Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(96)

She’s going to see that we’re not making progress. She’s going to give up eventually. She’s going to send me home.

The sun is setting now. We had a late lunch, and we’ll probably have a late dinner. Penelope is lying on the couch with her legs up and hanging over one end, a book leaning against her thighs and keeping her skirt from falling.

She always wears skirts or short dresses, never pants …

I’ve seen so much of Penelope Bunce’s knees. Her legs are short and curvy—they’re very goddamn cute, if I’m being honest, and her knees are the cutest part. And, okay, maybe I’m more affected by her cuteness than I want to admit, but what am I supposed to do? She’s right there, and she doesn’t get any less cute. Her cuteness doesn’t abate. It just gets worse the more I’m around her. The licorice thing is killing me. And she’s covered in chalk dust 24-7. It gets on her face and in her hair … I’ve never seen someone with so much hair pay so little attention to it—she’s either got the world’s messiest ponytail, or a mop of thick, dark brown hair, curling every which way, falling halfway down her back. It’s cute. It’s real cute. I am not unaffected, okay? I am very affected. Very. Very, very aware of Penelope Bunce. And how cute she is.

“This is a dead end,” Penelope says. She lets the book she’s reading drop on her stomach.

I’m sitting on the floor and leaning against one of her chalkboard walls.

I’ve been reading a book about magical genealogy—when I haven’t been distracted by her legs.

“All of these books are about magicians and mage customs,” she says.

“Not marriage contracts. Maybe Debbie was right, maybe we do need a lawyer.”

“Are there magickal lawyers?”

She hums, thinking. “I know of two. But I doubt they’d take your case.”

I look down at my book. “I’m sorry I’m not as helpful as Simon and Baz would be.”

“Meh.” She sits up, and digs a bag of red licorice shoestrings out from between two couch pillows. “Don’t sell yourself short. They both get too emotionally invested and attached to their own ideas. You’re remarkably clearheaded, Shepard. It’s almost like we’re talking about someone else who’s cursed to marry a demon.”

I think that was a compliment …

She holds out the bag. “Do you want some?”

“Sure.” I go sit next to her on the couch, taking a tangle of candy, even though I never eat this stuff. It tastes like chemical glue.

“Do you think the curse would allow you to get married?” she asks.

“In life?”

“Obviously in life.”

“I think so,” I say. “I could probably enter another arrangement that’s ‘till death do us part,’ considering my arms say, ‘at death do us join.’”

“Hmm.” She bites down on a string of licorice, then pulls it until it snaps.

“My parents got married when they were my age—nineteen.”

“Wow…”

“Yeah … As soon as they left school. Mages get married young, but that’s really young. My mum says she knew what she wanted in life and didn’t see the sense in waiting.”

“My parents were in their late twenties,” I say. “My dad might have been thirty.”

“When did they get divorced?”

“When I was eight.”

She frowns. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.” I rest an elbow on the back of the couch and pull one knee up, so I’m facing her. “You know how they always tell kids, ‘This divorce isn’t about you, it isn’t your fault’?”

She nods. “Yeah…”

“I remember thinking, Of course, it isn’t! Why would you even suggest that? Is someone out there pinning this on me? ”

Penelope laughs, and for once, she doesn’t try to hide it. “Did your parents fight a lot?”

“If they did, I don’t remember. My dad was gone all the time, for work.

And then, he was just gone.”

“Did they get remarried?”

“My mom did.”

“Do you like your stepdad?”

“He’s fine. My mom likes him.”

“Do they know…” She glances down at my arms.

I laugh. “Have I told my mom that I’m going to hell? No. She wouldn’t even let me play Dungeons & Dragons when I was a kid because she didn’t think Jesus would approve. This would be way too much for her.”

“So she doesn’t know you hang out with giants and fairies…”

“She does not.”

Penelope leans one shoulder against the back of the couch and refolds her legs, so she’s facing me. “Shepard…”

I push up my glasses. “Penelope.”

“Did you really go home with a fairy?”

“I tried.”

“What was her name?”

“Fey.”

She rolls her eyes. “That wasn’t her real name…”

“It’s the name she told me.”

“Why would a fairy name their kid Fey? That’s like a magician naming their kid Warlock!”