Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(117)

“Great snakes!” Bunce exclaims. “That’s the tape recorder, isn’t it?”

I look up at her, speechless. Fucking Bunce.

“What tape recorder?” Snow asks.

She turns to him and points her thumb at me. “Don’t you remember when Baz attacked you with a tape recorder? Fifth year. Out on the Lawn.”

“Shit,” Simon says to me. “That’s it! The one you used on Philippa.” He’s on his feet, reaching for it.

“Simon, no!” I shout. “Don’t touch it!”





64

SIMON

The tape recorder is sitting on the floor, where my coffee table would be if I had one. Baz is on the sofa, looking somehow paler than usual. I’m rubbing his back. I can’t stop touching him, to be honest, even though this definitely isn’t the time.

“But you didn’t steal Philippa’s voice,” Penny says. She’s sitting on his other side. Shepard moved to the arm of the sofa to make room. “Miss Possibelf said it would come back.”

I nod. “The Mage said so, too.”

“Right,” Baz says, kneading his forehead, “the Mage definitely, always told you the truth. Philippa never got her voice back! She’s living in Smith’s compound, waiting for him to fix her.”

“You saw her?” Penny asks.

“Yes. ” He looks at me. “We both did—the girl who answered the door, the one who doesn’t talk.”

“The cute one? With the short hair?”

Baz groans.

“I thought her name was Pippa,” I say.

“Philippa still can’t talk?” Penelope’s appalled. “Oh, that’s awful. That means her magic never came back.”

“Yeah, I know, ” Baz says, like he’s in pain.

“Wait,” Shepard says to Penny, “you can’t do magic if you can’t talk?”

“Well, you can’t go to Watford,” she explains. “In the old days, you couldn’t even get in with a stutter.”

Shepard shakes his head. “There must be magicians who do magic without speaking…”

“I’ve heard it’s possible. I’m surprised you don’t know a whole crew of them.”

Baz is back to holding his head.

“Maybe Smith can help Philippa,” I say.



Baz hisses and stands up. “I can help her.” He looks down at the tape recorder. “Fiona never took out the tape.”

I look at it, too. It’s got to be older than we are. “So Philippa’s magic is right there?”

“Her voice is.” He swallows. “I’m going to give it back to her—and then I’m going to let her spell me into oblivion.”

I stand up and take his arm. “Well, I’m not letting her spell you into anything.”

Penelope stands, too. “Me neither.”

“We’ll have to hurry,” I say, “if we want to catch Philippa before she leaves for Smith’s meeting at Watford.”

“‘We’?” Baz pulls away from me. “There’s no ‘we.’ You’re not all coming.”

“I can stay here,” Shepard offers.

Penelope frowns at him. “Oh no, I’m not letting anyone in this room out of my sight, ever again.”

“You know what? Fine. I don’t care anymore.” Baz leans over and lifts the tape recorder with both hands, cradling it like it’s a porcelain egg. “Let’s just go.”

He looks beaten. He’s standing there with his hair all matted down on one side, wearing a Watford hoodie I never gave back to Agatha and his “Clean as a whistle”-d pyjama trousers.

I clear my throat. “Don’t you want to, um … change?”

Baz looks down at himself and groans again.

Apparently this is another occasion that calls for a suit. Three pieces. A shade of brown that gleams red in the light. Baz buttons his white shirt all the way to the top, and puts on a shiny purple tie. (Why did he bring neckties and three-piece suits to my flat? What was he anticipating?) Then he dumps an entire duffel bag full of shoes onto the floor.

“Should we talk about this?” I ask.

“No.” He lays the bag on my bed and carefully sets the tape recorder inside.

I keep trying: “We’re about to do something huge; shouldn’t we talk about it?”

“Who are you, and what have you done with Simon Snow?” He flicks his wrist, and his wand slides into his palm—he’s wearing his holster. He points at the tape recorder. “Safe as houses!”

I touch his arm. “Baz…”

He turns on me, eyes flashing. “Simon. She hasn’t had magic. For five years. And it’s my fault. I can’t talk until I fix this. I can’t even breathe …

All right?”

I take in his wild eyes, his bloodless fists. “Yeah,” I say. “All right.” I squeeze his arm. “Let’s go, then. Let’s fix it.”

I’m wearing a T-shirt with slits down the back for my wings. I pick the Watford hoodie up from the floor. “It’s too hot for this,” I say. “Just hide the wings, would you?”

Baz has the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “With a spell?”