For Baz, that means a full-on suit. Three pieces! It’s the colour of toffee sauce, and he’s got a bright blue shirt on underneath—blue like butterfly wings and unbuttoned a bit low for visiting an elderly person. (If you want to know the truth, he looks good enough to eat. He’s looked good all day. You should see Baz when he first wakes up: His eyes always look sleepy, but when he’s actually sleepy, he looks like somebody trying to seduce you in a silent movie. One of those black-and-white fellows with the heavy eyeliner. I feel like I’m following him around with my heart in my hand. It’s even more terrifying than it used to be—because before, I was telling myself that this thing with him would either fall apart before it killed me, or that I’d die before I had to deal with it. But now … What now?)

I get off relatively easy—dark jeans and a pale-green knit, button-down shirt. Baz casts a spell to tailor it around my wings and another to magickally shorten the sleeves. “So you won’t be too hot in this coat,” he says, holding up a grey mackintosh.

I groan.

“Or,” he says, “you could let me spell your wings away?”

I take the coat. And his jeans, the shirt, the whole thing. Though I refuse a giant watch—and shake him off when he tries to arrange my hair. “For fuck’s sake.”

When we get to Lady Salisbury’s neighbourhood, I’m half glad Baz made me dress up. I should have guessed from the “Lady” that it would be posh. We stop at a red-brick terraced house with big bay windows that sort of push out from the front, almost like turrets. The windows are framed in white plaster and decorated with unicorns and mermaids and little otters with wings. (Are wealthy magicians never subtle?)

Baz uses the door knocker. It’s shaped like a smiling cyclops.

“Maybe we should have called first,” I say.

“Then she could have said no.”

“She could still say no…”

“Who says no to the Chosen One?”

I start to argue some more, but there’s someone in the window, pulling back the curtain. Baz steps neatly behind me. After a second, the door opens an inch, and a woman peeks out. “Is that … It is!” she says, opening the door. “Simon Snow, on my very own doorstep!”

It’s an older woman, I’m not sure how old—I don’t know many old people. She’s heavyset with lots of blondish hair and a giant purple sweater. She’s looking at me the way no one has looked at me for a while, like I’m all that. Her eyes are wide, and her face is awed. “You are him, aren’t you?”

Baz pokes me in the back.

“Y-yes,” I say. “I am.”