Baz is gripping my leg before I’ve even settled down next to him. He’s pinching so hard, I think he might be narked at me. But his face is placid and bored.

One of his little sisters flops into the chair next to mine, whimpering.

“Stop making my sisters cry, Snow,” Baz says in a droll voice. He’s still clamping down on my thigh. I lay my hand over his, and give it a squeeze. He grabs my hand and holds it tight—and I feel a little giddy with relief. It feels like years since I’ve touched him. (I might also be giddy from hunger—it feels like years since breakfast.)

The food is already on the table. It’s probably been ready for hours and kept fresh with magic. Nobody’s been in the kitchen since we got here.

Baz’s dad picks up a platter of roasted potatoes and passes it to Baz. “So, Mr. Snow—”

“Honestly, sir,” I interrupt. Baz squeezes my hand, but it’s too late for me to stop now. “Please call me Simon.”

“Simon . . .” his dad says. His whole face is pinched up, like that was painful. “What are you studying in university?”

Baz lets go of my hand to give me the platter.

“I’m—”

“He’s taking a break,” Baz says.

His dad ignores him and looks at me. “A break?”

I’m fumbling with the potatoes. One falls in my lap. “I was studying social policy, but it was a bad fit. So I’m . . . taking a break. I’ve got a job.”

“What sort of job?”

Baz hands me a basket of Yorkshire puddings without taking one.

“I work for a builder,” I say.

His dad leans towards me. “You’re a builder?”

“No.” I’ve taken too many puddings, but I don’t think I should put one back. “I’m sort of a messenger for a builder. I am getting my forklift licence though.”

“Your forklift licence . . .” Mr. Grimm says. He looks more shocked than disapproving—though I’m sure he is disapproving.

Everyone expects me to be doing something great, because I was the Chosen One. But none of my skills are worth anything in the Normal world. Honestly, I’m thinking about joining the RAF—but every time I mention it, Baz throws a fit, and Penny says I’ll never pass the physical. I went to a recruiting event for the London police, and neither of them would speak to me for days afterwards.

“What can you do with a forklift licence, Simon?” Daphne asks. “Um. Lift things, I suppose.”

“Can’t you use your wand?” one of the twins asks.

“He hasn’t got a wand,” Mordelia says.

Baz hands me another platter. “Simon is considering the Air Force,” he says. “He wants to be a pilot.”

I look at him, confused. He very much does not want me to be a pilot.