His hair is brushing against my forehead. We’re both holding on to his ivory wand. The fight’s gone out of him, and that’s no good, because fighting is all I can manage right now. “Baz . . .” I whisper. He presses his forehead to mine. “Don’t do this. Don’t do this to me, love.” “I have to.” His head is rocking against mine, from side to side. “No, Simon. No. We can’t come apart like this. We’re not made of pieces that come apart.” “Baz—” “You can’t just give up on this. On me. Don’t you know what we have? It’s the sort of thing people dream about. They make potions to steal it.” He pulls his
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