Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(79)

“Yeah”—Smith-Richards looks excited—“I’d love for you to meet him, too.”

Simon scoots even farther off the sofa, ready to spring up. (Directly into Smith-Richards’s lap.)

“Should we call for him?” I ask.

“Oh…” Smith-Richards sits back in his chair. “I’m sorry. Jamie doesn’t live here. But I could text him? And arrange something? Maybe at the next meeting?”

“That’d be great,” Simon says.

There’s a knock at the open door. We all look up. That same girl is standing there, still looking scared of Simon.

“Hey, Pippa,” Smith-Richards says. “Is dinner ready?”

She nods.

“Thanks. I’ll be right down.”

She hurries away.

“You really ought to stay for dinner,” Smith-Richards says. “Daphne would be glad to see you.”

“Thank you,” I say, “but I don’t want her to think I’m checking up on her.”

“All right.” Smith-Richards reaches for my hand again, then claps Simon on the shoulder. “Let’s exchange numbers, in case something comes up.”

“Sure,” Simon says, getting out his phone.

Smith ends up doing the typing. “I’ll see you at the next meeting, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Simon says, “for sure.”

“And Simon—let yourself be comfortable. If you want to keep the wings put away, I get it. But we’re all magicians here. You don’t have anything to hide.”

Simon is blushing. “Okay, um … thanks.”

Smith-Richards walks us to the door.





44

SMITH

Simon Snow.

Here.

Like someone out of a story.

A fallen angel. A prodigal son. A returning hero, Achilles tendon sliced in the war.

He looks the part.

(Can he see how people look at him? Can he see how they see him?) The wings were a genius twist. Scarlet wings, what a visual. He’s a stained-glass window waiting to happen—I’m almost jealous.

I mean, I am, a little … jealous.

But I’ll get there. Who knows what destiny holds for me? Who knows how my legend will build? There will be windows someday and statues. Full-colour plates in gilded books.

One day at a time, Evander always says. One chapter.

My godfather raised me with all the old stories. We travelled the world, but he kept the World of Mages alive in me. What a world! What glory! I hardly recognized it when he brought me home to London …

This is how magicians live now? Among the Normals? Like the Normals?

Afraid of them?

What’s the point of being magickal if you have to fill your days with mundanity?

(Can they even see themselves? Do they see how they look?) In the stories, there are castles. There are feats of power. Dragons!

In the World of Mages, there’s almost nothing. A school. A few clubs.

Dishwashing spells.

I give them a lifetime’s worth of power, and they make chocolate bars.

(Maybe I should just hand out chocolate bars…) At least they haven’t forgotten all the old stories. They still know who I am. They’re still waiting for me.

The Chosen One.

The Greatest Mage.

The Power of Powers.

The one who will come to save them from the greatest threat to the World of Mages.

I will save this world.

And Simon Snow will help me.





45

SHEPARD

Penelope doesn’t even have to cast a spell to find her dad; she’s got a key that will take her right to him. There’s a piece of yarn looped through it. “My mum made this,” she says. “When I was a kid, they made me wear it around my neck.”

She hangs the key over a map of London. “Mum meets with the Coven tonight, so we should be able to catch Dad alone.”

“What’s the Coven?”

“Not even a little bit your business.”

The key twitches. “Not at home…” she says. “Not at work…”

It settles near the British Museum. I’ve always wanted to go to the British Museum.

“Come on,” she says, “let’s try to catch him.”

We get into a cab, which I predict she won’t pay for. Penelope plays fast and loose with goods and services. I feel so guilty about it that I can’t make eye contact with the driver.

She keeps holding the key over the Maps app on her phone to keep track of her dad.

“Why can’t you call him again?”

“I can’t risk him telling my mum.”

“Won’t he tell her anyway? Eventually?”

“I’m going to plead my case in person.” She frowns at her phone and mumbles, “Or spell him if I have to.”

“You’d do that to your own father?”

She shrugs. “Well, I haven’t yet—He’s moving again!” She leans forward and raps on the Plexiglas screen between us and the driver. “Here is fine!”

The driver lets us out at the corner. Penny knocks her gem on his credit card reader and says, “Fair enough!”

“Do you ever pay for cab rides?” I ask her, as the taxi drives away.