I shove him back—then think better of it and pull on his shirt, reaching for the phone again. “You’re texting Penny? Is she texting you back?”

He puts the phone in his jacket pocket, slapping my hand away. “She texted me back to say that she’s trying to respect your needs. I told her you needed a kick in the arse; that I’ve already delivered it; and now we need her help.”

“We do need her help,” I say.

“I know. I told her to call.”

I push my hand through the front of my hair. I hope she does.

Baz bumps me with his elbow. “Who died, Snow?”

“Oh.” I smooth my hair down again. “The Mage.”

“Right,” he says. “I was there.”

“Right, but … Well, he left me his money. In his will.”

Baz looks surprised. “Your helping him off this mortal plane didn’t affect that?”

“Not according to Dr. Wellbelove.”

Baz laughs. “So the Mage paid for this flat?”

“Yeah.”

“And the Mage bought that mattress?”

“Indirectly.”

Baz grabs me by the waist and starts shoving me backwards towards the bedroom. He kicks off his shoes between shoves.

“Hey!”

“Shut up, Snow, I’m going to have my way with you on the Mage’s bed.”

He pushes me through the door, and I fall back onto the mattress. Baz grabs one of my legs and takes my trainer off by the heel.

“Is that a turn-on?” I watch him take off my other shoe. “The Mage’s bed?”

“Yes,” he says, throwing both shoes towards the door. “Because I hate him, and anything that would piss him off is a turn-on.” He climbs over me.

I swallow and hook my arms around his neck. “So that’s what this is, spite?”

“Hm-mm.” Baz kisses my neck. “Spite. Look where the Mage’s golden boy is now…”

“Depowered,” I say. “Deposed. Hackney Wick.”

Baz sits up, right on my stomach. I grunt and try to push him off.

“I meant”—he smacks my side—“in a homosexual relationship with one of his worst enemies.”

“Right,” I say, still grunting. He’s crushing me. “He’d hate that part, too.”

Baz rolls off of me onto his side, propping his head up with one hand. “How much money did he leave you?”

“Enough for rent for a couple years. Less, if I buy furniture. But I’m going to get a job.”

“It’s all right,” he says. “I don’t care about furniture.”

Baz’s dark hair is curling around his neck. It’s just long enough to brush his shoulders now. I wonder how long he wants it. I push some of it behind his ear. Not because it looks bad. I just want to touch it. Is this what people do? They just keep talking and touching?

“I want a job,” I say.

“What kind?”

I shrug. “Whatever. Maybe a builder will hire me. I’m a hard worker.”