BAZ

I'm awake. My head feels clearer than it did last night, less of a haze between me and the rest of the world. My body, on the other hand, feels worse. The whole thing aches and I'm slightly nauseous. I wonder why for a moment, until I remember that I was poisoned yesterday. And that my boyfriend couldn't bear to stay in the room with me while I was on the verge of death. Daylight is glowing through my eyelids. It must be morning. Or afternoon. I've no idea how long I slept. I desperately want to open my eyes and see Snow sitting at my bedside like he was last night. But I leave them closed, unsure if I can handle the sight of an empty chair.

The doorknob twists and the bottom of the door whiffles across the carpet as it's slowly pushed open. Is he coming to check on me? Or maybe Doctor Wellbelove is here?

A quiet voice says, "Simon?"

It's Bunce.

I open my eyes and tilt my head on the pillow just enough to see her. She looks a mess. She's in the same clothes she was wearing yesterday; I can smell the dried blood from here—hers and Simon's mingling, and something else's too. Her hair looks like it was styled by a jet turbine.

I shove myself up onto my elbows and my head rises a few inches off the bed. That's enough movement to make it feel swooshy and cloudy on the inside again.

"He's not here," I grate out. My voice is low. Lower than usual. Dry. It sounds all used up.

"Well, where is he then?" Penelope puts her hands on her hips, voice louder now she knows I'm awake. "I've looked through the rest of the flat already. I assumed he'd be in here with you, honestly, but I didn't want to wake you unless I had to."

She looks put out.

I'm worried.

I try to push myself up further and my head swims until I close my eyes and slump back onto the bed.

"No you don't, Basilton," she says. "You stay put. I'll go have another look round for him."

I try to stop thinking and let myself drift off like I did last night. It's easier being unconscious than dwelling on my broken relationship. I've been telling myself for days that we hadn't been talking or spending quality time together because of the emergency, the daily skirmishing at Watford, the exhaustion. But last night made everything crystal clear; even if I'm on death's door, he can't be bothered to stick around.

Unfortunately I'm too clear-headed today to be able to drift in and out. I'm awake whether I like it or not. After a few minutes the silence in the flat is broken by voices. Penelope's haranguing and Simon's, low and beligerant, in reply. I wait for him—or them—to come back into Simon's room, where I'm lying on his bed too weak to get up. But there's only more talking followed by clanging from the kitchen. When the clanging stops, the sound of a chair scraping out and in.

Then Penelope pops her head around the door again.

"I found him passed out on the floor behind the sofa."

She doesn't seem worried, so I assume she means asleep, not passed out passed out. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say to that so I ask what's really on my mind. "Why didn't he stay with me last night?" (Then I curse myself for asking. That question comes dangerously close to sharing my feelings.)

"I've no idea, Baz," she says. "I used up the last of my energy making the ointment for you and putting his arm back together—he was bitching and moaning that he needed to be in good enough shape to tend to you and wouldn't wait for Dr. Wellbelove—then I went to bed. I was knackered. Simon was too, but it looks like the bloody idiot stayed up all night cleaning anyway.

He really was cleaning up?

"Anyway, I've made him a fry-up and told him he has to eat it before he can leave the kitchen. I don't think he slept more than a couple of hours and he was so dizzy when I found him he could barely stand, he lost that much blood yesterday. I'm still pretty tapped out magickly myself, but I did as much of a blood replenishment spell as I could manage. He should be in much better shape than he was last night."

As if she's summoned him, Snow's there, in the door behind her.

"Hey," he says.

No words come out when I open my mouth to speak, so I nod.

He steps into the room, eyes roving over my body. Probably checking his handywork from last night. I'm pitiful enough that I hope he comes closer, checks it out in person, even though I've seen the writing on the wall of our relationship and I know there's no point.

He takes a step in my direction, then stops cold, glaring at Penelope.

"Penny! You've got blood all over your shirt. Did you sleep in that?"

"Proper attire wasn't really top of my agenda last night, Simon." She huffs.

"Out of it. Now." He holds his hand out, apparently expecting Bunce to strip on the spot. She gives him a look and pulls her t-shirt off over hear head. Thank Morgana her bra doesn't seem to have any blood on it.

Simon tries to take the shirt from her hand.

"Not so fast there," Bunce says.

"Give it over, Pen. I need to go wash it." He looks meaningfully, and not at all subtly, at me.

"Nonsense," she replies. You're dead on your feet. You go lie down and have a proper rest like you should have done hours ago." She gives him a shove on the shoulder before exiting the room.

Simon stands there for a moment, as though he doesn't quite know what to do with himself. In the light of day—and with less manticore venom in my system—I'm able to have a better look at him than I got last night. He looks absolutely all in.

He looks into my eyes and I stare back. The moment stretches. When he turns towards the door I close my eyes. So I can pretend he glances back tenderly before he walks out on me again.

The door clicks shut. A tear slides from the corner of my eye down my cheek, soaking into the pillowcase. Then, the bed dips and a warm body is clambering over me to get to the empty space between me and the wall.

"Why were you sleeping on the floor?" I ask, as Simon settles in behind me. Even though I don't really want to know why he skipped out on the available bed space last night.

"Hid behind the sofa," he mumbles. "She got up to use the loo in the middle of the night and threatened to cast lay your weary had to rest on me if I didn't stop cleaning by the time she was done. But there was so much blood, Baz. So much. It would have been awful for you if you'd woken up to that. Guess I fell asleep there." He gives a soft laugh as he brings a hand round to my forehead and smooths my hair back. I hum, and he does it again. Suddenly I wish we were facing each other but when I try to roll over it turns out to be more effort than I can manage. All I end up doing is pressing my back more firmly into his chest.

"Baz," he says. "I was so worried." He sounds like he's halfway gone already. He pulls his hand out of my hair and slings his whole arm over my chest—the warm weight of it making my wound sting a bit (I don't mind)—and buries his face in my neck. When he speaks again his words are slurring with sleep. "M'glad yer feeling bett'r."

I am.