Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(115)

He gets my shirt off, then grabs my hands, holding them over my shoulders. “Next time we go to Ikea,” he says, “we’re getting a lamp. I can hardly see you.”

“I could use my wand…”

“Keep it in your trousers, Merlin.”

I laugh, genuinely. He laughs, too. It makes his wings flap.

“I love you,” I say. I may as well say it, I’m thinking it. It’s all I ever think.

I’m an “I love you” gun with the safety off, a finger constantly on the trigger.

Simon lets go of my hands and settles down on top of me, his head on one of my shoulders, his hand on the other, his fingertips gently drawing circles.

“I love you,” he says. “It’s good.”

I wake up to someone knocking on Snow’s bedroom door.

“Baz? Are you in there?” It’s Penelope. She’s whisper-shouting.

“Yeah,” I say. My voice is rough. I try again. “Yes.”

“Your aunt is here.”

“What?”

The door opens a crack. “Your aunt Fiona,” Penelope hisses.

Fiona. What is Fiona doing here?

I climb over Simon, sticking a knee in his wing. He groans, rubbing his face. His bedroom is dark, even at—I check my phone—10 A.M. Fuck.

Where’s my shirt? Where’s my wand? There it is. I point it at myself. “Clean

as a whistle!” (Uch. I despise “Clean as a whistle.” Now I feel grimy and metallic all over.) Where is my shirt …

“Basil!” someone shouts. That is definitely my aunt.

“For fuck’s sake, Fiona,” I mutter.

“Fiona?” Simon croaks.

“I’ll be right back,” I say, grabbing one of his hoodies off the floor.

I walk through the living room, where Shepard seems to be eating a dozen Pret a Manger sandwiches. Bunce is at the front door, frowning at my aunt, who’s standing just inside the threshold. Fiona waves her fingers at me.

“Good morning, Nephew. I’m taking you to get a cuppa.”

“How did you even find me here?”

“I found you when you were buried under a bridge in a numpty den—did you think you could hide from me in Hackney Wick? Come on.” She looks serious. “I’ll bring you back soon.”

“All right,” I say, glancing back at Bunce and nodding like, It’s fine, I’ll be fine.

As soon as the door is shut behind us, Fiona smirks. “You live in some sort of unfurnished commune now?”

“Are we really having tea, or do you need me for a crime? I can’t be your getaway driver if you won’t let me sit up front.”

“We’re really having tea,” she says. “There’s a café up the street.”

There is. I let Fiona buy me tea and banana cake. We find a table, and she casts a spell so no one can hear us talk. I haven’t said anything yet.

“I know you want me to apologize…” she says, pushing her hair behind one ear. “And I don’t think I can.”

Colour me surprised. Why am I even here …

Fiona holds her paper cup in both hands and frowns down on it. Her hair falls back over her eyes. My aunt’s hair is the same colour as mine, nearly black, with a skunk stripe at one temple—I’m not sure if it’s natural or if she did it with magic to look cool. She’s normally wearing too much eyeliner and bright red lipstick, but not today. She looks tired without it. And less sure of herself.

“When your mum died…” Fiona shakes her head, then looks up at me, her eyes shining. “Your mum was the better of us, she always was. She was clearly our dad’s favourite”—she huffs a laugh through her nose—“and it didn’t even bother me, because she was my favourite, too. She was just so class, Basil. Smart, powerful …

“She always did the right thing, and she always said the right thing. The only time she ever pissed off our parents was when she married your dad—a lowly Grimm!—but that turned out to be the right thing, too.”

Fiona smiles at me, the very picture of rueful. “Do you even know how cool that was? That Natasha married badly, for love, and then proved to the whole World of Mages that she and Malcolm could be unstoppable together?”

I didn’t know that. I pick at my banana cake.

“And then she had you, ” Fiona goes on. “And you were exactly the sort of child your mother would have—Crowley, you were such a charmer. Curious and headstrong and thoughtful. So thoughtful, even as a toddler. I remember looking at you and thinking, Well, of course Natasha has had the best possible baby. Isn’t that just like her?

“She was so good at everything that I had to go all the way to China to get out from under her shadow…” Fiona looks down at her tea and laughs again.

Her eyes are brimming. “I suppose it did bother me sometimes.”

She bites both her lips and looks lost for a moment.

“When your mum died…” she says again. She wrinkles her nose, shaking her head. “I knew that I’d never be able to replace her. No one would.”

She looks up at me, wiping one eye with her thumb and the other with her knuckle.

“You had the best mum, Baz—you lost the best mum—and I knew that your dad and I would never make up for it.” She smiles, her lips tight and twitching and trying to turn down. “But we had to try, right?