Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(88)

Jemima Smith and Hugh Richards died January 12th in a car accident near their home in Yorkshire. They are survived by their only son, Smith Smith-Richards, age 1. The child will be cared for by his godfather, Evander Feverfew, most recently of Mexico City.

“Evander Feverfew,” Simon says. “What a name. Are you related?”

“Feverfew is an old family,” I say. “But I’ve never heard of Evander.”

Simon stands up straight, scratching the back of his head. “So it’s just like Smith said. It’s all true.”

“Well, he does seem to be an orphan named Smith Smith-Richards—”

“Isn’t that what we came here to verify?”

“I suppose,” I say. “I’d like to see what else we can find on his family.”

“We know his parents’ names now. We could search for those.”

“Indeed.”

Jemima Smith and Hugh Richards were two run-of-the-mill magicians. They graduated from Watford together. They got married. They got normal Normal jobs. She was a dentist, and he was some sort of graphic designer. They didn’t win any awards. They didn’t run for office. They died before the Mage started making mischief.

Evander Feverfew is only slightly more remarkable. He was in the Dramatic Society at Watford, and one of his cousins was on the Coven.

There’s a Feverfew estate in the North, but it’s occupied by a distant relative.

This isn’t like researching my mother’s death. We don’t uncover anything shocking or surprising. After two hours in the library, all we’ve got is what Smith told us, plus some not-very-interesting backstory.

Simon has put most of the books away, and he’s itching to leave.

“All right,” I say, giving up. “It doesn’t look like there are any skeletons buried here.” I push away from the library table. “Would it be all right with you if we stopped in the Catacombs on the way out?”



“To see where the skeletons are actually buried?”

“To visit my mother’s tomb, Snow.”

“Oh, fuck, Baz, sorry—I wasn’t thinking.”

“You don’t have to come with me.” I get up to shelve the last of the books.

“I can meet you outside.”

“No.” His hand is on my arm. “I’ll come.”

The roses are in bloom, so I don’t have to magic up any flowers for my bouquet. (Food and flowers are the hardest things to create with magic. They take it out of you.)

Simon follows me into the White Chapel. He reaches for my hand in the doorway. I don’t think he’s been inside the Chapel since the Mage died here.

“All right, Snow?”

He nods.

We duck behind the altar, behind the sanctuary, through the hidden entrance to the crypt. “How’d you find this door in the first place?” Simon asks.

“I used to come with my father to visit.”

“Oh. That makes sense.”

The door slides closed behind us. It’s dark, but I can still see. “How did you think I found it?”

“I thought it was a creepy vampire thing.”

“Well, it was … eventually.”

“Do you think other Watford kids wander around down here?”

“I only ever saw you.”

Simon giggles. “I can’t believe we’re in the Catacombs together.”

Before I can say anything, he’s pushing me against a stone wall and kissing my neck.

“For fuck’s sake, Snow, this is hallowed ground!”

“I’m not doing anything to unhallow it.” He keeps kissing me.

I rest my arms over his shoulders, letting the roses droop.

“New plan,” he says. “We retrace our old steps, and do this all of the places we used to fight.”

“That’s everywhere.”

“Everywhere, then.”

He’s got his arms around my waist, and his chest and hips against mine.

This is all my fifth-year fantasies come true: Simon Snow manhandling me in the library, in the Catacombs …

“We could go up to the tower,” he says.

“That’s someone else’s room now.”

“It will always be our room more than anyone else’s.”

I close my eyes and drop my head onto his shoulder. The wall behind me is cold and damp. Simon is warm. He’s pushing his nose into my collar and biting my throat.

“I can’t believe I had you in my room every night,” he says, “and I didn’t take advantage of it.”

“You could have had me in your room every night for the last year.”

He groans into my collar. “I’m such a twat.”

I lift my head up and get my free hand around his jaw. I can see his eyes, his pupils wide as saucers. Can he see me? “Kiss me in the Catacombs, Snow. Unhallow the ground.”

“I’ll unhallow your ground,” he says, kissing me.

I don’t think he can see me—his mouth lands halfway onto my chin. I’m laughing, making it worse. “You’re absurd,” I say.

“Look. I already said I’m a twat.”

I hold his jaw in place and kiss him squarely.

Simon’s lips are thin. His mouth is wide. We kiss with our teeth.