Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(142)

I sit up. What does he—

Does that mean—

I refuse to ask Nicodemus Petty any vampire questions.

But …

“Do you mean…” I say, “that it affects you? Not having … people?”

“You fucking with me?” He sneers. “You think you can find immortality at the bottom of, what the shit, a squirrel?”

“I—”

The front door opens, and Fiona walks in with a paper bakery bag and coffee. “Basil.” She looks at me, then at Nico, then back at me. “Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine,” he says. “I made tea.”

“I…” I stand up. “Fiona, could I talk to you for a moment?”

“I’ll step out,” Nico says. “Could use a nip anyway.” He walks to the door, patting my aunt’s shoulder on the way out. Her hand goes to cover his for a second.

Then she sets her breakfast down on the coffee table. She narrows her eyes. “Did you forget something? Come back to ransack the kitchen cupboards?”

I reach into my jacket and fish my grandmother’s ring out of my pocket.

It’s gold, with a sapphire and three diamonds. I hold it out to Fiona in my palm.

“Mum’s ring,” she says, eyes wide. She looks from my hand to my face.

“Basil, did you rob your own mother’s grave?”

I shake my head. “My father gave it to me. Years ago, as a keepsake. He told me that my mother used to wear it every day…”

“She did,” Fiona says, her voice breaking.

I hold my hand farther out to her. “Take it.”

She looks away. “No. Your dad’s right. You should have it to remember your mum.”

“I’ll see it more often on your hand than I will if it stays in a box.”

She peers back at me, biting her cheek, but still doesn’t take it.

I look down at the ring. “I think my father hoped I might give it to a girl someday…”

Fiona snatches it from my palm. “Simon Snow is not getting my mother’s sapphire.”

I laugh. “Homophobic.”

“It isn’t because he’s a boy,” she says. “It’s because he’s a pain in my arse.” Then she screws up her face at me—like she feels guilty, and it’s my fault. “Well, shit … Did you want to give it to him?”

“No,” I say, still laughing. “Take it.”

She beams at me. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She grabs me into a hug, rocking us back and forth. “Thank you, thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Fiona.”

She pulls away and opens her fist, holding the ring so she can admire it. “I know you think I’m mad…”

“As a hatter. Are you telling anyone else about the wedding?”



“Can you imagine? Pitches on one side of the Chapel, vampires on the other.”

“That would put me in a very awkward position.”

She bumps her shoulder into my arm, smiling at me. “Wasn’t planning a wedding. But Nicky’s going to move in.”

“I figured as much.”

“And we’re going to make it legal the Normal way. They haven’t stricken him from their books.” She quirks an eyebrow at me. “We could use a witness…”

I consider knocking at Snow’s door. But it’s still early, and I have a key.

His flat’s quiet. I’m quiet, too, in case he’s sleeping. I’ve brought scones. I set them on the kitchen counter.

“I thought you were a goblin,” Simon says. He’s standing in his bedroom door, holding a dinner knife like a dagger. He slept in his knit boxers—he still looks half asleep.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I say. “Goblins are fit.”

Simon rubs his face and walks back into the bedroom. When I get there, he’s under the duvet again.

I sit on the edge of the mattress. “Are you sleeping with a full set of cutlery or just the knife?”

“Don’t have a sword,” he mumbles, like that explains it. “Come back to bed.”

“I wasn’t in bed.”

“Don’t be a dick.”

I take off my jacket and waistcoat—the same thing I was wearing yesterday, maybe I should leave some clothes in Oxford—and look over my shoulder at Simon. He’s tucked himself into a knot under the blanket and buried his face in his pillow. His hair is curling in every direction. Big, fat curls. He must have gone to sleep with it wet.

I look down at my shoes and quickly unlace them. I take off my socks and my trousers, my button-down shirt, and—after a second of deliberation—my T-shirt. It feels strange to get undressed without anyone requesting it or giving me permission. I suppose I’m requesting it. I’m the one who wants it.

I get under the blanket. Snow reaches out to me and pulls me against him.

He’s still sleep-warm. I feel his tail sliding over my thigh. We’re face-to-face, but he’s not looking in my eyes.

“Don’t be angry with me yet,” he whispers. His breath smells rotten.

Maybe if he were someone else, I’d mind.