Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow #3)(19)

“Where’s Baz?” I ask him. “And Penelope?”

Simon shakes his head, jaw rigid, then turns to speak to Niamh. “I guess I am a rare opportunity,” he puffs out. “It’s not like a dragon will ever show up at A&E with an injured wing…”

“If a dragon loses the use of a wing,” she says, scrubbing him with the disinfectant, “the other dragons kill it.”

Simon flinches.

“Out of mercy,” she says, pulling his wing taut again.

“Right,” he says.

“That’s savage,” I say.

She rolls her eyes. “They are dragons.”

Simon swallows. “I met a dragon once.”

“I’m not surprised,” Niamh says. “Look here—I’m already done with the back of this one. I told you it’d be quick. I’m moving to the front now.” She manoeuvres herself around his wing and starts on the paler leather there.

Simon jumps again. He yanks my hands against his chest—sweet Circe, he’s chilled through. I can’t remember Simon’s skin ever being cold. He used to be a furnace. When I’d sit next to him to watch a film, he’d sweat through his shirt and mine, and his arm would stick to my neck.

He may not be in pain, but he is suffering.

I lift my chin at Niamh. “Why do you have to disinfect his wings if you’re just going to cut them off?”

“Surgical procedure,” she says.

“But you wouldn’t be able to disinfect an animal this way. In the field.”

She narrows her already narrow eyes at me. “I would try.”

Simon squeezes my hands. “It’s all right, Agatha.”

It isn’t all right. He’s trembling. Simon doesn’t tremble. “He’s clearly uncomfortable.”

“Well, it is an amputation,” she says. “Uncomfortable is rather our best-case scenario.”

I lift my chin higher. “Your bedside manner leaves something to be desired, Miss—Niamh.”

“No one has ever complained, Miss Wellbelove.”

“Have you worked on any talking animals?”

“I’m not complaining!” Simon says.

“Look…” Niamh releases Simon’s wing, and it snaps closed so tight, it’s practically flat against his back. She frowns at the wing, then frowns at me.

“Look,” she says again, more calmly. “I’m going to take good care of your boyfriend, I promise. Your father never would have asked me to do this if he didn’t trust me.”

I let go of Simon’s hands—just as he’s letting go of mine.

I step away from him. “I—”

“It’s all right. ” Simon has sat up straight. He’s squared his shoulders. He still looks badly shaken, but he’s spreading his left wing out again and holding it mostly steady. “I trust you, Niamh. I can get through this.” He looks at me. “It’s all right, Agatha.”

“Of course,” I say to him, my voice mild again. “I’m sorry.”

“No…” Simon shakes his head. His shoulders fall a bit. “You shouldn’t be. I mean—Agatha. I’m sorry. You know?”

Oh.

No.

Not now. Not …

Now I’m shaking my head. And I’m crying. For heaven’s snakes and hell’s, too—I told myself I was done crying over Simon Snow.

He holds a hand out to me, and what am I supposed to do, not take it? He reels me in close. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“Stop.” I’m still crying.

“Agatha, I—”

“Simon, I beg you, please don’t choose now to start talking about your feelings.”

The door to the exam room opens. We both look up—Niamh is stepping out.

“Niamh!” Simon says. “Don’t go. Please.”

“I can give you a moment.” She frowns at us. (That might just be her face; she’s trying to be kind, I think.)

“No,” he says. “I don’t want to lose my nerve.”

“Fat chance of that,” Niamh says. “I’ve seen you in action.”

“Oh?” Simon looks like he’s trying to place her.

“I was at Watford, a few years ahead of you.” She glances at me, as if to say, You, too. “You saved my life once.”

“That’s everyone at Watford,” I say. “And in the whole World of Mages.”

“True enough,” she agrees. She smiles tightly at Simon.

“Please,” he says. “I’m all right.”

Niamh frowns at us more intently, then steps back into the room. She motions towards his wing. “Shall I?”

“Yeah. Just ignore my jumping around, I can’t help it.”

She picks up the iodine and starts again on the inside of his wing. He shudders, but doesn’t pull away. I hold his hand steady.

“Fascinating,” Niamh says—to herself, I think. “It’s like the inside of a lamb’s ear. Covered in fine hair.”

“You look like hell,” I whisper to Simon.

He smiles. “Thanks.”

“When was the last time you slept?”