“Oh, I’ll be fine.” Daphne pulls one of the bags away from me. “Don’t peek—that one’s for you.”

I use magic to get us seated right away—the same spell my father always uses, “Ready, set, go”—and Daphne is as pleased as a little girl when the waiter brings us a three-tiered platter of scones, sandwiches, and cakes. It’s a damned shame that Simon isn’t here. He told me this morning that he’s never had a “fancy tea-place tea.”

“Your grandmother throws a fancy tea every time you show your face,” I said.

“Yeah, but she doesn’t have a cake trolley.”

“Her entire house is a cake trolley.”

Simon was standing at the end of his bed, swinging his sword like he was slicing someone in half in slow motion. “Gareth told me that Fortnum’s has a cake trolley with Battenberg cake”—he sliced the sword the other way—“and Victoria sponge, and a chocolate one . . . and some sort of apple cake. And you can have as much as you want, on top of all the little third-tier things—the éclairs and the what-do-you-call-them, the little cakes wrapped in icing . . .”

I was standing in front of him, tying my necktie, trying very hard not to look impressed with his sword-show. (It’s a constant effort.) “Petit fours,” I said.

Simon swung the sword again, tapping the flat side against my hip. “That’s right.”

“When did Gareth tell you all that?”

“First year. His mum took him to tea for his birthday.”

“I think that’s the sum total of what you learned at Watford first year.”

“Not true.” Simon spun the sword between us and tapped my other hip. “Learned you were a git.”

“You’re the git.” I shoved his chest, and he fell back on the bed, laughing. “I’ll bring you back some petit fours in my pocket,” I said.

“You better—and cast ‘Safe as houses’ so they don’t get smashed.”

I rolled my eyes and pretended I was going to leave without kissing him. It’s a good game. He sprang off the bed and pushed me against the wall. (Simon must never get more furniture for this flat; he needs an unusual amount of clear wall space.)

He kissed me soundly. “Hurry back. With cake in both pockets.”

“Mordelia wanted to come,” my stepmother says, jolting me back to the present. “But I told her that I never get you to myself, and that I needed to talk to you about Christmas Eve.”

Daphne is spreading a huge glob of strawberry jam onto a scone. She told me she hadn’t eaten a single carb all week—not even a carrot—because she was saving them for today.

“What about Christmas Eve?” I ask.

“Well, your father and I hope that you’ll be there . . .”

“Of course I’ll be there. I always come home for Christmas.”