Wayward Son (Simon Snow, #2)(12)

Up, over, up. “First.” Down. “Second.”

Up, over, up. “Third.” Down. “Fourth.”

Snow nods his head, looking down at our hands. “There’s a diagram on the knob,” he says.

“Right. But you can’t look at it when you’re driving. Just feel.…” I move through the gears again.

“Got it,” he says.

I take my hand away. “So, get back into neutral.…”

Snow lifts his hand to peek at the knob, then moves it over.

“It can be a lot to manage all at once—it’s frustrating at first.”

“Who taught you how to drive?” he asks.

“My stepmother.”

“And she got frustrated?”

“No,” I say. “She was lovely. I got frustrated. Go ahead and release the handbrake—it’s just there.” I put my left hand on his shoulder, then reach across his lap with my right, pointing.

“Did she use magic?”

“To teach me to drive?”

Snow fiddles with the brake. “Yeah.”

“No. You’ve met Daphne. She hardly uses magic for anything.”

“But you could use magic to drive?”

“I suppose, but then you wouldn’t learn.” I nudge him with my elbow. “Go on, James Dean, start it up.”

“Just turn the key?”

“Yeah, and give it some gas.”

He turns the key, and the car lurches forward and dies. I catch myself on the dashboard. “Good.”

“That wasn’t good, Baz.”

“It was fine,” I say. “It’s normal. I should have double-checked that we were in neutral. Try again: Clutch. Neutral. Ignition. Accelerator.”

The car starts fine this time. Simon revs the engine and looks at me, laughing with delight.

I give him a moment to enjoy it. “We’re going to move now. This is where it gets tricky.”

“It’s already tricky.”

“You’re going to keep the clutch in, change into first, then gently press the accelerator as you ease up on the clutch.”

He shakes his head, like I’m talking nonsense.

“The clutch allows you to switch gears,” I say. “And you need to be in gear to move forward. The accelerator makes you go.”

“So clutch, then first—” His hand wobbles, but he gets there. “—then accelerator.” We jolt forward.

“Excellent.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah … but we’re gonna hit that mailbox.”

Simon looks up from the gear stick. “What do I do?!”

“Steer away.”

“Oh. Right.” He jerks the wheel. “Agh. Sorry.”

“It’s fine. You’re doing really well.”

“Why are you being so nice to me? Back when I was genuinely good at things, you were never this nice. But now that I’m fucking up—”

“You’re just learning. Keep steering.”

“Right, right. Just down the street?”

“Just down the street.”

“Get your wand out,” he says.

“Why?”

“Worst-case scenario.”

“We won’t need it.” I put my hand on his shoulder. Every muscle in his torso is clenched. “You’re going a bit faster now—”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine—just, can you feel it? It wants to change up.”

“What does?”

“The engine. It’s straining.”

“Oh, right. Yeah. So I—”

He changes smoothly into second.

“Crowley, that was excellent, Snow.”

“Let me try—” And he’s in third. Which is too fast for a residential neighbourhood, but well done, all the same.

“Smashing, Simon. You’re a natural.”

“That was okay?”

“Yeah, very.”

“It’s easier when I don’t think.”

“As you’ve often told me.”

“Baz?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s a car—there’s a car! I don’t know how to stop!”





12





PENELOPE


Micah’s mother answers the door, and she seems confused to see me. Which makes sense. I do live in London.

“Mrs. Cordero,” I say, “hello.”

“Penelope … it’s so good to see you. Micah didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“Oh, it’s sort of a surprise,” I say. “It all came together really quickly. Is he here?”

“Yeah, come in, of course.”

I step into their house. I love this house. I stayed in the spare bedroom when I came to see Micah two summers ago. All the rooms are huge, and only the bedrooms and bathrooms (there are four bathrooms) have doors. And everything—all the walls and furniture and the two dozen kitchen cabinets—is in peaceful shades of cream and tan.

There are at least three tan leather sofas.

There are two beige sitting rooms.