Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(49)

I groan.

“Or,” he says, “you could let me spell your wings away?”

I take the coat. And his jeans, the shirt, the whole thing. Though I refuse a giant watch—and shake him off when he tries to arrange my hair. “For fuck’s sake.”

When we get to Lady Salisbury’s neighbourhood, I’m half glad Baz made me dress up. I should have guessed from the “Lady” that it would be posh.

We stop at a red-brick terraced house with big bay windows that sort of push out from the front, almost like turrets. The windows are framed in white plaster and decorated with unicorns and mermaids and little otters with wings. (Are wealthy magicians never subtle?) Baz uses the door knocker. It’s shaped like a smiling cyclops.

“Maybe we should have called first,” I say.

“Then she could have said no.”

“She could still say no…”

“Who says no to the Chosen One?”

I start to argue some more, but there’s someone in the window, pulling back the curtain. Baz steps neatly behind me. After a second, the door opens an inch, and a woman peeks out. “Is that … It is!” she says, opening the door.

“Simon Snow, on my very own doorstep!”

It’s an older woman, I’m not sure how old—I don’t know many old people. She’s heavyset with lots of blondish hair and a giant purple sweater.

She’s looking at me the way no one has looked at me for a while, like I’m all that. Her eyes are wide, and her face is awed. “You are him, aren’t you?”

Baz pokes me in the back.

“Y-yes,” I say. “I am.”

The woman stands tall. She’s only a couple inches shorter than me. Her hands are in fists at her side. “Is it true you killed the Mage?”

“I—” I haven’t had to talk about this since the inquiry. And I’ve never really had to face anyone outside of the Coven. I mean, of course everyone in the World of Mages knows I killed the Mage. Of course they’d be angry. The woman’s jaw is clenched. Her lips are pursed. I look down at my feet. “Yes.

I did.”

And then, suddenly—she’s hugging me.

Like, really tight.

“Thank you,” she says, and it sounds like she might be crying. She’s sort of rocking me back and forth. “You’re a hero, Simon Snow. Thank you.”

I’m too stunned to hug her back. Should I hug her back? I’m glad she’s not angry, but I’m a little worried that she’s so happy. Did all rich people hate the Mage as much as Baz’s family did?

She’s pulling away now, wiping her eyes. She sniffs. “Come in, come in.

Get out of the—Well, it’s lovely out, isn’t it? Come in, anyway. Your friend, too. And tell me what brings Simon Snow to my door on a Tuesday afternoon?”

Baz has stepped up beside me, smooth as silk. “Lady Salisbury?”

“Yes?” she says, looking a bit concerned again.

“My name is Basilton Grimm-Pitch.”

“Grimm-Pitch … Natasha’s son?”

“Yes.”

“Oh! ” She holds her hand over her heart. “Well, you’re a grown man, aren’t you! When did that happen? And so handsome! Snakes alive. Natasha Pitch’s son.” She takes his arm and squeezes it. “I knew your mother. She was a dear friend once. And your grandmother! Basilton Grimm-Pitch.

Tyrannus, isn’t it? As I live and breathe. You know, your aunt was just here— Oh.” Her face falls. She clutches both hands to her chest. “You’re here about my Jamie, aren’t you? Do you have news of him?”

“No,” Baz says. “No, we don’t have any news, I’m sorry. But we were hoping you could tell us more about his disappearance.”

Lady Salisbury looks confused, maybe a little wary. “You were?”

“My stepmother is missing, too.”

BAZ

Lady Salisbury shows us into her drawing room—a big, airy room, crowded with antique coffee tables and richly upholstered furniture. “Here,” she says, still sounding rattled. “Sit. I’ll get some cake. Would you like some cake? It’s homemade.”

“Oh, no, we couldn’t,” I say.

“Sure, we could,” Simon says.

She laughs. “Good answer. I was going to make you have some anyway.

Should we have tea? I prefer milk with cake, myself.”

“Milk is great,” Simon says.

“You boys sit. I’ll be right back.”

We look around the room. There are plenty of seats to choose from. I sit down in an antique bergère chair, embroidered with peacocks. It wobbles, but holds. Simon sits on a rose-coloured sofa and sinks to the springs. I stifle a laugh. His blue eyes meet mine, and it’s good. For just a moment. It’s unexpectedly good. He looks too handsome in my clothes. He looks too handsome in his own terrible clothes; he’s bloody unbearable in mine.

Lady Salisbury is back soon enough with a tray. She still seems tearful. “I hope you like chocolate,” she says, serving Simon a mountainous wedge of cake.

“Who doesn’t like chocolate,” he replies, earning another smile.

She hands me a slightly smaller slice—fair enough, I didn’t kill the Mage —and sits down next to Simon to pour the milk.