“They died in a plague,” he said.
Baz raised his hand—I flinched back.
He cocked an eyebrow and swept his arm in a flourish at the room around us. “Them,” he said. “Les enfants.” A lock of black hair fell over his forehead.
“Is that why you’re here? To track down a plague?”
Baz stared at me. He was 16, we both were, but he made me feel 5. He’s always made me feel like a child, like I’ll never catch up to him. Like he was born knowing everything about the World of Mages—it’s his world. It’s in his DNA.
“Yes, Snow,” he said. “I’m here to find a plague. I’m going to put it in a steaming beaker and infect all of Metropolis.”
I gripped my blade.
He looked bored.
“What are you doing down here?” I demanded, swinging the sword in the air.
“Sitting,” he said.
“No. None of that. I’ve finally caught you, after all these months—you’re going to tell me what you’re up to.”
“Most of the students died,” he said.
“Stop it. Stop distracting me.”
“They sent the well ones home. My great-great-uncle was the headmaster; he stayed to help nurse the sick and dying. His skull is down here, too. Maybe you could help me look for it—I’m told I share his aristocratic brow.”