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

by Rainbow Rowell

I’ve been in this room too long with no one but Shepard. He’s starting to feel more real than everything else. He’s starting to feel like the one thing that’s supposed to be here. It should be the opposite—it is the opposite. Shepard is a Normal. And Normals don’t matter. I mean, I’m sure they matter to other Normals—but they’re not supposed to matter to me. They’re supposed to be like ants. Or plants. Important to the overall ecosystem, but not important.

But Shep and I have been talking for days. And we’ve been talking so much about magic. And so much about everything. And I know that he’s a Normal, it’s not like I ever forget, but I can’t really imagine what would be different about being here with him if he had magic. I suppose he’d understand me a little better, he’d know what magic feels like . . . But magic feels different for everyone, even among mages. You can’t ever really know what it’s like to be someone else . . . “Shepard.” He pushes up his glasses. “Penelope.” “Do you wish that you could do magic?” He bites his lip. His bottom lip is pinker than the top, and there’s a dimple in the middle, so that the top of his bottom lip is shaped like the top of a heart. I only noticed this yesterday, and now I can’t stop. “I feel sort of like you’re asking me whether I wish I could fly,” he says. “And the answer is—of course. Yes. I would love to do magic. But I don’t wish that I was something else. Does that make sense?” “Sort of . . .” “Like, I wouldn’t trade being who I am to be someone or something else that could do magic.” “You don’t mind being Normal?” He laughs at me. “Don’t laugh at me.” He smiles instead. “I don’t mind being what I am. We don’t call ourselves ‘Normal,’ you know?” “But, Shepard, you spend so much time trying to get close to magic, you must . . .” He looks like he’s going to laugh again, so I stop talking. He’s still holding the strawberry lace I gave him. “Do you even like strawberry laces?” I ask...

Holy shit, this is . . . This is not something I thought would happen. Penelope . . . She’s going to be mad about this, right? Like, this is not something she wanted to occur. But the way she was looking at me—like, if I didn’t kiss her, she was going to turn me into a frog—what was I supposed to do? Penelope . . . We can stop if you want to. She tilts her head and pushes closer. Our glasses tap against each other. I take mine off and set them as far away as I can reach, and then I bring my hand up to her shoulder. Her cheek is round and soft. Her shoulder is round and soft. I have a good feeling about the rest of her. Penelope kisses like someone who hasn’t done this very much. And that isn’t to say it’s bad—it’s very not bad. She just doesn’t seem to know what to do first. I hold her face in both hands and let her kiss me like she has a lot of questions about this whole scenario. A long time passes before she touches me—one hand on my shoulder—but then it’s both hands on my shoulders, then both hands on my neck, both hands in my hair, both hands on my ears. I laugh, I can’t help it. “Don’t laugh at me,” she whispers. I lick her mouth while it’s open—and groan. She tastes so sweet. Penelope has her hands on my shoulders again. She climbs into my lap and brackets my hips with her knees. She smooths down her skirt. And then she puts both arms around my neck. I lean back against the couch and hold her waist. I don’t know how much longer this can go on. I hope she doesn’t reg...

Nicks and Slick, I’ve been wrong about everything. Wrong about love. Wrong about kissing, for certain. Wrong about Shepard—I was frightfully wrong about Shepard. And I’m so glad. What else could I have been wrong about? I hope he shows me. I want him to show me. I’ve been sitting in his lap for what feels like hours. We’re still kissing, and it’s still so soft. And he’s still smiling. I’m not sure he’s stopped smiling. I’m smiling, too. Shepard looks different without his glasses—even more open, even more vulnerable. His eyes are smaller, his face has more space. I kiss the spot between his eyebrows, and he laughs. My glasses are gone, too—Shepard took them off and set them somewhere. He tracks his thumbs along my eyebrows, down, over my cheekbones, and his smile fades. “Penelope . . . I need to ask you something.” I sit back a little on his thighs. “Okay.” He brings his hands to my waist, like he’s holding me steady. “Are you going to regret this?” “How would I know that now?” I ask. Shepard bites his lip. His bottom lip is even pinker than before. “I guess that’s fair.” “Are you?” “No,” he says. “Well, you don’t know that either . . .” He sits up a little. “No, I do. Without a doubt. I am never going to regret kissing you. I’m never going to regret a moment we’ve spent together, even though I regret the mistakes I’ve made . . .” “Oh,” I say. He pushes my hair out of my face. It falls back immediately. My ponytail must be nearly dead. “I need to tell you something,” he sa...

(Who knew Snow was whimsical?) “You should choose one set, Baz.” “They’re your sheets, Snow.” “Yeah, but you’re going to be sleeping on them.” (I would sleep on a bed of straw to be close to him. I’d sleep in the back of a truck.)

We held hands the whole day. At lunch, he sat with his arm resting on the back of my chair. “If you can’t be gay at Ikea,” Snow reasoned, “where can you?” Was this the best day of my life? I’m nearly certain. It was so good that I haven’t come down yet,

(I’m very relieved that my father doesn’t need me in Oxford; it’s very important that I stay in London and eat toast in Simon Snow’s bed. On his new striped sheets.)

I lay my hand on Simon’s neck and scratch at the back of his hair, where it’s too short to curl. He glances over his shoulder to smile at me. We’re going hunting after this. And then we’re getting fish and chips. And then we’re going back to Simon’s apartment together. Tomorrow morning, we’ll have toast in bed. I rub his neck, and he doesn’t shrug me off. (This must be another place where it’s okay to be gay—or whatever Simon is.)

“You promised you’d stay in the kitchen,” I say. “No, you asked me to stay in the kitchen. Shepard, do you trust me?” I look down at her. She redid her ponytail and cleaned her glasses to prepare for the ritual, and put on, I swear to you, a gray cape. Her brown eyes are set deep and pinched fierce, and her lips are still puffy from kissing me. She’s got her purple gem in her fist. “I do,” I say. She stands on tiptoe to kiss me again. “Summon the demon,” she says, “and then stay out of my way.”

The tattoos are gone. Shepard holds out his arms, and I run my fingertips up the inside of one forearm. They’re gone. “Penelope . . .” he says. “You did it.” I did it. Shepard isn’t going to hell . . . At least not that version of it. “Penelope!” Shepard sounds a little delirious. He picks me up and spins me around. “You did it!” “I mean”—I hold on to his shoulders—“you did help.” “You’re an absolute madwoman! You summoned a demon in your living room. You’re an entire crazy train!” I frown down at him. “I wouldn’t say crazy . . . I had a plan.” “A crazy plan.” He sets me down, still holding me. “What if it hadn’t worked?” “I was pretty sure it was going to work.” “Yeah, but it might not have . . .” I shake his shoulders. “Stop second-guessing me, Shepard! The proof is in the pudding.” “You’re the most dangerous thing I’ve ever seen,” he says, kissing me. “You’re an F5, easily. Maybe an F6.” I let him kiss me. I like it when he kisses me. “We broke the curse . . .” I murmur. “You broke the contract,” he says. “It was never valid.” He pulls away, grinning down at me. “Should I be hurt that you got me out of this by convincing that demon that I was more trouble than I’m worth?” “I merely presented the facts.” He kisses me soundly, then starts laughing, purely from joy, I think. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough for this.” “Don’t thank me yet, Shepard.” “Why not?” “Because I’m probably going to slay your friend Ken.”

I may never get over how good it feels to know I’m largely responsible for this.

Baz rushes towards him.

“Shep! You’re not going to hell anymore! And you don’t have to wear a jacket in the middle of June. Do you know how jealous I am?” Shepard smiles at Simon. Baz and I are looking at each other cryptically again. I think we’re agreeing not to let Simon change the subject like this . . . (We should really come up with some hand signals or something.) “Perhaps Snow is right . . .” Baz says carefully. I shake my head. Baz goes on. “If you really outwitted a demon, Bunce, that’s one for the history books.” The corner of his mouth quirks up. It’s very nearly fond. I roll my eyes. “It wasn’t that impressive.” “Balls to that,” Simon says. “They’re going to teach a class about you at Watford someday.” “To Penelope,” Shepard says gently, holding his teacup in the air. “My hero.” Simon raises his cup. “Mine, too!” “A very fierce magician,” Baz says, toasting. “I don’t mind saying.” My cheeks feel very warm. And my eyes are burning. This really isn’t the time for this. “It was no trouble. I didn’t even have to get out my gem.”

“Oh, so you stay the night now . . .” Penelope teases. I cock an eyebrow. “Oh, so you fraternize with Normals now . . .” “I—” “We’re not blind, Bunce.” She’s been blushing at Shepard all night, and he’s clearly had a crush on her since Colorado. Simon grins. “Wait, really?” he whispers. “You and Shepard?” Apparently, I’m not blind.

He spreads them wide, arching his back, and lifting his chin to stretch his neck. He looks . . . “Come to bed,” I whisper. He looks over at the bed, squinting. “I thought you were asleep.” “Not yet. Come to bed.” “Haven’t showered yet.” “It’s all right. It’s your bed.” He unbuttons his jeans, still squinting at me. His eyes aren’t as good as mine in the dark. “Are you sure?” I hold the sheet open for him. He pushes his jeans down and kicks them away, climbing into the bed beside me. I bring the sheet back up over him, and he scoots closer, shifting a bit to get his wings settled behind him. He’s warm, and he smells like a pub. Like cider and fish and a little like pizza. I slide an arm around his waist. “Did you make up with Bunce? Has she moved in?” He shrugs. He’s still shifting and wriggling closer. “I apologized like you said I should.” “And?” “And she said we don’t need magic to be friends.” “Wise girl.” Simon brings a knee up over my thigh. “She said she only has two and a half friends, and she can’t afford to lose any.” “Am I the half, or is Agatha?” “You’re both three-fourths.” “Fucking Bunce.” Simon touches my chin. “You smell good.” “Soap,” I say. “Where’d you go tonight?” “Hunting.” “Before that.” I shudder, and he moves even closer, nose to nose, bringing a wing around us. “Do you need a blanket?” he asks. “I’m fine,” I say. “Just stay close.” “Where’d you go, Baz?” “I realized I’d left something at Fiona’s . . .” “What?” I shake my head. “Can we talk about it ...

My thigh is resting on his, and he’s tucked his knee up between my legs. I’m stroking his hair. It’s still wet. He smells so good, and it isn’t just soap—it’s Baz. He smells cold and clean. Like running water. Like damp wood. He doesn’t smell like anything living, but he doesn’t smell like anything dead either. I’ll never get enough of it. My lungs won’t hold on to it—they betray me every time I exhale. Baz scratches between my wings like he’s scratching a dog between its ears. It sends a shiver down my spine. I try to move closer. Our chins bump. “I’m done with Smith-Richards,” I say. “Good,” Baz says. His voice is soft. “But what will we tell Lady Ruth?” “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” I nod. I’ll worry about it tomorrow. All of it: Smith. Jamie. Me. The thing Baz isn’t telling me. The bed feels good. Feels clean. “I like these sheets.” “Me, too.” Baz scratches my back. “Good job, Snow.” “I like finding you here,” I say. Very quietly. I can hear him breathing. “I could always be here,” he says. Very, very quietly. I nod my head again. Our noses bump. Baz works his left hand under my neck, pressing and holding me there. I want to kiss him—but I don’t want to barrel through this moment. I think this might be a moment. And I don’t want to knock over whatever it is we’re building. Here in the dark. “Baz . . .” “Hmm.” “Is this what people do?” “What do you mean, Snow?” “I’m not sure . . .” He tightens his grip on the back of my neck. His fingers are cold. My fingers are cold,...

Baz holds the back of my neck. He presses his other hand between my wings and drags his fingertips down my spine. I kiss him. I kiss him. Like I’m lapping up water from a stream. Is this what people do? I’m gentle, I’m so gentle. Baz holds me fast. He moves his body in a wave against mine, moves against me like a serpent. “Just kiss me,” he says between kisses. “Mmm,” he mmms between breaths. Is this what people do? At night? In the dark? I was never magic. I hitch my knee higher on his hip. He pushes his palm down my back. I wrap my tail around his forearm, and I’m gentle. He isn’t. And I am. “Kiss me,” he says. I kiss him. “Please,” he says. “Baz, don’t—” “Please . . .” “I will.” I do. He doesn’t have to beg. He never has to beg. I’ll give him whatever he wants. Can’t he see that, here in the dark—that I’ll give him whatever he wants? My hand is gentle on his scalp, gentle on his throat. I couldn’t break him if I tried. I won’t try. “Baz.” I kiss him. “You can have whatever you want.” “I want to always be here.” “I want that, too. I love you.” He’s moving against me in waves. I hitch my knee higher. He’s wearing pyjamas. I’m wearing boxers. We’re both hard. I’m being gentle, he isn’t. I was never magic. He was human once. My fingers clench in his hair— “Simon,” he says, and it isn’t good. I let go. “Simon . . .” he says. That’s better. My wings spread out of their own volition. Baz. Like a wave, against me. Like a serpent moving through the sand.

I hold Baz’s face in both my hands. Like he’s made of glass. Like he’d break. He won’t. I kiss him. And it’s cool. I kiss him like he’s cold water, and I’m drinking. He wraps his palm around the base of my tail. He holds me by the neck. He rocks and rocks and rocks into me. “Baz . . .” “Please, Simon.” “You don’t have to . . .” Is this, is this, is this what people do? Is this what he wants? Is this what I’m allowed to take? He’s rocking into me, and I need this to happen again someday in the light. I don’t know what Baz’s face looks like, like this, when he’...

My hand is still on the back of his neck. All I want is to ride this out. To show him we can keep getting through every sort of breakdown together.

His fingers are awake on my face, gently stroking my cheeks. And he’s lifted his head a bit. “Baz?” His voice is all breath. I’ve still got him by the back of the neck.

I squeeze his neck. I’m going to ride this out, we’re going to— “Baz? Are you okay?” I . . . I nod. “You’re still cold,” he says, and he brings a wing over and around me. “I’m fine. Are—Are you okay?” He pets my cheek. His thumb ghosts over my bottom lip. “If you are.” I squeeze his neck. “That’s not how it works, Snow.” “Isn’t it?” Is it? He hasn’t moved his leg. I haven’t moved mine. We’re slotted together and sticky. I put my arm around his waist, carefully, and flatten my hand against his back. I’ve been biting my lip. “I’m okay.” Simon kisses me. He’s still being so gentle. Maybe I’ll have to tell him that he can stop now. (Maybe I’ll never tell him.) “You’re being quiet,” he says. “Only because you’re kissing me.” “You’re being weird.” “You’re not . . .” I shake my head. Our lips brush. I shiver. He tightens his wing around me. “You’re not freaking out.” “Did you want me to?” he asks. “It’s probably not too late.” “No . . . I . . .” Simon slides one hand down to the back of my neck, and wraps the other arm around me. He’s mirroring me. He’s gentling me. He whispers, “I don’t know what you’re thinking. I can’t tell whether I should be embarrassed or sorry or . . .” “Or what?” His mouth is close to mine. “Happy?” I close my eyes and let out a breath. “Is that on the table?” “Baz . . . we kinda sorta had sex. And I didn’t cry or break anything.” I laugh. It sounds wet. “Babe . . .” he says. That’s new. That’s extraordinarily stupid. “Are you freaking out?” I hold him a ...

“Do you even know how cool that was? That Natasha married badly, for love, and then proved to the whole World of Mages that she and Malcolm could be unstoppable together?”

“And then she had you,” Fiona goes on. “And you were exactly the sort of child your mother would have—Crowley, you were such a charmer. Curious and headstrong and thoughtful. So thoughtful, even as a toddler. I remember looking at you and thinking, Well, of course Natasha has had the best possible baby. Isn’t that just like her?

She smiles, her lips tight and twitching and trying to turn down. “But we had to try, right?

“And I’m not sorry that I tried to be . . .” I look down at my tea and wipe my eyes on Snow’s sleeve. “I’m not sorry either,” I whisper.

Baz is on the sofa, looking somehow paler than usual. I’m rubbing his back. I can’t stop touching him, to be honest, even though this definitely isn’t the time.

“Her voice is.” He swallows. “I’m going to give it back to her—and then I’m going to let her spell me into oblivion.” I stand up and take his arm. “Well, I’m not letting her spell you into anything.” Penelope stands, too. “Me neither.” “We’ll have to hurry,” I say, “if we want to catch Philippa before she leaves for Smith’s meeting at Watford.” “‘We’?” Baz pulls away from me. “There’s no ‘we.’ You’re not all coming.” “I can stay here,” Shepard offers. Penelope frowns at him. “Oh no, I’m not letting anyone in this room out of my sight, ever again.”

“Should we talk about this?” I ask.

I keep trying: “We’re about to do something huge; shouldn’t we talk about it?” “Who are you, and what have you done with Simon Snow?”

I touch his arm. “Baz . . .” He turns on me, eyes flashing. “Simon. She hasn’t had magic. For five years. And it’s my fault. I can’t talk until I fix this. I can’t even breathe . . . All right?” I take in his wild eyes, his bloodless fists. “Yeah,” I say. “All right.” I squeeze his arm. “Let’s go, then. Let’s fix it.”

“Just hide the wings, would you?” Baz has the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “With a spell?” “Yeah. I’m tired of wearing hoodies and trench coats, and it’s not like I’m gonna fly to Camden . . .” “All right,” Baz says softly.

Penny and Shepard are leaning against the living room wall, kissing. (I kind of feel like I’ve been cockblocking Penny all these years. As soon as I left her alone, this happened.)

Penelope twists around to shout at him. “Oh my words, Shepard, I’m not letting you anywhere near that man!” “I’m just saying, your mom spelled me unconscious five minutes after she met me . . . I wouldn’t mind a shield.” Baz stops pacing in front of me. He looks agitated. “Simon . . . love, I’m sorry. I know this is serious. But I have to catch Philippa before she leaves. I just . . .” He shakes his head half a dozen times and hitches the bag higher on his shoulder. “You’re right.” I stand up. “I’ll get a coat.” “No—you don’t have to come. Especially not now.” “Baz, I’m coming. This doesn’t really change anything, even if I am immune to magic or whatever. When was the last time you guys cast a spell on me that wasn’t just to hide my wings?” “We’re coming, too,” Penelope says. “I’m not letting you fall on your sword for this, Baz.” Baz looks frustrated. He’s licking his bottom lip. “Neither of you are treating this situation with the gravity it deserves.” He glares at us. “I’ve done something really bad, and you’re just shrugging it off!” “We’re not shrugging it off,” I say. “We’re coming with you.” Penelope looks unimpressed. “Do you want us to say that you’re bad? Fine, you’re very bad.” “That’s not—” She rolls her eyes. “You did something unconscionable because an adult you trusted said it would matter. Join the fucking club, Basilton.” “You’re not in this club, Bunce.” “No, but Simon is, and I was right there cheering him on, casting every spell I could to help.” Baz ho...

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.”

We talked last night, plenty—until the pub closed. Niamh told me about veterinary school. (She likes it.) And living in London. (She doesn’t.) About what she’s learned from my dad, and how she wants to start her own practice, and how she’s going to run for the Coven someday. Niamh has a lot of opinions about how things should be done. And what’s practical. I have zero opinions like that. But I liked listening to Niamh’s opinions and telling her when they sounded impossible. (Less often than one might expect.) I laughed the whole night. At Niamh. And her straight-faced opinions and strange pronouncements. At the way she lets the whole world get under her skin. I never laugh that much. Niamh never laughs at all, apparently, but I still think she had a good time. She kept sitting there with me, when she could have asked me to take her home. Morgana knows Niamh wouldn’t spend a minute in anyone’s company just to be polite. We turn off the main road onto the sleepy little lane that leads to Watford, leaving the noise and traffic behind us. “I was right about your hair,” I say, to break the silence. And also to punish Niamh for the silence, I suppose. “It’s none of your business,” she replies. “And yet, you did get the haircut I suggested . . .” “I’ve had this haircut before, Agatha.” “. . . and I was right about it.” She pulls her eyebrows down so far that they disappear behind her sunglasses. “Is it important for you to be right?” “Not usually. But about hair, yes.” “It’s more...

“We don’t need Simon,” I say, striding purposefully ahead of her. “I think the goats are this way.” “You think?” “I have a feeling about it.” “A feeling,” she says. “You don’t have to follow me, Niamh. You don’t have to listen to any of my suggestions.” I keep walking. When I glance over my shoulder, Niamh is a few steps behind me.

“Wait!” Simon shouts. Just as Pippa says, “Test the waters!” I open my eyes when the stream hits my chest. Pippa is staring down at my wand. Simon is holding her wrist. “I—” he says, letting go of her. “Sorry, Philippa. Pippa. I just . . .” “Good on you, Pippa,” Salisbury says. He seems sincerely happy for her, despite everything.

I say, taking the opportunity to touch his arm.

“I think they’re all upset about her.” “Is that another of your ‘feelings’?” I cross my arms. “Do you want me to share my instincts with you or not?” “Share them,” she grumbles. “I don’t have any instincts at all.” “Everyone has instincts, Niamh.” “Not me. I have . . . a university education.” “Oh, shut up.” I’m standing over her, looking down. Her cropped hair looks even better brown than it did platinum. “I’ve seen you play lacrosse.” “You don’t remember me playing lacrosse . . .” “I’ve told you, I remember now. Do you need help getting up?” She pushes herself up and brushes grass off her thighs and behind. She’s very thick, is Niamh. In her cuffed jeans and her tighter-than-usual T-shirt.

Niamh makes a disparaging noise in her throat. “He’s not the reason people stared at you.” I spin around, and she nearly walks into me. “What does that mean?” I demand, even though I know very well what it means. I know why people stare at me. Of course Niamh would find the meanest possible way to say, “You’re beautiful.” It’s another thing I can’t help that she holds against me. At least she has the decency to look embarrassed. “I mean . . .” She looks at the ground. “I don’t know what I mean . . .” I step closer to her. “Don’t you?”

“It’s alive!” I shout. “Niamh! Look!” “You’re doing so well,” she says, handing me another clean towel. The kid kicks its way out of the membrane, while I scrub at it. The doe cranes her head back, too exhausted to reach it. I bring the baby over to her face, and she licks away the gunk. “There you are, mother,” I say. “Good work, darling.” I’m crying. I’m laughing. Niamh lays her hand on my back. “You saved them both, Agatha.” “I didn’t—” I turn to Niamh. For once, she doesn’t look angry. Niamh is looking at me the way lots of people do sometimes, but she never has. Like I’m . . . well, like I’m . . . “You’re amazing,” she says. I’ve turned right into her arm. Her hand stays on my back. Niamh’s eyes are royal blue. Her eyelashes are short and dark. Her colour is high. Here, in the clearing, under the solid gold sun. “Agatha,” she says. My hands are covered in goo and jelly. I lift up my chin, so it’s there, if she wants it . . . She does. She kisses me. Niamh. Her long nose in my cheek. Her chin as sharp as it looks. Her lips the softest part of her, surely. Niamh. I would like . . . Niamh. More of this . . . Niamh. Please. Niamh kisses me. “Agatha,” she says, “you saved Watford.”

(Shepard may be the first true Normal on Watford grounds—it’s a spectacular transgression.) (How many history books is Penelope going to end up in? And for how many reasons?)

“She won’t hurt him,” Penny says, to herself, as much as to me. “But she doesn’t like him,” I counter. “He says she’s never liked him.” “Oh, she likes him fine—she just thinks he’s a bad influence on me.” Shepard and I both laugh. Bunce frowns at us. “Maybe we should leave before your mom comes down,” Shepard says. “I don’t want to be here while she’s still putting people in towers.” “I’d break you out,” Penny says dismissively. “Almost nothing you say is reassuring,” he says, somehow still smiling at her. “Being reassuring isn’t one of my core competencies,” she tells him. “Breaking people out of towers is.”

Penelope touches my arm. She’s standing just behind me, her right fist subtly pointed at Pippa’s back. “All right, Baz?” I put my hand on her wrist. “All right, Bunce.”

Niamh is beaming. At the goats. At me. When her hands are free, she gets them around me. I hook my arms behind her neck. More of her hair has fallen into her eyes, and it makes my knees weak. Thank magic she’s holding on to me, holding me up. Niamh kisses me again, and I want to draw a line through everything I considered a kiss before. I never knew a kiss could ask this much from me.

“I’m staying in Oxford tonight. Did you make it home in one piece?” I send the text, then immediately set the phone on my chest, rolling my eyes at myself. It buzzes, and I jump, knocking it to the floor. I pick it up. “3 pieces actually, do you know how to sew?” I smile. And roll my eyes at myself some more. It takes nothing to please me. “Did you deliver Jamie Salisbury safely home?” “yeah, you won’t believe what he told me—his sister dated the mage!” Aleister Crowley. The Mage? “The actual Mage?” I text. “THE MAGE,” Simon sends back. “No wonder she fled the country.” “no wonder her mum hates him!! lady ruth already called to thank us, for jamie and everything—she’s making us lunch tomorrow to celebrate, will you be back?” “Yes,” I send. He sends me back a thumbs-up. I stare at the screen for a second, not sure what to say next. Simon and I don’t have text conversations. Not usually. Not really. Simon starts typing—there’s a “. . .” on the screen—then stops. Then starts again. “you still angry with me?” he finally sends. I think about it for a second. “Yes.” “can it wait until you come back?” “What do you mean?” “be angry with me tomorrow, when you’re here, not now” “You want me to set it aside?” “y” I think again. “All right.” “are you angry?” “No,” I type. Honestly. It’s easy to set my anger aside; I don’t want to be angry with Simon. If anything, I want to apologize for being angry with him. Which isn’t fair. He’s the one who lied. He doesn’t reply right away. Then—“y...

I scowl at the phone and tap his name to call him. He picks up after a few seconds. “Baz?” “You have never in your life let anyone down.” Simon doesn’t say anything at first. (I can hear the three dots.) “That’s not true,” he says. “I let you down all the time.” “It isn’t ‘letting someone down’ to be depressed.” “You’re literally still angry at me from earlier today.” “Because you lied to me, Snow!” “Doesn’t that count?” “Fine,” I whisper harshly, “you let me down all the time—I think that’s just being in a relationship—but you’ve never let the World of Mages down. You don’t owe the magickal community anything. You never did. But you’ve served it with unflagging honour.”

“I understand that you’ve lost something—a lot of things—but you’re still the same person. I know, because I loved you then, and I love you now, and I know that’s not enough to make you happy—to make anyone happy—but you’re the same person, Simon. You’re still you.” He doesn’t answer me. It sounds like he’s pacing. I can hear his wings snapping open and closed. “It’s enough,” he finally grumbles. “What is,” I whisper. “The fact that you love me. It does make me happy.” “Yeah?” “Yeah,” he sighs. “It doesn’t fix everything. I still don’t know who’s looking back at me in the mirror. But . . . it makes me happy.” “You sound ecstatic, Snow.” He laughs. There’s a creaking noise, like he’s sitting down—on his mattress or the new sofa. “I want to tell you that I’m sorry I lied to you,” he says. “But then I think about you walking into the Chapel and getting that spell cast at you. That curse.” “Why would Smith-Richards have cast a spell on me that would immediately make me more powerful?” “I don’t know—to hurt you. He’s a fucked-up person!” “You’ll get no argument there,” I say. “But you can’t lie to me every time there’s trouble. You can’t sideline me from every battle.” “Are you expecting lots of battles in the future?” “You may have forgotten who you are, Snow, but I haven’t.” Simon sighs. He sounds tired. “You said we could set this aside until you come back.” “You brought it up.” “I know. I’m sorry. About that, anyway. Are . . . Are you still coming back?” “Simon . . .” I kno...

I hold my hand farther out to her. “Take it.” She looks away. “No. Your dad’s right. You should have it to remember your mum.” “I’ll see it more often on your hand than I will if it stays in a box.” She peers back at me, biting her cheek, but still doesn’t take it. I look down at the ring. “I think my father hoped I might give it to a girl someday . . .” Fiona snatches it from my palm. “Simon Snow is not getting my mother’s sapphire.” I laugh. “Homophobic.” “It isn’t because he’s a boy,” she says. “It’s because he’s a pain in my arse.” Then she screws up her face at me—like she feels guilty, and it’s my fault. “Well, shit . . . Did you want to give it to him?” “No,” I say, still laughing. “Take it.” She beams at me. “Thank you.” “You’re welcome.” She grabs me into a hug, rocking us back and forth. “Thank you, thank you.” “You’re welcome, Fiona.” She pulls away and opens her fist, holding the ring so she can admire it. “I know you think I’m mad . . .” “As a hatter. Are you telling anyone else about the wedding?” “Can you imagine? Pitches on one side of the Chapel, vampires on the other.” “That would put me in a very awkward position.” She bumps her shoulder into my arm, smiling at me. “Wasn’t planning a wedding. But Nicky’s going to move in.” “I figured as much.” “And we’re going to make it legal the Normal way. They haven’t stricken him from their books.” She quirks an eyebrow at me. “We could use a witness . . .”

“I thought you were a goblin,” Simon says. He’s standing in his bedroom door, holding a dinner knife like a dagger. He slept in his knit boxers—he still looks half asleep. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” I say. “Goblins are fit.” Simon rubs his face and walks back into the bedroom. When I get there, he’s under the duvet again. I sit on the edge of the mattress. “Are you sleeping with a full set of cutlery or just the knife?” “Don’t have a sword,” he mumbles, like that explains it. “Come back to bed.” “I wasn’t in bed.” “Don’t be a dick.”