Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(78)

“Exposed?” Simon says.

Smith-Richards shrugs, like he doesn’t want to hurt Simon’s feelings.

“Explained.”

“And then?” Simon pushes.

Smith-Richards is at the back of his hair again. “And then I started thinking about a lot of things…”

Simon swallows, waiting.

“About signs.”

“Signs,” Simon repeats, leaning forward.

Smith-Richard nods. “My mother had a dream about me, before she even knew she was pregnant. Then I was born during an eclipse. And after my parents died—”

“Your parents died?”

“When I was very young.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. After they died, my godfather raised me, and he always told me I was special.”

I roll my eyes. Every parent says that.

Smith-Richards goes on: “I thought he was just saying it because he loved me, but there was some truth to it. I’ve always had a way with other magicians … even when I was a baby.”

Everyone loves babies.

“Their magic was stronger when I was around,” he says. “My godfather said he could cast a sonnet with me in the room.”

Simon smiles—ruefully. “That’s the opposite of me,” he says. “I was taking everyone else’s magic.”

“Not intentionally,” Smith-Richards says. “Simon, everyone knows that the Mage used you.”

Simon’s face is red. I don’t think the fact that everyone knows he was duped is much of a comfort to him. Especially when there’s so much he doesn’t know himself. Where did Simon’s ability come from? And how did the Mage find him? What would have happened if the Mage had been able to take Simon’s power on that final, fateful day?

“So you put the pieces together…” Simon says. “About yourself.”

“I started to think, perhaps…” Smith-Richards’s cheeks are red, too. His eyes are more blue than ever. “Perhaps I was meant to help people.”

For fuck’s sake—imagine thinking that makes you special. Something that’s literally true of all of us. I hold back a derisive “pfft.”

Simon is sitting on the very edge of the sofa. “So no one around you—”

Smith-Richards scoots forward on his chair. Their knees are overlapping now. “When I talked to my godfather, he said he’d always suspected that I might be … you know. The one. But that it was the sort of thing I needed to decide for myself. To discover for myself and feel sure of.” Smith-Richards runs his fingers through his hair. He’s sitting in a shaft of light now. The evening sun catches on each shining curl. “I don’t think I could have felt certain of this, as a child. I’m glad I didn’t know what I was.” He holds his palms out. “I wouldn’t have understood what it meant.”

Simon is looking down into the man’s open hands.

“I’m so grateful for the last ten years,” Smith-Richards says. “You gave me that time, and it was a gift.”

Simon tilts his head up, and their eyes meet. Simon swallows. Then swallows again.

“How long have you been back in England?” I ask. Crisply.

Smith-Richards is still gazing at Simon.

I clear my throat.

His head turns slowly to me. “A year,” he says. “A little more. It felt like it was time to come home.”

“To buy an orphanage?”

He laughs. “Well, that’s a new development. At first I was just visiting people in their homes. But some of my friends felt I could have a bigger impact if I got organized. That’s when the meetings started. Eventually”—he ruffles his hair again, looking around—“this. A foundlings’ home, how could I resist? Orphan makes good. ”

“Have you recovered from last night?” I ask, still very crisp. “The cure seems to really take it out of you.”

Smith-Richards sighs. “Yeah, it does. I can sort of help people’s magic, just by touching them—” He holds his hand out to me. “You can try it if you want.”

“That’s all right,” I say. “Conserve yourself.”

He rests his hand on his thigh. “But the spell makes me feel like I’ve run a marathon. I’m still getting the hang of it. I’ve only cast it a few times now.

I’ve been working on a way to focus my talents.”

“You mentioned the first person you healed,” Simon says, somehow miraculously back on track, “Jamie.”

“Jamie,” Smith-Richards repeats warmly. “He was one of the first people who really believed in me. I mean, he trusted me to cast this totally new, weird spell on him.”

“And it worked?” Simon asks.

Smith-Richards grins. “It totally worked. Jamie … He didn’t even have a wand when I met him. Full-blooded magician. Had never cast a ‘Clean sweep.’ Wasn’t even allowed at Watford. And now he’s fully fluent.”

“That’s amazing,” Simon says.

Smith-Richards is beaming at him. Literally. The sun has moved behind Smith-Richards’s head and is lighting him up like a saint.

“Could we meet Jamie?” I ask.

“I’d love to meet him,” Simon says earnestly.