Judas goats. ‘The only lllama herd outside of South America.’)
But my stepmother isn’t here—and hasn’t been here in days, maybe weeks. A Normal woman from the village comes up on weekday mornings to take care of the children—who all have mobile phones and iPads glued to their faces. Even Swithin! He watches the same YouTube videos over and over, and cries if you take the thing away. These Grimm children are being raised by algorithms.”
“Bunce says you’re awake and running a lot of errands. I leave the city for three days, and suddenly you have errands.”
“Sorry.”
“That was rude.”
“I’m still camping out in the family room. I think you’d like this house better than the one in Hampshire. It isn’t haunted, for one. And the lighting is better.
You could come sleep on the sofa with me, if you like. My father is in such a state, I don’t think he’d notice.
There’s not actually room for you on the sofa, but there’s no room for me either. I wouldn’t be any less comfortable with you here. And I think you’d like the twins. All they do is eat jam and butter sandwiches and throw things at each other. It takes me back to our first year at Watford.
I wish I’d brought a change of clothes with me, but I never expected to stay this long. I’m still not certain how long I should stay. I’d thought ‘until Daphne comes home.’ But what if Daphne isn’t coming home?
I’m not raising my father’s ill-advised second family. (If I were raising them, we’d have a stern talk about screen time.)
I’m half asleep, can you tell?
You could come down, if you like. You don’t even have to text. Just show up on my door, caked with mud. Coat open. Snow in your hair.
It’s June, isn’t it?
Good night, Snow.”
“Mordelia walks from room to room, video-chatting with Normals. She says her mother is in London, taking classes, which seems unlikely. I’ve never known Daphne to be studious. Or to have any interest in a career.
Maybe she’s having a midlife crisis? (I’d be in constant crisis if I were married to someone like my father. He refuses to have a conversation about anything that’s actually happening!)
Anyway, I can hardly interrogate Mordelia. She’s 8.”
“Is this about America, Snow?”
“It’s going to be all right.”
“I change nappies now. And by that, I don’t mean that I know how to change nappies; I already knew how. What I mean is, it’s all I do. Daphne could have at least house-trained this child before she abandoned him.”
“This isn’t like Daphne.”
“All right, I’ve interrogated Mordelia.”
“I think I need your help with this, Simon.”
“Good morning.”
“Good night.”
“Good morning.”
“I miss you.”
“I don’t need a phone to talk to myself.
I’ll tell you more when I get back to London.”
10
PENELOPE
I used to think I was always right.
I was wrong . . .
About that.
Which really makes me wonder what else I was wrong about. I mean, if you’re wrong about almost always being right, anything is possible. Maybe you’re almost always wrong. Maybe I am, I mean.
It’s like I’m a detective who’s been solving cases for nineteen years with flawed methodology, and now I’ve had to reopen every one.
How am I supposed to operate like this? How do wrong people do it? (I am a wrong person now. I’m one of them!) How am I supposed to make even basic decisions now that I know how little I know?
I mean—I believed I was in a healthy relationship with a person who had already dumped me; that is a staggering thing to be wrong about.
What other false things do I believe in?
Am I delusional? Am I hearing voices?
“You are definitely not getting your security deposit back.”
“Be quiet, Shepard, I’m trying to think.”
Talk about a giant mistake—this Normal, sitting in my living room. Still completely cursed. And now an illegal immigrant, to boot. Throw another bad decision on the bonfire. I should make a list of them . . .
It took me sixteen spells, but I’ve finally magicked our living room wall into a giant blackboard.
“You know, there’s a paint,” Shepard says, still not being quiet, “that turns any wall into a chalkboard.”
“Sorry I don’t know where to buy magic paint.” Ah, there’s my chalk. Excellent.
“No, it’s a regular paint . . .”
I write What we know in big letters on one side of the wall and What we don’t know on the other.
“Penelope, this might not be my place to say—”
“Then perhaps you shouldn’t say it.”
He does, of course: “Maybe you should consider getting some sleep.”
I shake my head. “Every time I fall asleep, Simon slips past me.”
“He said he had an appointment.”
“You don’t understand—Simon never has appointments! He never even leaves the flat!”
“I did meet him in America . . .”
I rub my eyes. They won’t stop watering. “You don’t know anything, Shepard.”
“Better add that to your chalkboard.”
“Oh, I’m planning to.”
He takes the chalk from my hand and writes The human body requires sleep on the left side of the wall.
“I’m fine,” I snap. “I’ve cast the appropriate spells.”
I told Mum that I spelled Shepard stupid and left him at the American embassy. I think she believed me.
It’s more plausible than the truth—that I smuggled a Normal into the country and have been letting him sleep on my sofa for days. I never planned on this. I really thought I’d have Shepard fixed up and headed home within a few hours. But Mum sent me packing, and I can’t even approach my dad—he’ll go straight to my mum.
I stare at the blank blackboard and groan. “Where is Simon? I can’t do this without him.”
“Do you need Simon because he knows about demons?”
“Morgana, no. I need him here to listen to me think.”
“Maybe Baz knows where Simon went?”
“Baz is in the middle of a ‘family crisis,’ apparently.”
“Oh—does he need our help?”
“I don’t know. He’s being cagey.”
Shepard still has my chalk. He writes Where is Simon? and Does Baz need our help? on the right side of the blackboard.
I turn to face him. “You’re really extremely infuriating, do you know that?”
He smiles. Almost like he’s being patient with me. It’s infuriating. “Penelope, you’re honestly the first person to ever say so.”