When I get to the foyer, Simon Snow is standing there like a lost dog. Or an amnesia victim. He’s wearing his Watford coat and heavy leather boots, and he’s covered in snow and muck. Vera must have told him to stay on the rug, because he’s standing right in the middle of it. His hair is a mess, and his face is flushed, and he looks like he might go off right there, without any provocation. I stop at the arched entrance to the foyer, tuck my wand in my sleeve, and slip my hands into my pockets. “Snow.” He jerks his head up. “Baz.”
