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

by Rainbow Rowell

I get under the blanket. Snow reaches out to me and pulls me against him. He’s still sleep-warm. I feel his tail sliding over my thigh. We’re face-to-face, but he’s not looking in my eyes. “Don’t be angry with me yet,” he whispers. His breath smells rotten. Maybe if he were someone else, I’d mind. “When do I get to be angry?” I ask. He knocks his forehead against mine, still looking down. “Later.” “All right,” I whisper. He brings his hand up, catches his thumb on my bottom lip. “You’re pink.” “Breakfast,” I say. He rubs my lip roughly against my teeth. My jaw goes slack. Simon glances up, into my eyes, and then rubs my lip again, more gently. I shiver. I touch his side, his skin, his ribs. He thinks he’s fat—he isn’t. He just isn’t a starving teenager anymore. He’s solid and stalwart. And so warm . . . His skin feels different when he’s been sleeping, I don’t understand why. Thicker somehow, more lush. I move my hand to the small of his back, just above his tail, and pull him closer—he grimaces. I lift my hand away. “Are you injured?” Snow shrugs. “A bit. My wing’s cut up. From the glass in the Chapel. I have to heal the old-fashioned way.” I kiss his cheek, quickly. “What can I do?” “Can you . . .” He pushes me onto my back (I let him) and rolls partly on top of me. It frees up his wings, and he relaxes them, half spread, above us. “Thanks.” I reach up to pet the edge of one wing. It twitches. “Does that hurt?” I ask. “No, it . . .” He wrinkles his nose, like he isn’t su...

Baz looks so good right now, does he know it? All that inky black hair curling on his paper-pale neck. He looks less grey than usual. Or maybe I’ve just acclimated to it. I like him grey. I like him. I like his narrow shoulders—narrow compared to mine, anyway. All of him longer and leaner than me. I like comparing us. I want to lay myself over him elbow to elbow, hip to hip. I want to grow my hair out, so I can see what it looks like, twined up with his around my finger. Baz came back. This morning. He was always going to come back. I think he always will, if I make it good for him. I think he wants this, wants me. And I’m going to make it so good for him. This morning. This life. I’m being gentle—it’s already easier, now that I know how much he likes it. The way he goes boneless when I hold him like china. When my hands are whispers not shouts. I’m going to keep finding out what he likes. This is what people do. They get close and try to stay there. They stay. They keep trying to hold on to each other, even though it’s not really possible, I don’t think. Because people are always moving, aren’t they. But this is what they do. They keep trying. I’ll keep trying. To keep him well. To keep him happy. Merlin, I’m too turned on to think. I love him, I love him. But I also want to do this, whatever it is that works between us. With Agatha, it—No, never mind, that doesn’t matter. I’m holding Baz’s jaw and kissing him. I’m stroking his cheek like he’ll break. My cock is in his hi...

Maybe this is enough. Simon. Finally. Beside me. Maybe it’s too much. Maybe I’m the one getting lost . . . (This is what I wanted, but I didn’t know what it was like. His heart is beating in my throat. His hands are everywhere. His tail. He has so many ways to hold on to me.) I push his face away from mine. “I need—” “What do you need, babe?” I hold on to his cheeks. “I need you to know that I’m not disappointed in you.” “Baz, it’s okay. I know.” “I believe in you.” I cover his mouth, so he’ll listen. “Simon, I believe in you.” He doesn’t try to argue. Not right away. His face looks so red under my hands. My bloodless fingers. My blue nails. Simon pulls my wrist down. “Do you trust me?” He knows I do. That I did, even when I hated him. (I never hated him.) “Yes.” “Can I touch you?” I nod my head.

I’m not crying. Neither is Baz. My wings hurt. I lie on my stomach, so I can spread them out. Baz sits beside me, and I know he’s inspecting the damage from yesterday. They’re just cuts, I’ll live. I feel his fingers on the back of my neck. “You can be angry now,” I say. He pulls my hair.

Baz stands up, leaving the violin on my bed, and comes over to me. He moves my hands away and finishes buttoning the shirt. It’s his shirt, an olive-green cotton one with complicated stripes and short sleeves. (I’ve never even seen Baz wear short sleeves.) “Are you going to dress me every morning?” I ask. “If you allow it, absolutely.” I’ll probably allow it, what do I care. “I don’t want to wear flowers,” I say. Baz is wearing flowers. His button-down shirt is grey with sprays of pink and blue lilacs. He makes it look manly somehow, with his indigo trousers and grey lace-up shoes. I’d look like a sofa. “No flowers.” He kisses my cheek. “So noted, rosebud boy.” I look up at him. “That’s what the ghost called me—your mother. That’s what she said.” Baz is looking in my eyes. “I remember.” He runs his thumb over my cheek. Then my bottom lip. “My rosebud boy.”

Lady Ruth is staring at me like she’s just seen a ghost. Jamie is in the doorway, looking just as shocked. I turn the sword and offer him the grip. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have, um . . .” He doesn’t take it. “Sorry,” I say again.

“That’s . . .” Lady Salisbury gasps. “That’s an Excalibur!” Simon looks down at the sword, his eyes goggling. “This is Excalibur?” “It’s an Excalibur,” she says. “Made by Merlin himself.” “I don’t understand . . .” Simon says. Neither do I. But if this means Snow is the once and future king, I can’t say I’ll be surprised at this point. “It’s a family sword,” Jamie says, still looking gobsmacked. “Made for the House of Salisbury.” “I’m not a Salisbury by blood.” Lady Ruth’s voice is trembling. “Once it’s planted, I can’t budge it.” “I . . .” Simon looks like he wants to set the sword down, but that seems like another faux pas. Lady Salisbury rushes towards him, past the sword, to throw her arms around him. “Oh, my child, my child!” Does this mean . . . Could Simon be . . .

I told her to bring the child home. I prayed and pleaded. Bring it home. Let me help you keep it safe. And here he is. Here he must be. My Lucy’s child, my flesh and blood. My Simon.

But Lady Ruth is hugging him again. “It’s you. You’ve finally come home.” “This is a mistake—” Simon insists. “My sister had a child . . .” Jamie Salisbury says, standing beside his mother. “She told us that she had a child.” “I can’t be—” “You must be,” Jamie says gently, pointing at the sword. “Merlin, Simon, you even look like him.” Oh . . . He does. Doesn’t he? Those narrow eyes. That tilt of his head. I thought . . . I thought he’d learned it. Was imitating it. Simon Snow is the Mage’s heir. He was. All along.

“My child, my child,” she keeps saying. And I think she’s right—I think it’s undeniable. I’d cast “Flesh and blood” on them, but it would probably bounce right off of Snow like every other spell has so far. I’m standing beside him. His wings are keeping me from getting close. “It’s all right, love,” I say, touching his back.

My dad spent the whole night asking Shepard questions. About magickal creatures and America. Even a few about the weather. Dad thinks Shepard is marvellous. (Shepard is a bit marvellous.) Mum was more cautious. She at least didn’t cast any more spells on him.

“I don’t want to hear it, Mum.” “You’ll only be able to marry him in three dimensions.” “That you know of,” I said.

“You should stay!” I blurt out. Too loudly. A man standing next to us scowls at me. Shepard tilts his head and looks down at me. He bites his bottom lip. “You should stay,” I say again. More sanely. “Penelope . . .” he says quietly, “I’m not even here legally.” “You know that’s not an issue, Shepard.” “It never seems to be for you . . .” I’m holding on to the pole with both hands. “There’s still so much you haven’t seen. Piccadilly Circus, the Tower of London. There are magickal swans in Oxford, we could take a day trip. And then Scotland—great snakes, you could probably bond with the Loch Ness Monster!” The whole time I’m talking, Shepard looks like he’s getting ready to tell me no. And then he does. “I can’t stay,” he says, his forehead all wrinkled and his eyebrows pulled up in the middle. “I didn’t bring any money. I only have two pairs of pants.” “So you could get a job,” I say. “Not legally.” “Or you could go to uni.” “How would that work?” “You’re getting hung up on technicalities, Shepard. If you don’t want to stay, just say so!” He frowns. He’s holding on to the pole with both hands, too. He slides one hand down, and catches my thumb with his pinkie. “I do want to stay.” I hook my thumb around his finger. “I like you so much,” I say. It comes out resentful. Shepard smiles. But his brow is still furrowed. “I like you, too, Penelope.” “I don’t want you to leave.” He bends closer. “Come back with me.” “What?” “Come back to Omaha with me. I’ll get a passport, a real o...

She laughs. Bunce is in an uncharacteristically laid-back mood. I suppose she’s had a pretty successful week: She bested a demon, won the heart of a handsome Normal, and helped keep Simon Snow alive and kicking through another harrowing adventure.

Snow plops down at my feet. “I got enough to share,” he says, holding up his plate. I groan. “I’m still so full . . . I’m too full to hunt.” “That’s how you’re going to kill your vampire boyfriend, Simon,” Penelope says. “Sandwiches.” Snow barks a laugh. “He’ll be fine. He’s always got room for four to six rats.” She pushes his knee with her socked foot. “How’d Baz spell that shirt around your wings, if you’re immune to magic?” I cock an eyebrow at her. “The spell is on the shirt, Bunce.” “Oh,” Penny says. She really is in a mood. “Well, it looks nice.” “Until I have to tear it off,” Snow says. “Just let Baz reverse the spell.” “I don’t like being dependent on him.” I kick him. “Magic forbid you rely on me.” “That’s not what I meant—and everyone needs to stop kicking me. I’m injured.” “You could have some shirts made,” Shepard offers. All three of us turn to him. “Magickal shirts?” Snow asks. “No—regular shirts,” Shepard says. “But with openings that button closed around your wings.” I try to picture it. “Buttons?” “Or zippers,” he says. “I’ve seen people use buckles, but those seem fiddly.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” I say. “Why didn’t we think of that?” “Because you think with your wand,” Snow says. I kick him in the side again. (It’s hardly a kick.) (I can’t stay off him.) “I didn’t mean it in the dirty way!” he objects. “Penelope does, too.” “Where are we going to find a magickal tailor . . .” Bunce wonders aloud. Shepard grins at her. When I get out of the shower that night, Snow is wearing my pyjama trousers and practising sword manoeuvres. I hang back in the bathroom door to stay out of his way. “You’re not supposed to do that on my side of the room,” I say. “You haven’t got a side of the room,” he says, letting the sword drop. “We’ll have to negotiate that.” I walk past him to the bed. My violin is still sitting there. I pick it up and rest it on my shoulder. Simon swings his sword again, watching me. “Are you going to tell me I can’t play violin on your side of the room?” I ask. “I would never tell you that,” he says, pointing the sword. “You can play violin wherever and whenever you like.” “Your landlady might disagree.” “I’ll cut off her ears.” “That sword is already a bad influence.”

“Just keep it for now,” I say. “It’s like the smallest thing in your life that you need to figure out.” He laughs. “You sound like my therapist.” “A lot of your insults are compliments, I think.” Snow leans back on the headboard. “You’re both always telling me that I have bigger things to worry about.” “Or—” I rest my chin on my violin and pull the bow over the strings. “—maybe we’re both telling you to worry less, in general.” “I don’t think that’s what she meant.” “You should call her and ask.” He narrows his eyes at me. “You’re not clever.” I play another note. “I am.”

I play the beginning of a song. After a minute, Snow brings his free hand up and wipes his cheek with the back of his wrist. I keep playing. He wipes his eyes again. I pull the bow away. “Don’t stop,” he says. “Is it making you cry?” “Partly. Isn’t that what it’s for?” I laugh. “No.” He elbows me, so I start playing again. I suppose I have picked a melancholy song . . . (I like melancholy songs.) Snow messes about with the sword, occasionally wiping his cheek on his bare shoulder. When I’m done, I lay the violin in my lap. Simon passes the sword to his left hand and slumps into my side. “Do you think it’s real?” he asks. “The sword?” “Do you think I was a magician? All along?” His voice is rough, and his cheeks are flushed. There’s one damp curl hanging over his forehead. “Yes,” I say. “That’s clear now.” He hides his face in my T-shirt. “It’s too much for me.” I set the violin on the floor by the bed, then rest my hand over his on the hilt of the sword. He lets go. For a moment, I wonder if I’ll be able to lift it, but I can. I set it by the bed, too. Simon crawls half into my lap, burrowing his face into my chest. I lay my cheek on top of his head and hold him behind his ears. “It would be too much for anyone,” I say.