Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(53)

Sometimes it’s a trickle, and sometimes it’s a stream.”

“Sometimes it’s a spark,” I say, “and sometimes it’s a fire.”

“Exactly!” she says fiercely. Then her gaze falls to her lap. “Well, he didn’t want to hear that. He stormed up to his room. A few days later, he left for one of his meetings and didn’t come back.”

“No note?” I ask.

“No note,” Lady Salisbury says. “I’ve tried every spell I can think of to find him. It’s like he’s being hidden behind a curtain. His candle burns, I know he’s out there…” She reaches a hand towards us. “But I can’t see him or feel him.” She closes her fist. “It’s like summoning air.”

“Have you talked to Smith-Richards?”

She scoffs. “It was easy enough to find his meetings, but I was turned away. The magician at the door said they’re trying to maintain an ‘atmosphere of support and optimism.’ That’s when I went to the Coven.

Now, there’s an organization that doesn’t know its arse from its elbow. All of the Mage’s cronies are out, which means no one has five minutes of institutional memory. They’re still plumbing the depths of his corruption; who knows when they’ll hit bottom!”

She looks at us again, like she’s remembering herself. “I apologize. I must sound like an old coot. The Coven thought so. Even my friends think so. They think Jamie was always a lost cause, and that he finally met a bad end. They feel sorry for me, but they don’t take me seriously.”

“We’re taking you seriously,” Simon says.

And it’s true, we are.

Lady Salisbury may be an old coot. But there’s something shady happening here, and I have a feeling my stepmother is caught up in it.

Didn’t Mordelia say Daphne was away working on her magic?

My stepmother is the limpest mage I know. She doesn’t use magic for anything. When she wants to cast a spell, she has to go and get her wand out of a drawer, the same drawer where we keep extra batteries and rubber bands.

When the Humdrum sucked all the magic out of our house in Hampshire, Daphne joked about staying there anyway.

I know she just barely made it through Watford. She told me she only got the grades she did because she was good at written tests and diligent about homework.

She’s even talked about sending Mordelia to Normal school—“because they’re more academically competitive.” I thought she was kidding, but maybe she doesn’t want to put Mordelia through it. Mordelia’s a bright girl.

She could be a star at some Normal school. At Watford, she’ll be known for what she can’t do.

I thought Daphne was at peace with herself. That she accepted her place in the world. It could be worse: She’s married to a wealthy farmer who worships the ground she walks on. She has a big house and a bunch of noisy friends. She has healthy kids.

I didn’t think she cared about magic.

Maybe I was wrong.

“We want to help,” I say to Lady Salisbury. “Tell us everything you know about Smith Smith-Richards.”





28

LADY RUTH

I watch them from the window after we say good-bye.

They aren’t halfway down the walk before the Pitch boy is taking the Chosen One’s hand. Ah, I’d heard as much. Now that I’ve met them, I’m glad to know it’s true. They could both use a fierce ally, I think.

Did the Mage hurt anyone worse than that boy?

Even my Lucy got away.

But Simon Snow was snatched off the streets and turned into a puppet of war. There’s no official account of what happened, but we all know that Simon defeated the Humdrum and then the Mage—and that the Coven, packed as it was with Davy’s friends, was still unanimous in acquitting the boy.

What could Davy have done to turn his most loyal disciple against him?

And what did it cost Simon Snow to make that turn? To bite the only hand that ever fed him?

I’m glad he’s not alone in this.

That he has someone to take his hand when they think old women like me aren’t looking.

Can two boys do what the rest of the World of Mages won’t?

Perhaps. They’ve done it before, haven’t they?





29

SIMON

Baz made us take the Underground to get to Lady Salisbury’s.

I hadn’t been on the Tube for more than a year. Not since I got my wings.

But Baz insisted they’re hardly noticeable now that I’ve got them folded up so tight.

“I look strange,” I said to him on the ride to Mayfair. “People are staring.”

“Yeah, but they don’t think you have wings. ”

“They think I have a hump. ”

“They’ll get over it. Bodies come in different shapes.”

I suppose he was right—no one jumped me or threw holy water on me. So now we’re taking the train back to my flat, standing side by side, holding on to a bar.

It was relatively easy to talk Baz into coming back to mine—I don’t think he wants to deal with his aunt yet—but he’s still whinging about it.

“You don’t have a sofa,” he says.

“We can sit on the floor.”