“I don’t know.” He flops down on the sofa next to me, dropping his jumper onto the floor. “Why are you cross?”

“I’m not,” I say. Crossly.

Simon frowns at me. “You’re still wearing your suit.” He reaches up and carefully starts to loosen my tie. He’s become very skilled at this over the last few months.

“I’m not cross with you,” I say.

“Good.” He gives the tie a sharp tug and slides it out from around my collar. Then he unbuttons my top button.

“I had tea with my stepmother.”

“I know. Did she piss in your Darjeeling?”

“Don’t be crass.”

“Don’t be coy. Tell me what happened.”

“She wants me to bring a date home for Christmas.”

Simon sits back a little. “A date? Where are you supposed to find a date?”

“Not a date,” I say. “You. She wants me to bring you home for Christmas.”

He looks as stunned as I was seven hours ago. “But your stepmother doesn’t like me.”

“I know.”

“And your father hates me—I ruined your house.”

“I know. Daphne says they’re letting bygones be bygones.”

“Do you believe that?”

“I believe they won’t mention any of it.”

“But . . .” Snow still looks confused. I can see where he’s headed next. “I thought your dad didn’t know that you’re . . .”

“He knows,” I say grimly. “He just doesn’t approve.”

“So why do they want you to bring home your boyfriend?” (My boyfriend.)

“I don’t know,” I say. “To appease me, I think. My stepmother says it’ll be ‘a good start.’ ”

Simon sits there with his face all screwed up like he’s thinking. His very handsome, freckled face. He’s scratching the curls over his forehead with one hand. “Yeah,” he says. “All right. I’ll go.”

I sit up. “Simon, you can’t. I already told Daphne you’re having Christmas with Lady Salisbury.”

“I’ll do one day with Lady Ruth and one with you. She’ll understand.”

“No,” I say emphatically. “You’re not giving up a loving Christmas with people who accept you to spend the day with people who don’t even like you.”

“They don’t even know me,” Simon says.

“They blame you for the Mage and the Humdrum—”

“You said they won’t mention any of that.”

“They won’t, but—”

“Good.” He shrugs. “I won’t mention it either. I hate talking about all that shit.”

“Simon. My father still refers to you as ‘the Mageling.’ ”

“Your aunt calls me worse than that, and you make me have lunch with her all the fucking time.”

“I don’t make you—and besides, that’s different. My aunt at least . . . Well, my aunt doesn’t pretend we’re just good pals.”

“I thought you said your dad knows you’re gay.”

“He does! But he won’t acknowledge it.”

“Do you want him to?”