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

by Rainbow Rowell

(If you want to know the truth, he looks good enough to eat. He’s looked good all day. You should see Baz when he first wakes up: His eyes always look sleepy, but when he’s actually sleepy, he looks like somebody trying to seduce you in a silent movie. One of those black-and-white fellows with the heavy eyeliner. I feel like I’m following him around with my heart in my hand. It’s even more terrifying than it used to be—because before, I was telling myself that this thing with him would either fall apart before it killed me, or that I’d die before I had to deal with it. But now . . . What now?)

Simon sits on a rose-coloured sofa and sinks to the springs. I stifle a laugh. His blue eyes meet mine, and it’s good. For just a moment. It’s unexpectedly good. He looks too handsome in my clothes. He looks too handsome in his own terrible clothes; he’s bloody unbearable in mine.

You look very smart in that coat, I think. “You look very smart in that coat,” Lady Salisbury says. “But you must get tired of hiding them—” She sets both plates on the table to cover her mouth. “Oh!” Simon’s wings are free. He spreads them some, careful not to stab Lady Salisbury, who looks genuinely dazzled. “They’re splendid,” she says. “Much bigger than I was expecting. And the loveliest shade of red. May I touch them?” She’s already touching the wing closest to her. Simon flinches, and she pulls her hand back. “Oh, I see, I’m so sorry.” She smiles again. “I understand why you keep them hidden from the Normals, but these are tremendous. Can you fly with them?” “Yeah,” he says. “Oh, that’s remarkable. Did you teach yourself?” “I must have.” “Imagine!” She holds a hand to her chest. “I’ve always wanted to fly.” She turns to me. “Haven’t you always wanted to fly, Basilton?” I have flown. With Simon. “Yes,” I say. “There are no good spells for it,” she says with real disappointment. “The most you can do is float around like a week-old party balloon.” “That’s true,” I agree. She looks down at Simon’s mostly eaten cake. “Here, let me cut you another slice. You, too, Basilton, hand me your plate.” “I have plenty.” “Rubbish. Look at you. You could use some shoring up at the foundation.” She serves herself some, too. “You can call him Baz,” Simon says. “Is that so?” She smiles at me. “Yes,” I say.

“They think you’ll get your powers back and rise higher than ever.” “Hmm,” Baz says, looking down his nose at me. “I think I might be a Snowvian.” “I’m a bit of a Snowvian myself.” Lady Salisbury smiles at him.

It was relatively easy to talk Baz into coming back to mine—I don’t think he wants to deal with his aunt yet—but he’s still whinging about it. “You don’t have a sofa,” he says. “We can sit on the floor.” “You don’t have food. I’ll bet you don’t have cutlery. Or bath towels. You don’t even have a bed.” “I have a bed. A mattress is a bed.” He looks away from me. I think he might be blushing. With Baz, that’s more of an expression than a change in colour. I knock my shoulder into his, and he smiles at the floor.

“So what? Lamb wasn’t even interested in me in that way.” He really wasn’t. Simon stops pacing to roll his eyes at me. His tail is still lashing from side to side. “He was trying to mentor me,” I say. “He could see I was clueless.” Simon huffs. “He could see that you’re hot.” I huff, too. “Well, I was actually there, and I didn’t get that vibe from him.” “You didn’t get that vibe from me either, Baz. You’ve got no vibe . . . check.” Simon starts pacing again. His tail swings towards my face, and I snatch it. He spins around, grabbing his tail at the base. “Hey!” I don’t let go. In fact, I give it a deliberate tug. “Fuck,” he spits out. “You know that’s attached to my spinal cord.” “Then you better come here,” I say, coiling his tail once around my wrist and tugging again. He narrows his blue eyes and steps towards me slowly, like he’s doing it on his own time. I draw my fist back to my shoulder, steadily pulling him closer, until he’s kneeling between my legs, resting back on his heels. He’s taller than me like this. I hook my free arm around his waist and sit up straight, so I can knock my forehead against his. “Do you want me to take you out for ice cream? Is that what this is about?” He cuts his eyes away. “I don’t need ice cream.” “That’s not what I asked . . .” I squeeze his tail. I’m holding the very end, near the spade. It doesn’t seem to hurt him, so I do it again, rubbing it between my thumb and forefinger. It’s warmer than you’d expect—maybe dragons are warm-bloo...

Fine, you fucker. Have me. Just have me. Do your worst, you stubborn twat. Be the death of me. You’ll be the death of me.

He sits back against the wall. “Hey,” he says, like he’s just thought of something. He has my tail twined around his arm again from wrist to elbow. He lets go, and it slithers away. (I can control the tail if I think about it, but it mostly moves of its own accord.) I rest on my heels. We should sit like this more often—I like the way Baz looks, looking up at me. He wipes his mouth with his butterfly-blue cuff.

“Here.” Baz pulls my left leg over his and then does the same with my right. As soon as he has them settled, he puts his arms around my waist again. It’s fuckin’ cosy is what it is.

I move closer to him, holding on to his sides. “You’re going to be young and pretty forever.” Baz pulls me even closer, by the small of my back. “Don’t say that,” he says, soft. “You don’t know that.” “I don’t mind.” He shakes his head, like he doesn’t want to think about it. “Snow . . . we’ve got a few minutes”—he pulls on me again—“before we have to leave.” “All right, I’m ready.” “No, I mean . . .” Baz moves his head from side to side like he’s trying to find words for something. It’s a rare look on him. “No matter what happens right now,” he says, his eyes on my chin, “we have to stop in a few minutes. So you don’t have to—you don’t have to worry about it going too far. Or being too much.” Oh. Baz glances up at my eyes. His pupils are wide and shiny. I’ve got us both shadowed by my wings. I nod, sucking nervously on my bottom lip. “Lean into it,” he whispers. My shirt is untucked. He slides one cool hand under it, just above my tail. I lean forward to kiss him. “Just for a few minutes,” he says, before I reach his mouth. “I’ll tell you when.”

“If he touches you,” Baz murmurs, “I’m eviscerating him.”

I think Kipper just wanted to see Shepard again. (Merlin, am I jealous? Because some rando and her mother might help Shepard when my own mother wouldn’t? Or is it because Kipper has cool purple hair and a beautiful delphinium tattoo on her wrist that she probably drew herself . . .) (I could have purple hair. It’s a simple enough spell.) I hope Shepard isn’t planning on adding Kipper’s family to his collection of interesting magickal friends. Not with me involved. I don’t need new friends. Like, ever. But especially not amongst strange magickal creatures who live in Croydon. I don’t want to end this day with more problems than we started with.

(And maybe to kiss. There was more arguing than kissing last night.) (Though it was all in the realm of good arguing: lying side by side, Simon almost lazily pushing my hair out of my face while he disagreed with me.)

“I can check in with you later?” “Yeah,” he says. “Or maybe . . .” “Maybe?” He looks up at me. “Maybe we both go to your flat, and instead of changing, you pick up some clothes?” “And then I . . .” I’m afraid to say it even though he’s the one saying it. “. . . stay with you?” He nods quickly, licking his bottom lip. “Yeah.” “Like, for a few days, or . . .” I have my hands pressed so deep into my jacket pockets that my collar is pulling on my neck. “For a while?” Simon’s whole body shrugs. “I don’t know.” “You don’t know.” I nod. He tilts his head forward and pulls at the top of his hair. “Do I have to know?” His eyebrows are up. His forehead is wrinkled. He’s squinting at me like he’s about to place a bet. “No,” I say. “You don’t have to know.” Simon lurches forward and grabs me by the elbow. “I don’t know how people do this,” he says, his voice low and urgent. “I’m much better at pushing you away than pulling you close. Are we allowed to be together all the time? Or is that too much? Just tell me if it’s too much.” That’ll be the day. I put my hand on his forearm. “Come back to Fiona’s with me,” I say. “I’ll pick up some clothes.” His eyes are scrabbling on mine. I try to give him whatever it is he’s digging for. “Yeah?” he says. “It isn’t too much, Snow.” He licks his lip and nods. I pull him towards the stairs.

Is this what people do when they’re in love? Do they just keep touching and talking? And then what? Like what is it all leading to? I don’t mean sex, I mean . . . If I knew what I meant, it wouldn’t be so frightening. I’m living second by second. All of this with Baz is petrifying. All of this without Baz is intolerable. I’m just making whatever decision I have to make in the moment to keep him in the picture, even though I can’t look at the whole picture without shitting myself. I just told him to come home with me. A few days ago, I broke up with him. I just told him to come home with me, and he said yes. We’re on the Tube to his flat, and he’s sitting next to me. I’ve got my arm slung around his shoulder. There’s at least one guy giving us a dirty look, and I kinda hope he speaks up, because I would dearly love to punch something right now. That’s a decision I could wrap my brain around. Second by second. Now I’m holding on to Baz. Now I’m standing up. Now I’m going to follow him.

“Fiona . . . Did you just hide a man from me?” “No,” she says. “You did.” “Big talk from someone hiding a man at this very moment.” I glance over my shoulder. “Stop cowering, Snow.” “I’m not cowering,” he mutters, stepping out from behind my back. I have my hand on my wand, just in case Fiona tries something.

I zip up the duffel and look at him. “I’m sure,” I say.

and I’m never going to meet another girl like her, and the last thing I want her to know about me is that these tattoos are a fucked-up engagement ring.

I don’t think Penelope thinks about her skin. Or her hair. I don’t think she twirls her ponytail around her fingers because she knows I’m watching. I don’t think she thinks about me looking at her at all—so I try not to. I don’t think she thinks about me liking her . . . So I try not to do that either. I should have told her the truth. All of it. As soon as she offered to help me. Definitely before I got on the plane. I should have known that Penelope was smart enough to crack this—that she’d get to the bottom of my mess before I could come up with a good way to break it to her.

“This is so much more idiotic than I thought.” “All right . . .” I sit up and grab the papers from her hand. “I know! This is why I lied to you—because I didn’t want you to know what a fool I am.” Penelope’s face is hard. “I prefer fools to liars.” “I’m not actually a liar,” I say, folding up the papers and shoving them back into my jacket. “I mean, I am literally. In this case. But I’m not. Generally. As a person. I’ll just get my backpack—” “I believe you.” I look up. Her face is still hard. “What do you believe?” “I believe that you didn’t mean to lie to me.” My hand is still in my jacket pocket. I take it out. “You do?” “Yes,” she says. “Just . . .” She turns to one of the chalk-board walls. “Don’t do it again, okay?” I nod slowly. Even though she can’t see me. “Okay.” She picks up her chalk. “Don’t lie to me, and don’t leave anything out.” “Okay,” I say again. “Don’t surprise me.” “I wasn’t trying—” She whips around, with her hands on her hips. “Just assume I want as much information as is possible, in every situation!” “I can do that.” I’m nodding too eagerly. “I want that, too.” Penelope looks up into my eyes, and it feels like a warning. It feels like she’s giving me another chance. But only this once. “Let me see me the translation again,” she says.

“Did someone die and leave you their fortune?” Still texting. “Well . . . actually . . .” He looks up again. “Did someone die, Snow?” “Who are you texting?” I ask. “My other boyfriend. The one who texts back.” I grab for his phone. He holds it above me. If I weren’t wearing a hoodie, I could fly up and reach it. “I’m texting Bunce,” he says. “Like I have time for another boyfriend . . . Your dysfunction is a full-time job.” I shove him back—then think better of it and pull on his shirt, reaching for the phone again. “You’re texting Penny? Is she texting you back?” He puts the phone in his jacket pocket, slapping my hand away. “She texted me back to say that she’s trying to respect your needs. I told her you needed a kick in the arse; that I’ve already delivered it; and now we need her help.” “We do need her help,” I say. “I know. I told her to call.” I push my hand through the front of my hair. I hope she does. Baz bumps me with his elbow. “Who died, Snow?” “Oh.” I smooth my hair down again. “The Mage.” “Right,” he says. “I was there.” “Right, but . . . Well, he left me his money. In his will.” Baz looks surprised. “Your helping him off this mortal plane didn’t affect that?” “Not according to Dr. Wellbelove.” Baz laughs. “So the Mage paid for this flat?” “Yeah.” “And the Mage bought that mattress?” “Indirectly.” Baz grabs me by the waist and starts shoving me backwards towards the bedroom. He kicks off his shoes between shoves. “Hey!” “Shut up, Snow, I’m going to have my w...

He combs his hand through my hair, from front to back, then tugs at the crown. I tilt my head back, eyes still closed. “What is it, then?” “It’s not one thing.” He pulls his fingers out of my hair, then combs them through again. “It’s aptitude, right? Some people aren’t good with words, some people aren’t persuasive speakers. Some people can’t think on their feet.” He could be talking about me. Maybe he is. “But it’s also ability,” he goes on. “Can you speak clearly, does your voice carry . . . And then there’s basic capacity. Strength, power. How much magic you can control, how much you can channel. Plus, training, education, practice, drive . . .” “Lucky for you,” I say, opening my eyes just enough to see him. “You’ve got it all.” Baz curls his lip. “Yeah, that’s me. Nobody can shut up about my good luck.” I ease closer. “You are lucky though. You and Penny. You’re like . . .” I reach my hand up his back, under his shirt. His skin is cool. “Aristocrats. Like, kings and queens compared to everyone else.” “What’d that make you, Snow, a god?” “I was a fluke.” Baz sighs, frustrated, and gives my hair a sharp pull.

“When has Bunce ever ignored a dangerous proposition?”

“We are not summoning the demon, Penelope.” “Don’t want me to meet your girlfriend?”

“Worried she’ll get clingy?” “Penelope . . .” He lets his arms fall. “You can keep making fun of me . . .” “I shall.” “And insulting me.” “That’s the plan.” He turns his head towards me. If I had to describe his face and general mood right now, I’d go with unhappy-go-unlucky. “But please,” he says, “don’t make jokes like that.” “Like what?” “Don’t call her my girlfriend.” “Is ‘fiancée’ better?” “Don’t, Penelope. It’s not funny.” “It’s funny to me, I have a lot of jokes lined up.”

Simon steps in and looks around. I fold my arms, waiting. He turns back to me and grins. “This is a good game,” I say flatly. “Can we play this for the rest of our lives?” Snow reaches out and grabs my elbow, pulling me across the threshold and against him. He’s laughing silently and kissing my cheek. (For someone who is afraid of looking gay in public, he sure gets off on public displays of affection.) (That’s probably connected.)

(Fair. Simon is incredibly attractive. Especially when he’s being all dogged and earnest like this. With his cheeks pink and his eyebrows drawn low and his throat bobbing every time he fortifies himself to ask a question.)

“Right.” He rubs his face. “Right. It is. I’m sorry. I wish I were more confident. I’m not really built for this.” I breathe out a laugh. He scowls at me. “What?” “How can you be insecure, Baz? You’re the most arrogant person I’ve ever met.” “They run on different tracks.” I laugh again. “I’m going to sleep in your bed,” he says, like it’s a legal declaration. “All right.” “Until you tell me you don’t want me to.” “Or until you don’t want to,” I say. “That might be never, Snow.” “All right.” Baz looks down, smiling with one side of his mouth, his eyelashes stark against his cheeks. I get under the sheets he magicked up for me—they’re already going threadbare, I suppose I’ll need to buy real ones soon—and lie on my side. Baz climbs in, too, and lies down facing me. After a second, he’s got my tail in hand, and he’s twisting it through his fingers.

He drops his head back on the pillow and tugs on my tail.

I hook an arm around Baz’s waist. He’s solid. I like it.

Baz says, scooting closer to me,

I shrug and sneak my free hand under Baz’s neck. It isn’t really sneaking—he lifts his head up for me, smiles like he might be blushing, and settles his head back down on my arm.

“I’m pretty sure you’ve said all of that about me.” “That’s just it.” Baz pokes my chest with the end of my tail. “He’s stealing your whole thing.” “He’s older than I am, so it was his thing first. Maybe I’m the one who stole it. Maybe it was meant to be him all along.” Baz thumps his head against my biceps. “Are we going to argue about Smith Smith-Richards every night in bed?” I grin. Suddenly I’m smiling so big I can hardly see. “What are you laughing at, Snow?” I’m not laughing. I shrug. I squeeze him. He’s solid. I like it.

She rolls her eyes. “Was he trying to convert you or get in your trousers?” “I mean,” Baz agrees, eating half a finger sandwich.

I can’t help but laugh once he has them on. His eyes look huge and blinky behind the thick lenses. I slide my arms around his waist. “Look at you, all specky.” He frowns down at me. He’s only three inches taller, but I swear he stretches it out to six when he feels like it. He looks like a very handsome, very judgy owl. “Kiss me,” I say. “I’ve always wanted to kiss someone with glasses.” “Bunce was right there . . .” “You look like a steampunk vampire.” “That’s absurd—” I kiss him. It is absurd. I can’t even see the glasses like this. I pull away just enough that I can. Baz cocks an eyebrow above the frames. “I don’t think this is what Lady Salisbury had in mind when she lent us her heirloom reading glasses.” “I don’t think she’d mind. She seems like she likes a good time.” “Really. You think she’s up to party.” “You know what I mean . . .” I kiss him again quickly. “I’ve never kissed you in the library. Think of all the places we could have kissed if we’d figured this out sooner.” He looks up at my forehead, threading one hand into my hair. His grey eyes are enormous. “If you’d figured it out sooner . . .” I could argue with him, tease him, return his serve. But I don’t want to. I push him back against a bookshelf and kiss him some more. My hands are on his waist. I can feel his skin, cool through his cotton shirt. Baz is wearing another long-sleeved button-down. (I don’t think the heat ever bothers him, even when the sun does.) This one’s got brown and blue stripes, but ...

Simon giggles. “I can’t believe we’re in the Catacombs together.” Before I can say anything, he’s pushing me against a stone wall and kissing my neck. “For fuck’s sake, Snow, this is hallowed ground!” “I’m not doing anything to unhallow it.” He keeps kissing me. I rest my arms over his shoulders, letting the roses droop. “New plan,” he says. “We retrace our old steps, and do this all of the places we used to fight.” “That’s everywhere.” “Everywhere, then.” He’s got his arms around my waist, and his chest and hips against mine. This is all my fifth-year fantasies come true: Simon Snow manhandling me in the library, in the Catacombs . . . “We could go up to the tower,” he says. “That’s someone else’s room now.” “It will always be our room more than anyone else’s.” I close my eyes and drop my head onto his shoulder. The wall behind me is cold and damp. Simon is warm. He’s pushing his nose into my collar and biting my throat. “I can’t believe I had you in my room every night,” he says, “and I didn’t take advantage of it.” “You could have had me in your room every night for the last year.” He groans into my collar. “I’m such a twat.” I lift my head up and get my free hand around his jaw. I can see his eyes, his pupils wide as saucers. Can he see me? “Kiss me in the Catacombs, Snow. Unhallow the ground.” “I’ll unhallow your ground,” he says, kissing me. I don’t think he can see me—his mouth lands halfway onto my chin. I’m laughing, making it worse. “You’re absurd,” I say. “Look....

“I’ll wait here,” I say. It didn’t occur to me until just now that he might want to be alone with his mum. “You go on.” Baz looks at me, one eyebrow cocked low, then nods. “I won’t be long.” He kisses my cheek before he walks away. I like that. All the easy kisses he’s giving me. All the checking on me and checking in with me. You might think it would be irritating, but it really isn’t. It makes me think it would have been nice to have someone looking out for me like this all along.

I put my hands in my pockets and walk a bit faster. “I’m not special.” Simon takes hold of my shoulder. “You literally are!” He gets in front of me, so that we both have to stop. “You get credit for not being a murderous asshole, you know, especially when being a murderous asshole would make your life way easier.” “Well . . . I’m still young.” “Baz. I don’t think you’re going to start draining strangers on the Underground.” He takes my other shoulder. He must have dropped his stick. “You won’t even drink my blood, and I’m offering it.” “Sto-o-o-op.”

“Because . . .” he whines. “Because it’s kinda hot.” “For fuck’s sake, Snow!” I shout it so loud, some birds go squawking out of the trees. I duck out of his arms. “Come on. It’s sexy. Admit it.” I’m walking away from him. “Cannibalism isn’t sexy.” He hums, like I might be wrong. “Simon.” He jogs to catch up with me. “It’s not just me—everyone thinks vampires are sexy! I’m terrible at metaphors, and I still get it. Every vampire movie is about fucking virgins.” I shake my head over and over. “I’m not . . . This is not . . . You’re not a virgin.” “Well, that part’s fictional, right? You don’t have to drink virgins, do you?” “I don’t have to drink anyone! I’m not drinking anyone! I’m not drinking you just because you think it’s kinky. Also, why do you think you could handle anything kinky?”

He bites the other side of his lip. “Just . . .” “You said you’d stop.” “No, I am. Just . . .” “Snow.” He fists his hand in my shirt and yanks me close to him, pressing his cheek into the side of my jaw. His voice is low. “Just know,” he says, “that I’d do anything for you. That I’d let you do anything to me. There’s nothing about you I don’t want.” And then he lets go of my shirt and runs away from me. I watch him disappear into the Wood.

I lean over to find them in the grass. “Don’t put your hair in that awful bun. It makes you look a thousand years old.” “But I can’t work with my hair in my face.” I hold the hairpins out to her. “You’re not working now.” She takes the pins from me. She looks like she doesn’t know what to do with them. Or herself. “You have perfectly good hair,” I say, reaching up to smooth it down. (Penelope says I have too many opinions about other people’s hair.) “There’s no reason to hide it.” “I don’t like myself with long hair.” “Then get it cut. It looked good at school.” “I didn’t think you remembered it,” she says. “Or me.” “I remember you now.” Niamh is frowning very deeply at me. If I didn’t know her face always looked like that, I’d back off. Instead I smooth out the other side of her head. It is nice hair. Thick and glossy, with just enough wave to take a style. My hair is too straight to wear any way other than how I wear it. “I don’t want to colour it again,” she says. The way someone else might say, “I don’t want to go to prison.” “Then don’t,” I reply, arranging her hair around her face. “It’s a good colour. Chestnut. With some auburn highlights in the sun. Lots of people dye their hair this colour. You could wear it short and dark . . .” I pull her hair back into a ponytail and hold it so the front poofs out. “You’d look good with a quiff.” Niamh doesn’t say anything. Her eyes are hard, and her eyebrows are tense. She’d look very, very good like this. Her face looks sever...

“Why animals, then, instead of people?” She shrugs. “Variety.” I laugh up my nose again. “Stop laughing at me, Agatha.” I don’t stop laughing. “Variety?” Still laughing. “Oh my words . . . You’re so strange, Niamh.” “Fine.” She’s fed up. “Why did you want to become a veterinarian, Agatha?” “Because I like animals more than people! Like a normal person!” “I also like animals more than people!” she says. “That just wasn’t the deciding factor!” Still laughing. I can’t help it. “Agatha.” “Yes?” She’s rubbing her forehead. “Do you want to stop and get something to eat?” “With me, a human being? Won’t you feel like the second wheel?” “Do you want to go to a pub?” “Yeah,” I laugh. “All right.” I really do.

I’m not going to tell their secrets. I’m not going to do anything else to mess things up with Penelope. I know that she’s miserable right now. That she’s fighting with her friends, and all broken up over her breakup . . . That she’s on the outs with her mom . . . I know that she’s only putting up with me because I present an interesting problem. But I am having the time of my life with Penelope Bunce. And it’s not just because she’s an endless corridor of magical revelations—and not just because she’s excruciatingly cute. I mean . . . That’s part of it. I am still human. Everything is part of it. Everything is so much fun. We wake up, I make tea. (I have a feeling that was Simon’s job.) Then we spend the whole day reading out loud to each other from books about magic, and telling each other stories. When Penelope gets excited about something, she’s much more likely to talk about herself. You wouldn’t believe her life—she’s fought werewolves, she’s invented spells. She has a real crystal ball, but she can’t find it. (I would like to help her find it.) When we get hungry, I run down to the corner to buy dumplings and noodles, or to one of the sandwich shops. (There are so many sandwich shops.) (Penelope is partial to cheese and pickle.) When she’s excited, I think she forgets that she’s only putting up with me. And I think she forgets what a losing proposition I am. She’ll jump off the couch to write something on the wall—“Aha!”—or lean into my shoulder to show me something ...

I’ve seen so much of Penelope Bunce’s knees. Her legs are short and curvy—they’re very goddamn cute, if I’m being honest, and her knees are the cutest part. And, okay, maybe I’m more affected by her cuteness than I want to admit, but what am I supposed to do? She’s right there, and she doesn’t get any less cute. Her cuteness doesn’t abate. It just gets worse the more I’m around her. The licorice thing is killing me. And she’s covered in chalk dust 24-7. It gets on her face and in her hair . . . I’ve never seen someone with so much hair pay so little attention to it—she’s either got the world’s messiest ponytail, or a mop of thick, dark brown hair, curling every which way, falling halfway down her back. It’s cute. It’s real cute. I am not unaffected, okay? I am very affected. Very. Very, very aware of Penelope Bunce. And how cute she is.

when I haven’t been distracted by her legs.

Penelope leans one shoulder against the back of the couch and refolds her legs, so she’s facing me. “Shepard . . .” I push up my glasses. “Penelope.” “Did you really go home with a fairy?” “I tried.” “What was her name?” “Fey.” She rolls her eyes. “That wasn’t her real name . . .” “It’s the name she told me.” “Why would a fairy name their kid Fey? That’s like a magician naming their kid Warlock!” “If I ever see her again, I’ll ask her.” Penelope gets another piece of red licorice, and spins it with one hand, watching the end whip around. “So you don’t keep in touch?” “We do not.” “Is there someone else you keep in touch with?” I clear my throat. I’m looking at Penelope. At her messy ponytail. And her excruciating knees. She isn’t looking at me. “Is that you asking if I have a girlfriend?” “Or a boyfriend,” she says quickly. “I usually date girls,” I say. “You usually date magical creatures—” “I don’t have a girlfriend, Penelope.” She looks at the wall. “I should probably add that to the list.”

I ask, before I can process how stupid it is to bring him up. “Micah?” “Yeah.” Stupid, stupid.

(This isn’t how I ended up going home with a fairy.)

“You probably don’t believe in soulmates, then. Magicians usually believe in soulmates. And destiny.” “I believe in everything,” I say.

She turns her head towards me and looks into my eyes. Penelope only looks in your eyes when she expects something. I wait for her to tell me what it is.