Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)

by Rainbow Rowell

I walk back towards the exam rooms, poking my head in every open door. “Agatha?” I spin around . . . Niamh is standing in the hall behind me. Not dressed for the office. She’s wearing jeans cuffed high over brown work boots, and a green T-shirt that clings to her shoulders and breasts. And . . . well . . . and . . . She’s cut her hair. And combed it back. Like she did at school. When she was Brody. (She’s still Brody . . . ) (Has been all along, I suppose.) Niamh cut her hair the way I suggested. Which means . . . Well, it means that she knows good advice when she hears it. Good for her. Good for Niamh. With her whole . . . face situation. The nose and the, um . . . chin, like a hatchet. The everything like a hatchet. Sharp. And heavy. I think she blow-dried her hair. Good for her. That’s good. This whole . . . thing is good for her. “I’m leaving,” she says. She looks angry—which never means anything useful with Niamh, but it’s honestly still a good look on her. “You’re . . .” I already feel ten steps behind this conversation. “What?” “Are you coming or not?” “Where?” “To Watford? To check on the goats?” “To Watford,” I say, catching up. “To check on the goats.” Niamh frowns at me. “Yes—Yes, I’m coming. I told you I wanted to help.” Niamh frowns even harder. Like she’s really putting her back into it. “Well, I’m leaving now.” “Then let’s go.”