“It’s just what?”

“You guys don’t have to do this.”

“Do what?”

He squints and grits his teeth. The fairy lights strung across the courtyard catch in his hair. “Just—you—it’s not—”

“Use your words, Simon.”

“You don’t have to do this, you and Penny. I’m not. I’m not like you. I was never—I’m a hoax.”

“That’s not true.”

“Baz. I’m not a mage.”

“You lost your power,” I argue. “You sacrificed it.”

His tail whips out of my hand. It tends to slash around when he’s upset. “I don’t think it was ever mine,” he says. “I don’t know how the Mage did it, but you and Penny were right all along—magicians don’t give up their children. I’m a Normal.”

“Snow.”

“I was bad at magic because I wasn’t supposed to have any! The gates wouldn’t even open for me tonight. Penny had to let me in.”

A couple is drifting closer to us, clearly listening—Keris and her damnable pixie. I sneer, and they drift away.

Snow’s crushing my hand and shoulder. I let him, even though I’m much stronger than he is. “Simon. Stop. You’re talking nonsense.”

“Am I? You and Penny care more about magic than anyone in the World of Mages. That’s what you saw in me—power—and it’s gone. It was never me.”

“It was!” I say. “You were the most powerful mage who’s ever walked. That was real.”

“I was a sorry excuse for a mage, how many times did you tell me so?”

“I said that because I was jealous!”

“Well, there’s nothing to be jealous of now!”

I let go of him. “Why are you saying all this?”

Simon clenches his fists, hunching in on himself, like a bull. “Because I’m tired of waiting.”

“For what?”

“For all of you to stop feeling sorry for me!”

“I’ll never stop feeling sorry for you!” It’s true. He lost his magic. It will never stop breaking my heart.

“But I don’t want that either!” he says through his teeth. “I don’t belong with you anymore.”

“Wrong,” I say. I take his hand again and put my arm back around him. “The Crucible drew us together.”

“The Crucible?”

“I was eleven years old, and I’d lost my mother, and my soul, and the Crucible gave me you.”

“It made us roommates,” he says.

I shake my head. “We were always more.”

“We were enemies.”

“You were the centre of my universe,” I say. “Everything else spun around you.”

“Because of what I was, Baz. Because of my magic.”

“No.” I’m nearly as frustrated as he is. “Yes. I mean, Crowley, Snow—yes, that was part of it. Looking at you was like looking directly into the sun.”

“I’ll never be that again.”

“No. And thank magic.” I sigh forcefully. “The way you were before … Simon Snow, there wasn’t a day when I believed we’d both live through it.”

“Through what?”

“Life. You were the sun, and I was crashing into you. I’d wake up every morning and think, ‘This will end in flames.’”

“I did set your forest on fire—”

“But that wasn’t the end.”

“Baz.” His face crumples, in sorrow now—not anger. “I can’t keep up with you. I’m a Normal.”

“Simon. You have a tail.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Look.” I bring our hands between us and knock up his chin. “Look at me. I don’t want to have to say this all the time. It’s the sort of thing that’s supposed to go poetically unsaid.…” He meets my eyes. “You’re still Simon Snow. You’re still the hero of this story—”

“This isn’t a story!”

“Everything is a story. And you are the hero. You sacrificed everything for me.”

He looks abashed, ashamed. “I didn’t do it for you, exactly—”

“Fine. For me and the rest of the magickal world.”

“I was just cleaning up my own mess, Baz. Like, no one would call you a hero for cleaning up your own vomit.”

“It was brave. It was brave and selfless and clever. That’s who you are, Simon. And I’m not going to get bored with you.”

He’s still looking in my eyes. Staring me down like he did that dragon, chin tilted and locked. “I’m not the Chosen One,” he says.

I meet his gaze and sneer. My arm is a steel band around his waist. “I choose you,” I say. “Simon Snow, I choose you.”

Snow doesn’t flinch or soften. For a moment, I think he’s going to take a swing at me—or bash his rock-hard head against mine. Instead he shoves his face into mine and kisses me. It’s still a challenge.

I shove back. I let go of his hand to hold his neck. He smashes into me, and I take it. I don’t give an inch. (It’s a mess, honestly, and if he cuts his lip on my teeth, it could be a disaster.)

When we break, he’s panting. I press my forehead to his, and feel the tension leave his neck and back.

“You can change your mind,” he says.

“I won’t.” I shake my head against his forehead.

“I’ll always be less than you,” he whispers.

“I know; it’s a dream come true.”

That makes him laugh a bit, pathetically. “Still,” he says. “You can always change your mind.”

“We both can,” I say. “But I won’t.”

I should have known that this is what it would be like to dance with Simon Snow. Fighting in place. Mutual surrender.

He puts both arms around my neck and slumps against me. He’s either forgotten that everyone’s watching, or doesn’t care. “Baz?” he says.

“Yeah?”

“Are you still friends with Cook Pritchard?”

“I assume.”

“It’s just—I really hoped there’d be sandwiches.”