Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(70)

That’ll be the day.

I put my hand on his forearm. “Come back to Fiona’s with me,” I say. “I’ll pick up some clothes.”

His eyes are scrabbling on mine. I try to give him whatever it is he’s digging for.

“Yeah?” he says.

“It isn’t too much, Snow.”

He licks his lip and nods.

I pull him towards the stairs.





38

SIMON

In the early days after the Mage was gone, when I was still having video calls with that American therapist, she used to tell me to break life into bites you can swallow.

Like, don’t think about the fact that you don’t have magic and you killed your mentor and you have a fucking tail now … (I’m the “you,” obviously.) Just think about the next few hours. Are you going to have lunch? Are you going to see your friends? Will you take a walk?

There were days when even that was too much for me to swallow.

There were days that I broke up into minutes. And days that I could only live one second at a time. Now I’m going to sit up. Now I’m going to piss.

Now I’m going to plug in my phone.

I’m doing it again now.

Not because the future is too terrible to reckon with—because it’s too terrifying. Too uncertain. There are parts of it that are too bright.

Is this what people do when they’re in love? Do they just keep touching and talking? And then what? Like what is it all leading to? I don’t mean sex, I mean …

If I knew what I meant, it wouldn’t be so frightening.

I’m living second by second. All of this with Baz is petrifying. All of this without Baz is intolerable. I’m just making whatever decision I have to make in the moment to keep him in the picture, even though I can’t look at the whole picture without shitting myself.

I just told him to come home with me.

A few days ago, I broke up with him.

I just told him to come home with me, and he said yes. We’re on the Tube to his flat, and he’s sitting next to me. I’ve got my arm slung around his shoulder. There’s at least one guy giving us a dirty look, and I kinda hope he speaks up, because I would dearly love to punch something right now. That’s a decision I could wrap my brain around.

Second by second.

Now I’m holding on to Baz.

Now I’m standing up.

Now I’m going to follow him.





39

BAZ

“Is your aunt home?” Snow asks, hiding behind me while I unlock the door.

“I don’t think so,” I say. “I don’t hear Joe Strummer, so probably not.”

“Is that her boyfriend?”

“She wishes.” I step into the flat—there’s a blur of movement and a noise like a door slamming.

Fiona is home. She’s standing in front of her bedroom door. Awkwardly.

Her legs planted too far apart. “Basil!” she says. “You weren’t here.”

“I was not,” I say slowly. “Now I am.”

“Okay, fine,” she says. She leans against the wall. I’ve never seen her stand in that spot before. She puts her hands in her trouser pockets.

“Fiona … Did you just hide a man from me?”

“No,” she says.

“You did.”

“Big talk from someone hiding a man at this very moment.”

I glance over my shoulder. “Stop cowering, Snow.”

“I’m not cowering,” he mutters, stepping out from behind my back. I have my hand on my wand, just in case Fiona tries something.

“Hello, Simon Snow,” she says, trying to look dangerous.

“Hi,” he replies, barely audible.

Fiona puts something into her mouth. It looks like a whistle. Or a recorder.

“Fuck me,” I say. “Are you vaping?”

She immediately pulls it away and hides it behind her back—then realizes she’s hiding it and lets her hand hang at her side. “It’s better for your lungs than smoking.”

“Is it?”

She curls her lip at me. “I thought you objected to the open flame.”

“I also object to you looking like a yob.”

“Don’t be classist, Basil.”

I look at her bedroom door. “Is that it?” I whisper. “Are you hiding a Normal in there? I already know you date Normals, Fiona.”

“Oh, and you don’t?”

“I’ll just—” Simon is backing out the front door.

I snatch his wrist and drag him towards my room. Fiona watches us, smiling like she’s won. I shut the door behind us.

“Maybe I should wait outside?” Snow is still cowering.

“You’re safer where I can see you,” I say, walking over to a clothes rack.

“She wouldn’t really do anything to hurt me … All that’s over … Right?”

“My aunt is a lunatic.” I flip through my shirts. I’m not sure what to bring to Simon’s flat. Enough for a few days? For a week? I wish there was a spell that would shrink my whole wardrobe down, so that it would fit in my pocket. (There is a spell like that, but the reversal is a bitch.) (Reversals are always a bitch. Bunce could make herself famous if that Missy Elliott song sticks.) I have a garment bag somewhere—would that make this arrangement too formal? Too real? Would Simon feel better if I just threw a few things into a duffel and called it good?