Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow #3)(13)

“Space, is it? Did he say he needs space?”

“Yes.”

“People don’t need space, Penelope!” I’m shouting. “They need people!

Simon needs us!”

“That’s what I always say, Baz!” She’s swinging that ponytail again. She’s shouting, too. “‘ Simon needs me’—that was always my excuse!”

“Your excuse for what?”

“For doing whatever I wanted! For making him do what I thought best. I was more like a commanding officer than a friend.”

“You kept him alive.”

“Barely! I kept him alive after goading him into danger.”

“I wouldn’t say you goaded him,” I mutter. “Snow never needed goading.”

I hate how little sense she’s making. I hate this note. I hate Snow’s messy handwriting; it looks like a child’s. I hate the view I have of his empty wardrobe.

“Baz, I’m not going after him. I promised him I wouldn’t.”

“Bunce…” I hate this.

“No.”

I hate it. “Bunce, please.”

“I know it’s different for you,” she says. “Maybe it’s worse.”

I hate—

I don’t—

We landed at Heathrow, and I went off to get Fiona. Simon offered to help, but I said I didn’t need it. I kissed him good-bye. That felt like a risk, saying good-bye; I wasn’t sure where we were with each other at the moment. But it seemed fine. I said I’d text him. He said … What did he say?

“See ya,” I think. Nothing was any different than it’s been. Nothing was any better, but nothing was any worse.

He’d said those awful things in America. On the beach. But that was in America. And that was about me, not him, about whether I was happy. (I’m not happy, but I’m smart enough to realize that losing Simon would only make it worse.) And there were other moments in America. Better moments. Before the beach. In the desert. In the back of Shepard’s truck.

I don’t believe Snow would just leave without telling me. That he would leave me without telling me.

“He left me a note, Penelope. After everything we’ve … We’re … He’s my … And I’m supposed to just … ‘I’m sorry’? What am I supposed to do with this?”

Penelope is crying, fat tears running down her red cheeks. “I don’t know, Basil. Maybe it’s true what they say—if you love someone, set them free.”

“That isn’t a truth, it’s just a spell! When I was six, my shoelace got caught in an escalator, and my Aunt Fiona cast it to get me clear. Simon needs us, Penelope.” I take her by the shoulder. “We have to find him. Let’s go.”

She steps away from me. She shakes her head. “No. He needs me to let him make his own decisions.”

I let my hand fall.

I nod.

I look at Bunce the way I used to look at her—when she was my worst enemy’s best friend.

“Fine then. Perhaps he just needs me.”





12

SIMON

There’s a goblin in my stairwell. Not even in disguise. Just sitting there, picking his teeth with a dagger. He better not have eaten my landlady.

I’ve only had this flat for a day. It’s a house that’s been split in two. The landlady’s got the main floor, and I’ve got the upstairs. I convinced her that I’d be a quiet tenant. No drugs. No parties. (Goblins are worse than parties.) “Hello, Mage Prince,” the goblin says. He’s red-lipped and green-skinned. Dead handsome, like every goblin.

“I’ve tried to tell you lot that I’m nobody’s prince…”

“Word on the street is, you’ve lost your blade.”

I shrug. There’s a price on my head—the goblin who brings it back to their council or whatever gets to be king.

This one thinks he’s got a fair shot at it. He gets to his feet, almost lazily, and points his dagger at me.

I shoot my right hand out to the side and grab a broom that’s leaning against the wall.

“You have lost your blade!” the goblin cries, absolutely delighted.

He runs at me, and I wallop him in the gut so hard that the broom handle cracks. He doubles over—but comes up quickly, swinging his dagger at me.

My wings are strapped down under my shirt, and my tail is tucked away.

(I’ve just been to see Dr. Wellbelove at his practice.) It sort of feels like fighting with one hand tied behind my back.

I’ve still got the end of the broom handle, so I use it to bat the goblin’s hand away from me.

He keeps coming.

I decide to let him. The Mage taught me this—that sometimes the best way to get under someone’s guard is to let them get close.

The goblin runs at me, and I grab the wrist of his dagger hand, spinning around behind him, so I can crush him against the wall, my chest to his back.

I hold the splintered broom handle in my other hand, an inch from his eye.



When he tries to turn away from it, I use my face to grind his head into the wall. I bang his wrist against the wall until he drops the dagger, then I step on it.

His eyes are open, staring at the splintered broom handle.