I know Daphne saw me. She looked directly at me when that charlatan was fawning all over Simon. (That worked exactly as planned—Snow pretending to be interested. It was a Bunce-worthy idea.) As soon as said charlatan slinks offstage, I grab Simon and rush towards the front of the room, where my stepmother was sitting, hoping she won’t try to sneak away.

I recognize a few other people in the crowd, people I’d never even thought of as weak magicians. There was a girl sitting across from me who looked so familiar, but I couldn’t place her. I don’t think she went to Watford …

Smith-Richards seems to draw more women than men, which isn’t surprising, given his glossy appearance. His look is very—The Greatest Mage, a new fragrance from Ralph Lauren. He looks like Simon, frankly. But more Simony than Simon. He looks like the guy who would get cast to play Simon in the Netflix series.

No bloody thank you.

Daphne isn’t trying to get away from me. She’s standing just where I saw her earlier, her arms open. “Basil!” she says, sweeping me into a hug. “I’m so happy you’re here. That you’ve even heard about Smith. This means his message is getting out.”

“Mum”—I’m holding her by her shoulders—“I came to see you, not him. I’ve tried to call you so many times…”

“Oh, Baz,” she says, pulling away from me and frowning. “I was hoping you hadn’t come to fetch me.”

“That’s exactly what I’ve come to do. The girls miss you—they need their mother.”

Daphne looks around. There are people watching us, staring at Simon mostly. She pulls me farther out of the crowd. I pull Simon along with us.

“They need their mother to be strong,” Daphne says. “I’m doing the absolute best thing I can do for them by staying with Smith.”

“How can you think that?”

“You don’t understand, Basil; you’ve always been powerful. You’ve always lived up to your parents’ standards—to the world’s standards.”

“I think you know that’s not true,” I say meaningfully. Daphne knows I’m a vampire, even though she’d never say it out loud. And further, she knows I’m queer as a clockwork orange, and that we’re not allowed to say that out loud either.

She takes my hand. “I don’t want my children to live half a life. I don’t want to go on living half a life myself.”

“But you have a great life,” I say, and then immediately wish that I hadn’t, because who I am to say so?

Daphne smiles sadly at me.

“You have great kids,” I try again. “And they miss you.”