Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(85)

“I tried not to think of them, even when we were here.”

“I had a plan to drink them all…” Baz looks wistful. “But it took me all night to catch one—and then it tasted like motor oil. Gamy motor oil.”

“What’d you do with the body?”

“Threw it back in!”

“Gross.”

We walk over the drawbridge and through the fortress walls, into the empty courtyard. The Mage and his Men never left Watford open and unguarded like this, even on summer break. He and his Men were always here over school breaks, working on secret plans and projects. I used to ask the Mage to let me stay at Watford, too—but he said it was good for me to spend time with Normals.

“I’d send the rest of these children to live with Normals, too, if I could.

We get comfortable, complacent, among our own kind. We start behaving like the magic comes from within us—and not from the world around us.

Go live in the world, Simon. Stay close to it.”

So I spent every summer in care. In group homes. Once or twice, with foster families. At least I got to go home with Agatha most Christmases …

The library is to the left, but Baz pulls me to the right. “Best check in with the headmistress first,” he says.

I follow him past the fountain, towards the ivy-covered Weeping Tower.

“Everything looks the same,” I say.

“Did you think the walls would crumble without you?”

“No…” But I thought they might crumble without the Mage. This was his place. His domain. And now he’s dead, and nothing has changed. Nothing stopped. (Except me, I suppose.) Watford—and the whole World of Mages— just went on without him.

The Weeping Tower is unlocked, too. We take the lift to the top. As soon as the doors open, we can hear Penelope’s mum.

“Because we’re running a school, not a nursery! Look, Peter, even Normal schools teach Shakespeare, and their kids can’t even use it!”

Baz and I stop at the open door to her office. She’s on her mobile phone, pacing in front of the Mage’s desk—her desk, now. She’s wearing an oversized Beatles T-shirt and leggings. The Mage would be appalled.

“Or perhaps!” she half shouts. “I’ll hire the new humanities teacher and pay her out of the football budget … Oh, I think you’ll find that I can!”

She spots us and stops pacing, acknowledging us with her free hand.

“Peter, I have to go … No, I have to go … I am going to hire her … Yes, because I want to, but also because it’s the right thing to do…” Professor Bunce looks so much like Penelope. Older, of course. With madder hair.

“Peter, I’m hanging up now … I’m hanging up.”

She hangs up, and leans back against her desk with a long sigh. “Well, boys, should I be worried?”

“Worried?” I ask.

“The pair of you don’t just show up to say hello, do you? Are you being chased by werewolves? I assume they’ve already eaten my daughter. Magic forbid she return my texts.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Baz says. “Hello, Headmistress.”

“Hello, Baz.” She smiles at him, like she’s decided to give him an inch.

Are they friends now? When did that happen? “Here,” she says, “sit down. I don’t have anything to offer you. Cook Pritchard has the day off and I don’t even know where the kettle is. I’m living off a box of Jaffa Cakes I found in the cupboard. Probably been here since your mum was in charge.”

She moves behind her desk, and Baz and I sit in the two wooden chairs across from her. These chairs weren’t here when the Mage was headmaster.

He didn’t usually have people in his office. He didn’t talk to students much at all.

The entire office looks like it’s got more use since Headmistress Bunce took over. The desk is covered in folders and papers. She’s got a big mug of pens, and photos of her family. And the shelves behind her are even more packed with books than they were before.

“Where is Penelope?” she asks. “Is she still angry with me?”

No. She’s still angry with me. “She’s in London,” I say. “She didn’t feel like coming.”

“Hmm.” She scratches the back of her head. “Still angry with me, then.”

“We’re here because we were hoping we could use the library,” Baz says.

“Of course you can. It’s open to all magicians. What are you looking for?”

“My stepmother has taken an interest in one of the new Chosen Ones,” he says. (We’ve already decided to be up front with Professor Bunce; she might know something useful.) “Smith Smith-Richards.”

Professor Bunce rolls her eyes. “Smith-Richards.”

“You’ve heard of him?” Baz asks.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Do you know him?”

“I assume I know what you know—that he says he’s the Chosen One and is promising magickal upgrades.”

I lean forward, and my chair creaks. “You don’t believe him?”

“Do I believe that there are six new Chosen Ones here to solve all our problems? In a word—no. In two words—hell, no.” She frowns at me. “No offence, Simon.”