Snow barks a laugh. “He’ll be fine. He’s always got room for four to six rats.”

She pushes his knee with her socked foot. “How’d Baz spell that shirt around your wings, if you’re immune to magic?”

I cock an eyebrow at her. “The spell is on the shirt, Bunce.”

“Oh,” Penny says. She really is in a mood. “Well, it looks nice.”

“Until I have to tear it off,” Snow says.

“Just let Baz reverse the spell.”

“I don’t like being dependent on him.”

I kick him. “Magic forbid you rely on me.”

“That’s not what I meant—and everyone needs to stop kicking me. I’m injured.”

“You could have some shirts made,” Shepard offers.

All three of us turn to him.

“Magickal shirts?” Snow asks.

“No—regular shirts,” Shepard says. “But with openings that button closed around your wings.”

I try to picture it. “Buttons?”

“Or zippers,” he says. “I’ve seen people use buckles, but those seem fiddly.”

“People?” Bunce asks.

“Well, fairies…” Shepard sweeps his arm, expansively. “Harpies. Gargoyles … Lots of things have wings.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” I say. “Why didn’t we think of that?”

“Because you think with your wand,” Snow says.

I kick him in the side again. (It’s hardly a kick.) (I can’t stay off him.)

“I didn’t mean it in the dirty way!” he objects. “Penelope does, too.”

“Where are we going to find a magickal tailor…” Bunce wonders aloud.

Shepard grins at her.

When I get out of the shower that night, Snow is wearing my pyjama trousers and practising sword manoeuvres. I hang back in the bathroom door to stay out of his way.

“You’re not supposed to do that on my side of the room,” I say.

“You haven’t got a side of the room,” he says, letting the sword drop.

“We’ll have to negotiate that.” I walk past him to the bed. My violin is still sitting there. I pick it up and rest it on my shoulder. Simon swings his sword again, watching me. “Are you going to tell me I can’t play violin on your side of the room?” I ask.

“I would never tell you that,” he says, pointing the sword. “You can play violin wherever and whenever you like.”

“Your landlady might disagree.”

“I’ll cut off her ears.”

“That sword is already a bad influence.”

He climbs onto the bed next to me, still holding the sword. (Is he going to sleep with it?) “I should give it back,” he says. “To Jamie.”

“Snow, he insisted that you keep it.”

“Yeah, but what do I need with a sword?”

“What does Jamie Salisbury need with a sword? I’m surprised he still has all his fingers. You, however, have spent your whole life wielding one.”

“Yeah, but…” He shrugs with the sword. (I really think he might sleep with it.)