The woman stands tall. She’s only a couple inches shorter than me. Her hands are in fists at her side. “Is it true you killed the Mage?”

“I—” I haven’t had to talk about this since the inquiry. And I’ve never really had to face anyone outside of the Coven. I mean, of course everyone in the World of Mages knows I killed the Mage. Of course they’d be angry. The woman’s jaw is clenched. Her lips are pursed. I look down at my feet. “Yes. I did.”

And then, suddenly—she’s hugging me.

Like, really tight.

“Thank you,” she says, and it sounds like she might be crying. She’s sort of rocking me back and forth. “You’re a hero, Simon Snow. Thank you.”

I’m too stunned to hug her back. Should I hug her back? I’m glad she’s not angry, but I’m a little worried that she’s so happy. Did all rich people hate the Mage as much as Baz’s family did?

She’s pulling away now, wiping her eyes. She sniffs. “Come in, come in. Get out of the—Well, it’s lovely out, isn’t it? Come in, anyway. Your friend, too. And tell me what brings Simon Snow to my door on a Tuesday afternoon?”

Baz has stepped up beside me, smooth as silk. “Lady Salisbury?”

“Yes?” she says, looking a bit concerned again.

“My name is Basilton Grimm-Pitch.”

“Grimm-Pitch … Natasha’s son?”

“Yes.”

“Oh!” She holds her hand over her heart. “Well, you’re a grown man, aren’t you! When did that happen? And so handsome! Snakes alive. Natasha Pitch’s son.” She takes his arm and squeezes it. “I knew your mother. She was a dear friend once. And your grandmother! Basilton Grimm-Pitch. Tyrannus, isn’t it? As I live and breathe. You know, your aunt was just here—Oh.” Her face falls. She clutches both hands to her chest. “You’re here about my Jamie, aren’t you? Do you have news of him?”

“No,” Baz says. “No, we don’t have any news, I’m sorry. But we were hoping you could tell us more about his disappearance.”

Lady Salisbury looks confused, maybe a little wary. “You were?”

“My stepmother is missing, too.”

BAZ

Lady Salisbury shows us into her drawing room—a big, airy room, crowded with antique coffee tables and richly upholstered furniture. “Here,” she says, still sounding rattled. “Sit. I’ll get some cake. Would you like some cake? It’s homemade.”

“Oh, no, we couldn’t,” I say.

“Sure, we could,” Simon says.

She laughs. “Good answer. I was going to make you have some anyway. Should we have tea? I prefer milk with cake, myself.”

“Milk is great,” Simon says.

“You boys sit. I’ll be right back.”