Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(101)

Simon squeezes my hand. “Do you see Jamie?”

We can’t see anyone without cranking our necks around and calling attention to ourselves. “No.”

“Maybe he’s running late.”

The show is about to begin. You can tell because they’re playing Coldplay over the speakers, and everyone is getting jumpy. Daphne takes my other hand and squeezes it tight. She’s beaming tonight—she looks like she spent the day shopping for dinnerware with her boyfriend at Ikea. (How doomed is my father?) (Maybe he can offer Vera an enormous raise…) (Maybe he can marry her.)

The room erupts when Smith-Richards walks in. He holds up his arms to acknowledge everyone. “Thank you,” he mouths over the applause. Simon lets go of my hand to clap.

Smith-Richards hops onto the stage. (Why step when you can hop.) When he sees Simon, his warm smile gets even more incandescent. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says to Simon, waving. We’re sitting so close to the stage, we can hear him.

He’s looking artfully casual tonight—white painter’s trousers, a blue split-neck shirt, some sort of red and gold bandanna knotted at his throat … It suits him, loath as I am to admit it. It would suit Simon better.

An older man—the same one who was at the door the other night—hands Smith-Richards a microphone. “Hello!” he says into the mic. “Everyone! It’s so good to see you…”

Smith-Richards goes right into his pitch: How much he cares about everyone in the room, how he wants to help them, how he believes he can help them. How they deserve so much more than life has given them so far.

It’s not that he’s wrong about all this, I suppose. It’s just that he’s insufferable.

I look over my shoulder. There are more people here tonight than at the last meeting. Smith-Richards is going to have to find a bigger pub. Maybe he should rent a church; the vibe would be spot-on.

I still don’t see Jamie. There’s a guy I recognize from Watford … Ian somebody, a few years older than us. And a woman who plays tennis at the club. Are all of these people low-magicians? Or are they just normal magicians who think they deserve better?

Alan, the man who got the power-up last week, was holding court at the back of the room when we came in, regaling everyone with stories about all the big spells he can cast now.

Smith-Richards is ratcheting up the intensity tonight. He’s saying he wants to help more people, more quickly—that they shouldn’t have to wait any longer for their birthright.

Daphne’s enthralled. Her mouth is actually hanging open.

Simon is leaning forward, his elbows on his thighs, taking in every word.

Does he truly believe all this? He keeps giving Smith-Richards the full benefit of the doubt, and more. It’s like Simon wants someone else to be the real Chosen One—and he wants it to be someone like Smith-Richards, someone who’ll wear the crown more comfortably than he himself ever did. 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.) I look over my other shoulder, scanning the other side of the room for Jamie. I’ve seen most of these people before. Oh, there’s Máire. I thought she’d already chosen a Chosen One. Hedging her bets, apparently. I wonder where Agatha’s old roommate is tonight; I haven’t seen her yet.

I look back up at Smith-Richards and cross my legs, trying to at least appear as if I’m paying attention. He’s still being clinically sincere: “I’ve been consulting with some of my most loyal friends and looking at ways to expand my reach. If I can cast the spell on one mage, why not cast the same spell on two or three—”

My breath catches in my throat. Agatha’s old roommate!

“Or six.”

That’s who she is.

“When we next meet, tomorrow, I’ll be bringing six of my most faithful —”

The girl.

“—and steadfast supporters—”

The quiet girl. At the door. Pippa.

“—onto the stage, to stand beside me—”

It’s Philippa! Agatha’s old roommate, from Watford. She lost her voice.

“—and step into their destiny.”

I stole her voice. In fifth year.

“My dear friends…”

I stole her voice.

“Patrick, Melinda—”

Miss Possibelf said it would come back. She promised.

“Eliza, Gloria, Daphne—”

Daphne shrieks and throws her arms around me.

“And you, Martin.”

I stole Philippa’s voice.

I was trying to steal Simon’s.

It hasn’t come back …

Daphne is weeping. I peel her arms away from me.

It never came back.

I lay a hand on Simon’s shoulder. “I have to go,” I say. It’s not a whisper, because everyone in the room is shrieking and crying.

Simon looks concerned. “Go where?”