“Swear it,” I say. “With magic.” He narrows his eyes at me. I see the tension in his chin. “Fine,” he says, swatting my wand away. “But I’m not letting you anywhere near me with that.” He slips his own wand out of the pocket inside his jacket and holds it between us. Then he takes my hand in his—he’s cold—and I pull back, out of reflex. He tightens his grip. “Truce,” Baz says, looking in my eyes. “Truce,” I say, sounding much less certain. “Until we know the truth,” he adds. I nod. Then he taps our joined hands. “An Englishman’s word is his bond!”