I can’t blame them. It makes me happy to see Baz eating, too. If they think this is good, they should see him eat with his giant fangs. They should see him drain a red deer! He’s gorgeous. I love him like this. Full. Fed. Easy.

I’m a little drunk.

I don’t know how I was supposed to avoid it.

BAZ

No one asks what’s changed. Or what it means. Where my fangs have gone.

For them, the variable factor is Simon.

My father nearly embraced him after dinner. He did embrace me. “Basilton,” he said. And, “Good show.” And, “We’re all very glad, aren’t we?”

Simon suggested that my family might think I’m cured. If they do, I’ll let them go on thinking it. Cured by homosexuality. Cured by Simon Snow’s tender ministrations.

(I won’t ever tell them about the Vampire King who taught me to eat with my mouth closed.)

My stepmother hugged me, too. And hugged Simon. The children were all riveted by Father’s behaviour. I’ve never seen him in his cups, so I can’t imagine they have.

“Time for this bunch to get to bed,” Daphne finally says, when we’ve run out of champagne and trifle, herding my father and the girls away from the table. Swithin has already fallen asleep in his pudding. “Come along,” she says, when the twins protest. “You have to fall asleep, so Father Christmas will come.”

“I think Simon and I will stay up and watch a film,” I say.

“I want to watch a film,” Mordelia whines.

“You can watch a film with us,” Simon says. “It’s Christmas. Do you like Die Hard?”

Daphne frowns. “Come along, Mordelia.”

“It’s all right,” I say. “She can stay up with us.”

“If you’re sure, Basilton . . .”

“It’s fine.”

“Yes!” Mordelia says.

Daphne leans close to my ear. “Do you know a sobering spell?”

“I do,” I say, smiling at Simon. “I’m giving him a minute to enjoy himself. He never drinks.”

She kisses my cheek. “Good night, Basil. Merry Christmas.” “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Grimm!” Simon says loudly.

“Merry Christmas, Simon.”

I give Mordelia a shove. “Go and change into pyjamas.”

“I’d like to change into pyjamas,” Snow mutters as they all go. “I hate this suit.”

I grab his shoulder and spin him around, then lift my arm and shoot my wand from my cuff.

“That’s dead sexy,” he says.

I point it at him. “Stone cold sober!”

He grins. “Are you drunk, Baz?”

I frown. “Clearly not.”

He giggles and pushes my shoulder. “I’m immune to magic, you big plonker.”

“Eight snakes,” I swear. “I forgot.”

He wraps his arms around my waist and rests his head on my shoulder. “Change me into pyjamas, would you? I hate this suit so much. I can’t even breathe.”