Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(63)

A few people clap, but most of them just seem to be holding their breath, like he’s about to start giving out cars or something.

Smith-Richards walks back up the aisle. “Tonight we’re going to help another mage live up to their potential.” He’s looking from side to side, smiling. “So many of you have waited for so long…” He stops next to Daphne, and takes her hand. “And been so loyal.”

Baz takes a deep breath. He’s slid his wand from his sleeve into his palm.

Daphne’s looking up at Smith-Richards like he’s some sort of angel. He squeezes her hand and lets go, stepping back onto the stage.

He smiles out at the audience—you could hear a pin drop—and slowly reaches out his hand. “Alan.”

An older man stands up, whooping. Everyone around him laughs. Some people clap come more.

Smith-Richards waves him up. “Come on, Alan! Come on up!”

Alan walks to the front of the room, people patting him on the back as he goes. He climbs up onto the stage.

“You’ve waited so long for this,” Smith-Richards says, then points the microphone at Alan.

“I have at that,” Alan says, chuckling. “I didn’t realize I was waiting for you, Smith. But I was—I was.”

“Well, let’s not make you wait anymore,” Smith-Richards says. “Let’s give you the life you’ve deserved all along!”

He puts the microphone on its stand and pulls a wand out of his back pocket. He holds his other hand out to Alan.

I lean into Baz and whisper, “What should we do?”

“I don’t know,” Baz says. “I don’t think we can stop him…”

“We could stop him if we had to,” I counter.

“Whatever spell he cast didn’t kill Beth. It probably won’t kill Alan either.”

Everyone around us is leaning forward, eyes wide. (No one is gawking at me at the moment or checking out Baz.)

“Let it all out!” Smith-Richards casts.

There’s no noise, no sparks. I don’t know why I was expecting some; magic doesn’t work that way. Smith-Richards shuffles back a bit away from Alan, like the spell took great effort.

Alan looks up at him.

“Go on,” Smith-Richards says softly, reaching for the microphone again, “get out your wand.”

“It’s a fountain pen,” Alan says.

Smith-Richards laughs, but less exuberantly than before. “Get it out, man.”

Alan reaches into his jacket, takes out an antique fountain pen, and removes the cap.

“That’s inconvenient,” Baz says under his breath. “Though I suppose it could be worse, remember Gareth?”

I don’t answer. I’m too sucked in to what’s happening onstage.

Alan looks down at his pen, like he isn’t sure what to do with it.

“What’s a spell you’ve always wanted to do?” Smith-Richards asks.

Alan’s eyes are shining. “‘Death by chocolate.’”

“Do it, Alan. I know you have it in you.”

Alan holds up his pen. I don’t think anyone in the room is breathing.

Maybe Baz.

“Death by chocolate!” Alan cries.

A giant Toblerone—the size of a rifle, it must weigh ten pounds—appears above them. Smith-Richards just barely catches it. Everyone laughs and applauds. Some people are crying. Baz is making a face like, Hmm. Not bad.

Alan has turned away from the crowd, his hands pressed to his face.

“Alan?” Smith-Richards says. “It’s all right, brother.” He pulls Alan into his arms, nearly dropping the chocolate bar. “It’s all right,” he says. “You’re healed now. You’re healed.”

After a minute, Alan pulls away, wiping his eyes with his sleeves.

“I don’t have another handkerchief,” Smith-Richards says. Everyone laughs. “Come on,” he says to Alan, “share this Toblerone with me.”

“I was going to bring it home to my wife.”

“Oh, Alan,” Smith-Richards says, opening the box, “you can just cast the spell again. As often as you like.”

Baz has his arms folded. He tilts his head back sceptically. “No one can cast that spell more than once a day.”

The chocolate bar is enormous. The audience applauds when Smith-Richards manages to break off a chunk. “That’s all I’ve got for tonight!”

Smith-Richards says to the crowd. “But I’ll see you soon. Until we meet again, keep the faith. Keep encouraging each other. Don’t listen to anyone who tries to discourage you. Remember—they’re used to you as you are.

They’re used to feeling more powerful than you. You’re challenging the world as they know it, and they don’t like it. They don’t like it, friends.”

He looks a little peaky, like the spell took something out of him. The man from the door—an older guy with longish grey hair and an earring—has stepped onto the stage to offer Smith-Richards an arm.

“You’re mages,” Smith-Richards says, looking out at the crowd. And then, I’d swear, he looks right at me. “Every one of you. Magic is your birthright.”

He gets one more round of applause as he walks offstage, letting the older man support him.