Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(75)

I close my eyes and lean into him. “You really don’t think he’s legit?”

“Smith-Richards? Circe, no.”

“But we watched him cure someone.”

“We watched him do something. I agree with Lady Salisbury—you can’t cure someone of weak magic.”

“Why not?” I ask. “You can cure other things. Like … high blood pressure and gnomeatic fever.”

“Weak magic isn’t a disease.” He combs his hand through my hair, from front to back, then tugs at the crown.

I tilt my head back, eyes still closed. “What is it, then?”

“It’s not one thing.” He pulls his fingers out of my hair, then combs them through again. “It’s aptitude, right? Some people aren’t good with words, some people aren’t persuasive speakers. Some people can’t think on their feet.”

He could be talking about me. Maybe he is.

“But it’s also ability,” he goes on. “Can you speak clearly, does your voice carry … And then there’s basic capacity. Strength, power. How much magic you can control, how much you can channel. Plus, training, education, practice, drive…”

“Lucky for you,” I say, opening my eyes just enough to see him. “You’ve got it all.”

Baz curls his lip. “Yeah, that’s me. Nobody can shut up about my good luck.”

I ease closer. “You are lucky though. You and Penny. You’re like…” I reach my hand up his back, under his shirt. His skin is cool. “Aristocrats.

Like, kings and queens compared to everyone else.”

“What’d that make you, Snow, a god?”

“I was a fluke.”

Baz sighs, frustrated, and gives my hair a sharp pull. “All right,” he says, “I’m lucky. What does that prove? Do you think Smith-Richards is changing people’s luck?”

“I think he’s doing something, ” I say. “Shall we go check it out?”

Baz hums. “Let’s wait for Penelope to call. We could use her help.”

“You think she’ll get back to us?”

“When has Bunce ever ignored a dangerous proposition?”





42

PENELOPE

“Maybe we should just summon the demon and see what happens.”

“We are not summoning the demon, Penelope.”

“Don’t want me to meet your girlfriend?”

Shepard is sitting low on my sofa, his shoulders against the back of it and his legs kicked out. He’s different now that I know his secret. Less happy-go-lucky. Maybe he can’t pretend to be lucky while we’re really plumbing the depths of his bad luck. He’s got his jacket off, and he’s wearing a white Keith Haring T-shirt. And every time I say something that he finds humiliating, like now, he covers his eyes with his forearms and shows me his triceps.

I drop down next to Shepard on the sofa. I’m only half kidding about summoning the demon; maybe she’d be open to negotiation. I elbow him.

“Worried she’ll get clingy?”

“Penelope…” He lets his arms fall. “You can keep making fun of me…”

“I shall.”

“And insulting me.”

“That’s the plan.”

He turns his head towards me. If I had to describe his face and general mood right now, I’d go with unhappy-go-unlucky. “But please,” he says, “don’t make jokes like that.”

“Like what?”

“Don’t call her my girlfriend.”

“Is ‘fiancée’ better?”

“Don’t, Penelope. It’s not funny.”

“It’s funny to me, I have a lot of jokes lined up.”

Shepard frowns at me. It’s somehow even more effective than his smiles —more potent for its rarity. “If I were a woman being forced to marry a demon,” he says, “would it be funny?”

I don’t know, would it? I fold my arms. Shepard’s not a woman. He’s a big, goofy man—who got himself into this situation and then hid it from me.

“Clearly I understand that this is serious, Shepard—I am trying to help you fix it.”

“And I appreciate it! Thank you! Just … don’t tease me. About that part.

Don’t call her my fiancée.”

“Fine,” I say and wish I didn’t sound so sulky about it.

“It’s not a real engagement,” he says, rubbing the stripes in his trousers.

He’s said it before.

“I get that.”

He glances at me, not quite meeting my eyes. “Do you?”

“Yes. I do.” (I mean … I mostly do.) “Mages used to have arranged marriages,” I say, looking back up at my lists. “It made sense from a practical standpoint: We like to marry each other, and powerful mages like to marry other powerful mages—it keeps the bloodlines robust.”

Shepard has turned more fully towards me, listening. Of course he’s listening, these are state secrets. I keep going anyway: “There are lots of stories about people trapped in marriage contracts. Beautiful maidens, usually, promised to powerful old men.”