Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(28)

Paranoid about the rat blood. And the fact that Simon said I smelled “rank.”

I’m rather less thorough than usual with my hair, just towel drying it and combing it off my face. Chomsky, I used to spend so much time on my hair every morning when Snow and I shared a room … Carefully parting it and slicking it back. I thought it looked dramatic.

When I walk out of the bathroom, Simon is on my bed again. He’s got the plate of sandwiches, and there’s a pot of tea on the side table (sitting right on top of a stack of books, for pity’s sake). I clear my throat. “You didn’t have to bring them in—”

“Oh.” He stands up. “I thought that’s what you…” He picks up the plate and motions towards the door. “Should I?”

“No, it’s fine. This is fine. Better to stay out of Fiona’s path, anyway.

Aren’t you hungry?”

“I was waiting for you.”

“Oh.” Why is this so strange? Why am I being so strange? “Thank you.” I take the plate from him and sit down against my pillows, crossing my legs and setting the sandwiches beside me.

Simon sits next to me, careful not to upset the plate. He’s pushed down the waist of his trousers to free his tail—and pulled down his shirt to hide how low his trousers are riding. It must wear him out, the constant adjusting and manoeuvring and tucking. He’s got his wings held close to his body to keep from knocking everything off the bedside table as he pours me a mug of tea.

Our fingers touch when he hands it to me. I’d be blushing if I had enough blood in me. Why am I being so weird. Is it just relief? Is it the novelty of having Simon here? In my room? Or is it because we’re starting over, so everything feels new?

I pick up half a ham sandwich, and take a second to control my fangs before taking a bite. (I’m getting better at this.) Simon takes a sandwich as soon as I do, and shoves most of it into his mouth. He bites down, and his face lights up. He’s kissing my cheek now, holding his tea out to the side, so it won’t spill.

“What’s that about?” I ask.

He noses at my ear. Softly: “There’s butter on these ham sandwiches.”

“I thought you liked them that way.”

He nips at me. “I do.”

Then he pulls back, still smiling. What a ridiculous creature. Happy that I put butter on his sandwich. As if I wouldn’t make the world spin backwards if I thought he’d like it better that way.

“I haven’t eaten since last night,” he says, taking another sandwich.

“I haven’t eaten since the train yesterday.”

“That’s not true, you had rats.”

“I didn’t eat them,” I say.

“Maybe you should. There’d be less waste.”

“Maybe you should eat them. Then it could be something we do together.”

Snow laughs. He’s curling towards me as he eats. His legs are tucked up, and he’s leaning on me, his left wing pushing behind my shoulder. I move forward a bit, and he spreads it out, wrapping it around my back. The inside of his wings is softer than the outside. It’s rather like being wrapped in a suede blanket.

I can feel myself tensing up. Moments like this with Simon are so few and far between, and I never know what will startle him out of one. Or when he’ll collapse entirely. It’s like trying to be in a relationship with one of those fields Princess Diana was always drawing worthy attention to—the war is over, the armies have gone home, but no one knows where the mines are buried.

What does it even mean that Simon’s going to try now? How does a minefield try?

He picks up the last sandwich and offers me half. I take it, and he moves the plate away, pulling his legs up closer. Then he says, “This is what people are talking about when they talk about make-up sex, isn’t it?”

I choke on my tea. “Not exactly.”

He laughs at me. “No, I mean … It’s like when you think you’re going to die—like, you’re sure you’re about to lose your head—and then, at the last minute, you don’t. The other guy bites it instead. And it feels like you cheated somehow—”

“Knowing you, you probably did cheat somehow.”

“—but you’re still alive, and everything feels so amazing and, like, urgent. Like, you can’t believe how lucky you are to breathe, and you just want to breathe all the air at once.”

“Most people,” I muse, “have more experience with make-up sex than with near beheadings.”

He laughs. “Well, I get it now. The whole concept.”

He’s holding his mug with both hands. I am, too.

I lean against his shoulder, looking down at my tea, attempting to appear casual. “It could always be like this.”

“I don’t think so,” Snow says. “This is ‘I nearly lost my head and then I didn’t’ euphoria.”

“Nah.” I brush the outside of my knuckles against his. “I can promise you ‘this’ on a regular basis. A hot shower and lukewarm tea? Ham sandwiches in bed? This is table stakes, Snow.”

He catches my fingers in his. “Baz…” His voice drops to a near whisper.

“I don’t know what happens next.”

I shake my head. “Me neither.”