a tiger

BAZ Simon Snow is lying on the sofa. Simon Snow is pretty much always lying on the sofa these days. With his leathery red wings tucked up behind him like a pillow and a can of cheap cider hanging off his hand. He used to hold a sword like that. Like it was attached. It’s finally summer in London. I’ve been studying all day—exams next week; Bunce and I are buried in books. We both pretend that Snow is studying for his exams, too. He hasn’t been at uni in weeks, I’d wager. He hasn’t been off the sofa unless it’s to go down to the corner to buy chips and cider; he ties his tail around his waist and hides his wings under a dreadful tan mackintosh—he looks like Quasimodo. Or a flasher. He looks like three kids in a trench coat pretending to be a complete wanker. The last time I saw Snow without wings and a tail, Bunce had just got home from a lecture. She cast a concealment spell his way without even thinking about it—and he went feral on her. “For fuck’s sake, Penny, I’ll tell you if I want your magic!” Her magic. My magic. It wasn’t very long ago that all the magic was his. He was the One, wasn’t he? The most. The magic-est. Bunce and I never leave him alone now if we can help it. We go to lectures, we study. (That’s what Bunce and I do. That’s who we are.) But there’s always one of us around—making Snow tea he won’t drink, sharing vegetables he won’t eat, asking questions he won’t answer … I think he hates the sight of us most days. I think he hates the sight of me. Maybe I should take the hint.… But Simon Snow has always hated the sight of me—with a few recent and bittersweet exceptions. In a way, that face he makes when I walk in the room (like he’s just remembered something awful) is the only thing that still feels familiar. I’ve loved him through worse. I’ve loved him hopelessly.… So what’s a little less hope? “I think I’m going to get a curry,” I say. “Do you want anything?” He doesn’t turn away from the television.