Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(130)

“Why didn’t you help it?”

“I’m not the goat’s keeper,” the dryad says, watching her umbrella spin.

“It came here for help!”

Her eyes snap up at me, flashing. “No. It came here to die. That’s what this place is.”

“The goats protect Watford—don’t you know that? If they leave, the school will fall!”

“You care about Watford? Watford doesn’t care about you, fair one! It doesn’t miss you. It won’t protect you.” She runs one hand along the top of the stone. Caressing it. “She loved it, too, and all it gave her in return was a grave.”

“Did you know Ebb?”

The dryad laughs. It sounds like wind passing through a tree. “Yes.”

“Were you friends?”

She caresses the stone again. “No.”

“I hardly knew her,” I say, “but I know this—she loved these goats. If you let a goat suffer, on her grave, she will never forgive you. She’ll haunt you forever.”

The dryad laughs again. “Too late for that. Too late, golden one. You were too late.”

SIMON

I’m going to stop Smith.

I don’t know if he’s the Chosen One. I don’t know if his spell works.

But he can’t cast that spell today—not on Penny’s dad and Baz’s stepmum.

Not with Jamie hidden in his basement and a wand to Pippa’s head. There are too many red flags here.

And I know that’s rich coming from me. I’m wearing a suit made of red flags, metaphorically speaking, twenty-four-fucking-seven. But this …

(I really hate basements.) (You shouldn’t hide people in basements. Even bad people. But certainly not your friends.)

I’m going to stop Smith.

I’m going to call a time-out. To keep him from making any more mistakes.

I get to the White Chapel first. (Pippa and Jamie are behind me somewhere—they’re running, I’m flying.) I never wanted to come back here, but here I am. I land in front of the gilded doors and push them open.

The Chapel is full of mages, more than I’ve seen at Smith’s meetings so far. Word must be getting out.

Smith is onstage, near the altar. So is Daphne. He’s holding her hand. He’s holding his wand. He’s wearing a white suit—there’s a microphone clipped to his collar.

I just have to stop him.

I don’t have to figure it all out, I don’t have to have any answers. I just have to stop this, today. For today.

Smith sees me. He says my name, but not loud enough for the microphone to pick it up.

I nod at him and raise my hand. Maybe it’s all a misunderstanding. I keep walking down the centre aisle. I’ll just ask him to step away for a moment, so we can talk.

“Simon Snow,” he says again, and everyone hears.

They all turn to look at me. To gape.

“Is it really him?”

“Does he really have dragon wings?”

“How did he get through the gates?”

“Smith,” I say. I’m more than halfway up the aisle. “I need to talk to you.”

My wings flutter, and I fly forward a few feet. (That happens sometimes when I’m not focused on staying grounded.) The crowd gasps. It makes me anxious—instead of landing, I fly higher.

“Smith,” I say, “don’t cast the spell. We need to talk.”

“Simon Snow,” Smith says again, even louder, in his stage voice. “I know you’re angry about being replaced. But you won’t stop the good work we’re doing here.”

“What?” I’m hovering before him. “Smith, that’s not—”

“Your years of deception have come to an end!” he shouts. “You’ve done enough to hurt the World of Mages!”

HEADMISTRESS BUNCE

Don’t I have enough on my plate?

I know I’m not supposed to think that—I could never say it out loud—but for heaven’s snakes, could I just have one day where nothing falls apart?

I have enough to manage, trying to keep the walls of Watford standing with scant resources and even less support. The Mage nearly ran this place into the ground … The library was empty. The curriculum was a shambles. I’ve got eighth years who can’t cast a complete sentence and fourth years who only cast Internet memes. To think that my teachers thought pop songs were unstable—my own son brought down a classroom wall with a “Yeet.”

It was Pacey. He’s 17. And, frankly, the least of my problems.

I can say this with authority because I lie in bed most nights, ranking my list of problems—and ranking my list of problematic children. There are five of them; it’s a dynamic list.

Premal, my oldest, usually owns the top spot. Holed up in his room back in Hounslow, still grieving the Mage, almost two years after the man’s death —after Premal and I found him dead. I worry that Prem will never move on.

I worry about what he’ll move on to. I worry that no one is bringing him dinner when I’m here at Watford …

Alternately, I worry that his 12-year-old sister, Priya, is bringing him dinner, hovering over him and mothering him in my place. I know that she mothers Pip, the youngest. I worry about Pip, too, because I can’t yet see how I’m failing him.