“Constantly enough.”

“How about this—you can talk to me about Baz when he presents a clear and present danger. And, beyond that: up to but no more than ten per cent of our total conversation.”

“I’m not going to do maths every time I talk to you about Baz.”

“Then err on the side of not whinging about him constantly.”

She still has no patience for it, even though I was completely right about Baz that year—he was up to something. Even beyond his usual skulking around, being a vampire.

That spring, Baz tried to steal my voice. That’s the worst thing you can do to a magician—maybe worse than murder; a magician can’t do magic without words. (Not usually, anyway.)

It happened out on the Lawn: I’d spotted Baz sneaking out over the drawbridge at dusk, and went after him. I followed him as far as the main gates, and then he stopped and turned to me, all casual, with his hands in his pockets—like he’d known I was behind him the whole time.

I was just about to start something with him when Philippa ran up behind me, calling, “Hiya, Simon!” in her squeaky little voice. But as soon as she said my name, she couldn’t stop. She squeaked monstrously, like a lifetime of words were being ripped from her.

I know Baz did it.

I know he did something.

I saw it in his eyes when Philippa went mute.

Philippa got sent away. The Mage told me that she’d get her voice back, that it wasn’t permanent, but she never came back to Watford.

I wonder if Baz still feels guilty. I wonder if he ever did.

Now he’s gone, too.

When I notice Agatha again, she’s trembling. I unbutton my grey duffle coat, sliding the horn buttons through the cord loops. “Here,” I say, sliding it off.

“No,” she says. “I’m fine.”

I hold it out to her anyway.

“No, it’s okay. No—Simon. Keep your coat.”

My arms drop. It doesn’t seem right to put the coat back on, so I fold it over one arm.

I don’t know what else to say.

This is already the most time that Agatha and I have been alone since the start of the term. I haven’t even kissed her since we’ve been back. I should probably kiss her.…

I reach out and take her hand—but I must move too quickly, because she seems surprised. Her hand jerks open, and something falls out. I kneel, picking it up before it blows away.

It’s a handkerchief.

I know that it’s Baz’s handkerchief before I even see his initials embroidered in the corner, next to the Pitch coat of arms (flames, the moon, three falcons).

I know it’s his because he’s the only person I’ve ever met who carries old-fashioned handkerchiefs. He dropped one on my bed, sarcastically, when we were in first year, the first time he made me cry.

Agatha tries to pull the linen from my hand, but I don’t let go. I snap it away from her.

“What is this?” I ask, holding it up. (We both know what it is.) “Are you—are you waiting for him? Are you meeting him here? Is he coming?”

Her eyes are wide and glossy. “No. Of course not.”

“How can you say ‘of course not’ when you’re up here, obviously thinking about him, holding his handkerchief?”

She folds her arms. “You don’t know what I’m thinking about.”

“You’re right, I don’t, Agatha. I really don’t. Is this where you come every night? When you tell us you’re studying?”

“Simon…”

“Answer me!” It comes out an order. It comes out drenched in magic, which shouldn’t even be possible—because those aren’t magic words, that isn’t a spell. The spell for forcing honesty is The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth—but I’ve never used it; it’s an advanced spell, and a restricted one. Still, I see the compulsion in Agatha’s face. “No,” I say, pushing magic into my voice. “You don’t have to!”

Her face falls from compulsion to disgust. She backs away from me.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” I say. “Agatha. I didn’t. But you—” I throw my arms up. “—what are you doing here?”

“What if I am waiting for Baz?” she spits out, like she knows it will shock me stupid. It does.

“Why would you?”

She turns to the stone wall. “I don’t know, Simon.”

“Are you waiting for him?”

The wind is in her hair, making it lash out behind her. “No,” she says. “Not waiting. I’ve no reason to believe he’s coming.”

“But you want him to.”

She shrugs.

“What’s wrong with you, Agatha?” I’m trying to control my temper now. “He’s a monster. An actual monster.”

“We’re all monsters,” she says.

She means that I am.

I try to tamp down the anger coiling up my legs. “Did you cheat on me? With Baz? Are you with him now?”

“No.”

“Do you want to be?”

She sighs, and leans forward on the rough stones. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t you want to say anything else to me? Like, ‘I’m sorry’? Don’t you want to fix this?”

She looks back at me, over her shoulder. “Fix what, Simon—our relationship?” She turns to face me again. “What is our relationship? Is it just me being there when you need a date to the ball? And crying for joy every time you come back from the dead? Because I’ll still do that for you. I can still do all that. Even if we’re not together.”

Her perfect pink chin is thrust forward and quivering. Her arms are still crossed.

“You’re my girl, Agatha,” I say.

“No. Penelope’s your girl.”

“You’re my—”

Her arms fall. “What Simon, what am I?”

I knot my hands in my hair and gnash my teeth. “You’re my future!”

Agatha’s face is contorted and wet with tears. Still lovely, though. “Am I supposed to want that?” she asks.

“I want it.”

“You just want a happy ending.”

“Merlin, Agatha, don’t you?”

“No! I don’t! I want to be someone’s right now, Simon, not their happily ever after. I don’t want to be the prize at the end. The thing you get if you beat all the bosses.”