Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(111)

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t even have a wand anymore.”

“I have an extra you can have.”

“You have an extra wand?”

“I inherited my grandfather’s—and both of my parents’. I use my mother’s.” He flicked his wrist, and his wand slid out of his sleeve into his palm. That’s how Baz wears his wand sometimes; he has a holster that straps to his forearm. It’s dead sexy when he takes off his shirt.

“Are you nervous?” Smith asked.

“Yeah,” I said, “I suppose I don’t want to let you down.”

He laughed. “You won’t let me down, Simon. This is about helping you.

Are you ready?”

“Sure.” I was as ready as I was going to get. “Yeah, Smith. Let’s do it.”

Smith sat a little straighter. He held out his left hand to me, and I took it.

(I’m not used to touching someone who’s as warm as I am; he felt almost feverish.) Then he pointed his wand at my chest.

Even in that moment, I was telling myself not to get my hopes up, that the spell wouldn’t work. But I’d seen Smith cure other people. I couldn’t help but think it might work …

“Simon Snow,” Smith said in his onstage voice, like I wasn’t his only audience. “You’ve given so much to the World of Mages. Too much. It’s time for you to step back into the light. Let it all out! ”

I felt it right away. Smith’s magic hit me at my core and then moved outward. It was like a bubble growing in me, filling me up, pushing against my skin, then popping.

He was smiling at me. “How do you feel?”

“I don’t know…”

“Here.” He handed me his wand. “Try a spell. Start with something simple.”

“Um…” Was there anything simple? Was there a spell I could count on? I let go of him to shift the wand into my dominant hand. It was pale wood with some sort of stone inlaid in the handle. It looked like a pool cue.

I pointed the wand, and Smith laughed, moving my wrist, so that I was pointing out into the room and not directly at him.

“Light of day!” I cast. That was a spell I could usually cast before; it’s one of the first spells they teach kids. Nothing happened. I tried another children’s spell. “Sparks fly!” Nothing.

“Let’s try…” Smith stood up and walked to his desk. He unlocked a drawer and pulled out a different wand, made of milky green glass. “This.”

I traded him for it. It was heavy. “I’ve never seen a glass wand before.”

“It was my father’s. Now, take a deep breath, Simon. Remember that intention counts. And conviction.”

I got to my feet and pointed the glass wand away from us. I tried to believe in it. In me. In Smith. I imagined the end of the wand lighting up like a candle. “Light of day!”

Nothing.

I took a deep breath. I held the wand more firmly. I pictured Baz back in Magic Words class, standing with his chin up and his shoulders back. I pictured every consonant as I pronounced them— “Fire burn and cauldron bubble!”

More nothing.

Right, I thought, that’s that. That settles it.

Smith was rubbing his chin. “Let’s try…”

“No,” I said, turning the wand and holding the handle out to him. “It’s not going to happen.”

“Maybe you just need to get your confidence back—”

“No.” No, no, no. I set the wand on his desk and ran my fingers through my hair. “It didn’t work, Smith. I don’t feel anything.”

“Nothing?”

“Not a spark.”

Smith was frowning. Thinking. “What did your magic used to feel like?”

“Like a forest fire,” I said quickly. “Look, I’m sorry—”

“Let’s try again, Simon.”

“Smith, no—”

He was already pointing his wand at me. “Let it all out!”

I didn’t even feel the bubble popping the second time. I think Smith could feel the spell fail on his end, too. He looked down at his pool-cue wand, then let his arm drop to his side. “Simon … I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right, Smith.” It would be all right. It would. I tried to smile at him, so he didn’t feel bad. “Maybe this is useful. Now you know how it feels to cast the spell on a Normal.”

Smith’s face had completely fallen. He was in shock, I think. “I really believed you were a magician, Simon…”

“You weren’t the only one.”

“You gave yourself wings…”

“I should go.” I started for the door.

“Wait—” He reached out to me. “We should talk.”

I sighed. “No offence, Smith. But you don’t have to comfort me. I’ve been living like this for more than a year. If anything, I should thank you. This confirms what I already suspected: I was never a magician. I don’t need to be healed.”

I was never a magician. Never magic.

I was just some kid the Mage picked out, with no family who could object. I think I must have been part of an experiment—like one of those swords the Mage tried to enchant. He used me. He lied to me.