“My father looks at me, and he sees a wrong turn. I’m all that’s left of my mother, and I’m a dud.”

“Can I freshen your drink?” Daphne asks.

“Ah, no,” I say. “I’m good.” I’d like to ask for water instead. I’m thirsty and hungry, and I can hardly breathe in these trousers.

I suck on a piece of ice and try not to stare at Baz.

He’s wearing a dark grey jacket over his red polo neck. He must have magicked it up, because I know he didn’t bring one.

I can tell he’s on edge. Nervous.

The first time I saw Baz around his family, he was just a boy. But he was cool, calm, aloof. One of them.

Now . . .

Now he’s his own man. He stands out. His hair is longer and looser. His clothes are louder. (I know for a fact now that Baz isn’t untouchable.)

He looks like he can’t quite settle or slide into place. He’s on his second drink, and he keeps plucking at his trousers, like he’s covered in invisible lint. He isn’t looking at me. But he can’t seem to focus on anyone else either. His dad keeps having to repeat his questions.

We’re all relieved when Daphne says it’s time for dinner.

We follow her into the next room. The only time I’ve seen a production like this was the last time I had Christmas with the Grimm-Pitches. The dinner table is covered in red and gold cloth, and there’s a showy red bow tied around each chair. The whole table is filled with silver platters and flowered dishes and coils of decorative ribbon.

“You sit here by me, Simon,” Daphne says.

Baz takes a chair at the opposite end, at his father’s right hand. There’s a gigantic flower arrangement in the centre of the table, and I can hardly see him once I sit down.

“Sorry about the tight squeeze,” Daphne says when I accidentally scoot my chair back into the wall. “This table fit perfectly in our old dining room.”

The old dining room, in the house I ruined. I wince.

Petra and Sophie are fighting over who gets to sit to the right of Baz.

“Stop this arguing at once,” their father says.

“I’ll just sit in the middle.” Baz starts to get up.

His dad stops him. “No. We don’t cave in to their tantrums. Mordelia, come sit next to Basilton.”

I stand up so quickly, my chair slams into the wall again. “I’ll move.”

Baz’s dad is looking at me for the first time since he said hello. He doesn’t look pleased. “Thank you, Mr. Snow.”

“It’s Simon,” I mumble, trying to get to Baz without knocking into anyone. This room really is much too small for this table.