Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(149)

“No—regular shirts,” Shepard says. “But with openings that button closed around your wings.”

I try to picture it. “Buttons?”

“Or zippers,” he says. “I’ve seen people use buckles, but those seem fiddly.”

“People?” Bunce asks.

“Well, fairies…” Shepard sweeps his arm, expansively. “Harpies.

Gargoyles … Lots of things have wings.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” I say. “Why didn’t we think of that?”

“Because you think with your wand,” Snow says.

I kick him in the side again. (It’s hardly a kick.) (I can’t stay off him.) “I didn’t mean it in the dirty way!” he objects. “Penelope does, too.”

“Where are we going to find a magickal tailor…” Bunce wonders aloud.

Shepard grins at her.

When I get out of the shower that night, Snow is wearing my pyjama trousers and practising sword manoeuvres. I hang back in the bathroom door to stay out of his way.

“You’re not supposed to do that on my side of the room,” I say.

“You haven’t got a side of the room,” he says, letting the sword drop.

“We’ll have to negotiate that.” I walk past him to the bed. My violin is still sitting there. I pick it up and rest it on my shoulder. Simon swings his sword again, watching me. “Are you going to tell me I can’t play violin on your side of the room?” I ask.

“I would never tell you that,” he says, pointing the sword. “You can play violin wherever and whenever you like.”

“Your landlady might disagree.”

“I’ll cut off her ears.”

“That sword is already a bad influence.”

He climbs onto the bed next to me, still holding the sword. (Is he going to sleep with it?) “I should give it back,” he says. “To Jamie.”

“Snow, he insisted that you keep it.”

“Yeah, but what do I need with a sword?”

“What does Jamie Salisbury need with a sword? I’m surprised he still has all his fingers. You, however, have spent your whole life wielding one.”

“Yeah, but…” He shrugs with the sword. (I really think he might sleep with it.)

“Just keep it for now,” I say. “It’s like the smallest thing in your life that you need to figure out.”

He laughs. “You sound like my therapist.”

“A lot of your insults are compliments, I think.”

Snow leans back on the headboard. “You’re both always telling me that I have bigger things to worry about.”

“Or—” I rest my chin on my violin and pull the bow over the strings. “— maybe we’re both telling you to worry less, in general.”

“I don’t think that’s what she meant.”

“You should call her and ask.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “You’re not clever.”

I play another note. “I am.”

Simon holds the sword out in front of him, twisting his wrist, then tossing the hilt gently, switching his grip.

“Does it feel like handling an incredibly rare and precious antique?”

“It feels fucking solid,” he says. “Maybe even better than the Sword of Mages.”

“I wonder if it has a name…”

“They said it’s Excalibur.”

“They said it’s an Excalibur. Like, that’s the brand name. It might have a family name.”

“Yeah…” He’s looking at the sword, frowning.

I play the beginning of a song.

After a minute, Snow brings his free hand up and wipes his cheek with the back of his wrist.

I keep playing. He wipes his eyes again. I pull the bow away.

“Don’t stop,” he says.

“Is it making you cry?”

“Partly. Isn’t that what it’s for?”

I laugh. “No.”

He elbows me, so I start playing again. I suppose I have picked a melancholy song … (I like melancholy songs.) Snow messes about with the sword, occasionally wiping his cheek on his bare shoulder.

When I’m done, I lay the violin in my lap. Simon passes the sword to his left hand and slumps into my side.

“Do you think it’s real?” he asks.

“The sword?”

“Do you think I was a magician? All along?” His voice is rough, and his cheeks are flushed. There’s one damp curl hanging over his forehead.

“Yes,” I say. “That’s clear now.”

He hides his face in my T-shirt. “It’s too much for me.”

I set the violin on the floor by the bed, then rest my hand over his on the hilt of the sword. He lets go. For a moment, I wonder if I’ll be able to lift it, but I can. I set it by the bed, too.

Simon crawls half into my lap, burrowing his face into my chest.

I lay my cheek on top of his head and hold him behind his ears.

“It would be too much for anyone,” I say.





EPILOGUE

ONE YEAR LATER

AGATHA

I could leave the goats to themselves all day. They’d be fine, and there’s plenty for me to do back at Watford. The goats know their own way home.