Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(72)

I’m not sure what she means. My arms?

“The translation,” she says, snapping her fingers.

“Penelope—”

“I didn’t spend all afternoon in some sort of spider-woman’s nest, so that I could not see the information we came for.”

I reach into my pocket and pull out the folded-up translation. It’s two pages long. Penelope takes them from me and unfolds them. “Calligraphy,”

she says. “Why not.”

She starts reading.

“Right,” she says, nodding. “This is a prenuptial agreement…”

She reads a bit more. “Oh, good job, Shepard, it’s an eternal contract. No divorce in your future. No adultery either, not if you value your eyelashes …

That’s … picturesque…”

She keeps reading.

She raises an eyebrow and makes a noise like, “Pffft.”

She flips to the second page. “What’s this? Half the words are missing.”

I’m sitting with my knees wide and my elbows on my thighs, my head hanging low. “That’s the spell I got from Ken. The summoning spell. Debbie left out everything that made her nervous.”

Penelope’s quiet. She’s reading.

“This is a marriage proposal…” she says.

I don’t say anything.

“Shepard,” she says, “you weren’t forced into an engagement. You proposed to a demon.”

I don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say.

“This is so much more idiotic than I thought.”

“All right…” I sit up and grab the papers from her hand. “I know! This is why I lied to you—because I didn’t want you to know what a fool I am.”

Penelope’s face is hard. “I prefer fools to liars.”

“I’m not actually a liar,” I say, folding up the papers and shoving them back into my jacket. “I mean, I am literally. In this case. But I’m not.

Generally. As a person. I’ll just get my backpack—”

“I believe you.”

I look up. Her face is still hard.

“What do you believe?”

“I believe that you didn’t mean to lie to me.”

My hand is still in my jacket pocket. I take it out. “You do?”

“Yes,” she says. “Just…” She turns to one of the chalkboard walls. “Don’t do it again, okay?”

I nod slowly. Even though she can’t see me. “Okay.”

She picks up her chalk. “Don’t lie to me, and don’t leave anything out.”

“Okay,” I say again.

“Don’t surprise me.”

“I wasn’t trying—”

She whips around, with her hands on her hips. “Just assume I want as much information as is possible, in every situation!”

“I can do that.” I’m nodding too eagerly. “I want that, too.”

Penelope looks up into my eyes, and it feels like a warning. It feels like she’s giving me another chance. But only this once.

“Let me see me the translation again,” she says.

I hand her the papers. She sticks each page to the chalkboard with a spell — “Sticking point!”

“Now that we know the terms,” she says, “we can look for a way out.”





41

SIMON

My flat looks emptier now that I’ve asked Baz to stay here. All I’ve really got is the mattress. “I can get furniture,” I say, looking around. “I can get one of those poles.”

Baz has dropped his bags just inside the door. He’s texting someone. He glances up from his phone. “A pole?”

“For your clothes. For clothes. Mine are just…” Mine are just in a heap on the bedroom floor. “I was going to buy furniture anyway.”

“Did someone die and leave you their fortune?” Still texting.

“Well … actually…”

He looks up again. “Did someone die, Snow?”

“Who are you texting?” I ask.

“My other boyfriend. The one who texts back.”

I grab for his phone. He holds it above me. If I weren’t wearing a hoodie, I could fly up and reach it.

“I’m texting Bunce, ” he says. “Like I have time for another boyfriend …

Your dysfunction is a full-time job.”

I shove him back—then think better of it and pull on his shirt, reaching for the phone again. “You’re texting Penny? Is she texting you back?”

He puts the phone in his jacket pocket, slapping my hand away. “She texted me back to say that she’s trying to respect your needs. I told her you needed a kick in the arse; that I’ve already delivered it; and now we need her help.”

“We do need her help,” I say.

“I know. I told her to call.”

I push my hand through the front of my hair. I hope she does.

Baz bumps me with his elbow. “Who died, Snow?”

“Oh.” I smooth my hair down again. “The Mage.”

“Right,” he says. “I was there.”

“Right, but … Well, he left me his money. In his will.”