Any Way the Wind Blows

by Rainbow Rowell

  “Niamh. I went to Watford, too. I’m not anti-Watford.” I’m leaning over the gear shift to make my point.

  She’s trying to watch the road and argue with me at the same time. “Then I’d think you’d be concerned about the goats!”

  I shrug my shoulders with my palms in the air. “I mean, I’m more concerned than I was yesterday. I’ve bonded with a few of them now.”

  “The goats of Watford are wandering away,” she says, hunching over the steering wheel, “and no one cares! Not you, not even the headmistress—she has too many other problems. The whole World of Mages has too many other problems! Or too many other distractions. Most of them care more about who’s going to replace your boyfriend than—”

  I cut her off. “If you call him my boyfriend one more time, I’ll scream.”

  “Why? Are you engaged now? Are you Simon Snow’s fiancée?”

  “No! We broke up ages ago! Everyone knows this!”

  “What?” Niamh sits back in her seat, chastened. “I didn’t know that.”

  “You must live under a rock.” I fold my arms and look out my window. “It’s all anyone talked about for months.”

  “I don’t really pay attention to gossip…” she says.

  “Well, we broke up our last year at Watford, and now he’s with Baz Pitch. It was like boy–Romeo and Juliet.”

  “Romeo was already a boy.”

  “You know what I meant.”

  “Simon Snow dumped you for a Pitch?” Niamh sounds thoughtful. “Which one, again?”

  “He didn’t dump me, actually, but—you know, Baz. He was at school with us.”

  “What did he look like?”

  I turn back to her. Is she kidding? “Basilton Grimm-Pitch? The headmistress’s son?”

  “Oh, right…” She still looks uncertain. “Pale? Crooked nose?”

  “I mean, yes. But I’ve never heard him described that way.”

  Niamh shrugs. “Like I said, I didn’t really follow your whole soap opera.”

  “You are so exceedingly unpleasant,” I say. “I almost forgot that for a few hours. You’re so much easier to be around when you’re yelling at goats.”

  “Yeah, well, we have that in common.” We’re at a stop sign, and Niamh is redoing her bun again, making it even tighter. I’m this close to telling her how bad it looks that way. But she doesn’t deserve constructive advice. I huff instead.

  She ignores me.

  I try to ignore her back, but it only lasts a minute. “I don’t want Watford to fall, by the way. I’ve helped save Watford multiple times. Tangentially.”

  “Well,” she says, “all your efforts will be in vain if the goats leave.”

  “Oh good, back to the goats again.”

  “I know that you believe the Goats of Watford are just a myth. But a myth is just another word for a story, and what do we have if we don’t have stories!”

  “Niamh! I’ve never even heard of the Goats of Watford—should I have?”

  She rolls her eyes. “I mean, I think so. I think the heritage and care of magickal animals matter, that these are things we should study and share and—”

  “Wait, they’re magickal goats?”

  Niamh puffs out a frustrated breath. “Why doesn’t anyone know this? The goats are part of Watford history! They’re in the coat of arms!”

  “I thought those were pegasus … ses.”

  “No, they’re goats.”

  “But they have wings,” I say.

  “So do the goats.”

  “What?”

  “How do you think the goats are getting out over the wall, Agatha?”

  “I thought they were jumping. They’re magickal, flying goats?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Obviously not obviously. Do people know this?”

  “They should!” she half shouts, then looks embarrassed to have raised her voice. Her shoulders fall. “The story’s so old that it seems like an old wives’ tale now,” she mutters. “And it’s hard to find any scholarly accounts. The Mage hoarded books on magickal history but didn’t let anyone else read them—and he was notoriously dismissive of animals and creatures. He’s the reason we haven’t had a vet in years—”

  “Tell me the story.”

  “Agatha, I’m trying—”

  “No, tell me the old wives’ tale. About the goats.”

  “Oh.” She glances over at me like she’s trying to make sure I’m being sincere. “Well.” She looks at me again. “The story goes that the same herd has been watching over Watford as long as it’s existed. If they ever choose to leave, it would mean the school is truly lost. The goats would take all of their protection with them.”

  “Wait, really?”

  “Well, really according to the story.”

  “That doesn’t sound any less legitimate than half the stuff they taught us in Magickal History,” I say. “Professor Bunce honestly doesn’t care?”

  Niamh sighs. “I shouldn’t have said she doesn’t care. She just has a lot on her mind. And this feels very … theoretical to her. There isn’t any hard proof that the goats protect the school, and Headmistress Bunce likes proof.”

  “Indeed…”

  “I found out the goats were leaving a few months ago. I got called out to Watford to look at Miss Possibelf’s Greater Dane, and I noticed that the goats weren’t in the barn. The headmistress said they hadn’t come back to the school since Ebb Petty died, and that she’d given up worrying about it—that they seemed fine in the fields.”

  “They did seem fine,” I say. “They certainly weren’t starving.”

  “Their numbers are way down,” Niamh says gloomily. “Half the herd is gone, and only one of the does is with child this year.”

  “Well…” I’m feeling frustrated and helpless—and like we shouldn’t drive away from the goats now that I know they might fly away. “Well, what actually happens if they leave?”

  “According to the legends? Watford becomes mundane.”

  “Like, you couldn’t do magic there?”

  “Like the Normals could see it on Google Maps.”

  “Niamh. That can’t happen!”

  “It probably won’t happen,” she grumbles. “It probably is just an old wives’ tale.” She looks utterly defeated. “I think your father and the headmistress indulge my visits because I’m not hurting anything. It’s my job to take care of the goats whether they’re magic or not.”

  I watch the fields roll by us. It doesn’t take long before we’re in the outskirts of Watford, the city, which is really just the outskirts of London.

  “Niamh…” I turn my head to look at her. She’s got the silhouette of a cartoon character. Heavy brow, long nose, sharp chin. I still can’t believe I didn’t recognize her from school. “I’m sorry. I genuinely didn’t know why you cared so much.”

  “It’s all right,” she says. “You really were a help … I’m sorry I didn’t know you broke up with Simon.”

  “Oh, Merlin, that’s all right.” I wave my hand. “It’s kind of nice to think there were people at Watford who weren’t paying attention to us.”

  The corner of her mouth twitches. “Well, if it makes you feel better, I truly didn’t give a shit about you.”

  I roll my eyes back to the window. “Yeah, all right. I get it.”

  32

  BAZ

  Snow is on my last nerve.

  “I can’t just walk into a Chosen One rally as the defunct Chosen One!”

  “Then let me change your face,” I say for the tenth time.

  “I’m not letting you fuck with my face,” he mutters. “Though I’m starting to feel like you really want to…”

  I’m sitting on his empty living room floor. Simon is pacing in front of me, wings spread, tail whipping around. Every time he stomps past me, he nearly smacks me with it.

  “I could just spell your face back to normal when I’m done,” I say, also for the tenth time.

  “No,” he says. “No mor
e spells on my wings, no more spells”—he waves his hands from his head to his stomach—“anywhere on my body.”

  “Then I’ll go to the Smith-Richards meeting by myself.”

  “You’re not going by yourself!” He marches past me again, tail snapping like an angry cat’s.

  “I’ll be fine, Snow. You can listen in on my cellphone.”

  He throws his hands in the air. “Oh, because that worked so well last time!”

  “It really did, if you’ll remember. I’m not the one who blew our cover.” It was Simon himself who blew our cover in Las Vegas, by breaking the plan, and then by breaking one of the Vampire King’s chairs.

  “Yeah, well,” Snow says, “I’m not sitting here and listening while you get yourself killed—or end up going on another date.”

  “For Chomsky’s sake,” I say. “It wasn’t a date.” It wasn’t.

  “You went out for ice cream.”

  “So what? Lamb wasn’t even interested in me in that way.” He really wasn’t.

  Simon stops pacing to roll his eyes at me. His tail is still lashing from side to side.

  “He was trying to mentor me,” I say. “He could see I was clueless.”

  Simon huffs. “He could see that you’re hot.”

  I huff, too. “Well, I was actually there, and I didn’t get that vibe from him.”

  “You didn’t get that vibe from me either, Baz. You’ve got no vibe … check.”

  Simon starts pacing again. His tail swings towards my face, and I snatch it.

  He spins around, grabbing his tail at the base. “Hey!”

  I don’t let go. In fact, I give it a deliberate tug.

  “Fuck,” he spits out. “You know that’s attached to my spinal cord.”

  “Then you better come here,” I say, coiling his tail once around my wrist and tugging again.

  He narrows his blue eyes and steps towards me slowly, like he’s doing it on his own time. I draw my fist back to my shoulder, steadily pulling him closer, until he’s kneeling between my legs, resting back on his heels.

  He’s taller than me like this. I hook my free arm around his waist and sit up straight, so I can knock my forehead against his. “Do you want me to take you out for ice cream? Is that what this is about?”

  He cuts his eyes away. “I don’t need ice cream.”

  “That’s not what I asked…” I squeeze his tail. I’m holding the very end, near the spade. It doesn’t seem to hurt him, so I do it again, rubbing it between my thumb and forefinger. It’s warmer than you’d expect—maybe dragons are warm-blooded. And there’s a nap to it, like the texture of kid gloves.

  I unloop his tail from around my arm, then slowly work my hand up the length of it, partly massaging it and partly just feeling it. Normally Snow would have pulled it away by now.

  He isn’t pulling away. His cheeks are flushed, and he’s looking at the floor beside us.

  “I want you to know,” I say, “that I didn’t consider staying in America. With Lamb. Not for a single second.” I loosen my grip and draw my arm out, so that his tail slides through my fist.

  Simon shivers. His wings spread out—reflexively, I think. “You should have considered it,” he says.

  “Well, I didn’t, I haven’t … I won’t.” I work my hand back up his tail, towards the base of his spine. “I’m sorry I put you through it that night.”

  He’s still making a miserable face at the floor. “I would have understood, Baz—”

  “Crowley, Snow, I need you to promise that you won’t keep bringing this up.” I let his tail slide through my palm again, more gently this time, lightly dragging my nails down it.

  Simon flinches, and whips his tail out of my hand. “Stop.”

  “Sorry,” I say quickly. “Did that hurt?”

  “No, it…” He looks uncomfortable. “I just don’t like that feeling. That, like, feathery feeling. Like, touch me or don’t—but don’t, like, whisper on me.”

  I take hold of his tail again, firmly. “Is this better?”

  He licks his bottom lip. He’s embarrassed. “Yeah. I mean, I don’t need you to do it at all.”

  “That’s not what I asked.” I rub his tail again, pressing hard with my thumb.

  “Yeah,” he says, blushing fiercely. “It’s better.” He brings his arms up around my neck, still looking reluctant, still not looking in my eyes. “Lamb was well fit.”

  I shrug, working at his tail. It’s so warm. And it’s always moving. Like holding a current in a stream. If you’d asked me ahead of time, I would have said I wasn’t into tails. But I guess I’m into anything attached to Simon.

  “Oh,” he says, finally looking up at me, “you didn’t notice he was fit?”

  “I didn’t care,” I say. “A lot of people are fit.”

  “Not like him.”

  “Fuck, Snow, maybe I’m the one who should be jealous.”

  Simon rolls his eyes.

  I tighten my arm around his waist. “You’re all I want,” I say. It comes out softer than I mean it to, like my lungs are more insecure than my head.

  Simon closes his eyes and drops his forehead against mine. He’s breathing hard through his nose. I keep rubbing his tail, reminding myself not to be gentle.

  “Okay,” he says, “fine, I’ll stop bringing him up. It up. America.”

  “It’s all right,” I say. “If you need me to keep saying all this out loud, I will.”

  He shakes his head, like he’s irritated—possibly with me, possibly with himself. “You keep telling me everything is all right, that whatever I need is fine…”

  I nod. “That’s correct. I’m glad you’re finally hearing me.”

  He twists up his face and throws his head back, so that his throat is a mile long. “I just don’t think it’s true.”

  “Simon—” I pull him in closer, I wish he’d open his eyes. “—of course it’s true. All you’ve asked of me so far is kindness.”

  He groans and buries his grimace in my shoulder. His arms are still around my neck. His tail is still undulating through my fingers. Is it wrong that I like him like this? Afraid, insecure, worried—but turning to me for comfort? Letting me hold on?

  I rub my nose into the hair at his nape, still short from that haircut in Las Vegas.

  His voice is muffled: “What if I asked you to be less kind to me?”

  “What?” I draw my head back. “Why?”

  He’s slumped into me, his forehead on my shoulder, whispering harshly into the space between our chests: “Because it makes me feel mental. It’s like being touched too lightly. Makes me feel like I’m being turned inside out. Like I need to get away.”

  I pull his tail through my hand, firmly. I press my other hand into his back. I push my nose hard into his ear. “No,” I say. “I won’t do that.”

  Simon shrinks from me. His hands fall to his lap. He looks anguished.

  I loop his tail around my hand again and hold him everywhere tight. “No,” I repeat. “I can touch you less gently, but I won’t love you less kindly.”

  He exhales roughly, and his head sinks onto my shoulder again, his back still tense, his hands still clenched on his thighs.

  I brace myself for whatever he’s going to say next …

  I’m more used to guessing what Simon is thinking—what he’s feeling, what he wants. Bracing myself against his silence, wave after wave of it. That’s how our relationship has worked so far.

  But the last thirty-six hours have been different. He promised to try, and he is trying, and he keeps taking me off guard. First I don’t know what’s coming, and then I don’t know what’s hit me … And I can’t believe how much better it is. Bracing for something instead of more nothing.

  I wait for it …

  After a few minutes, Simon’s body relaxes against mine. His wings settle on his back. His breathing slows. He turns his head away from me, laying his cheek on my shoulder. “I can’t believe you pulled my tail…” he says, wearily, and like he
genuinely can’t believe it.

  I relax, too. “Oh, like you wouldn’t be yanking me around by the tail if I had one.”

  Simon laughs, just with his breath. “If you’d had a tail back at Watford, you’d have woken up every morning with it tied to your bed.”

  I’m still massaging his tail, inch by inch. My hand is at the base now, and I let it slide through my palm all the way to its spaded tip. “I’ve got to pull your tail while you still have one.”

  Simon lifts his head to face me. He looks in my eyes for a second. It’s measuring, observant. Possibly resigned. Then his gaze drops to my mouth.

  He moves towards me slowly, and I part my lips to get ready for him.

  He kisses me.

  I kiss him back, squarely. Firmly. Matter-of-factly. You’re all I want, I think. And you can have everything you need.

  I’m not sure what he’s telling me with this kiss. I pretend it’s Yes and Yes and Be kind to me.

  SIMON

  Fine, you fucker. Have me. Just have me.

  Do your worst, you stubborn twat.

  Be the death of me.

  * * *

  You’ll be the death of me.

  33

  SIMON

  Baz pulls away first.

  He almost never pulls away first.

  He sits back against the wall. “Hey,” he says, like he’s just thought of something. He has my tail twined around his arm again from wrist to elbow. He lets go, and it slithers away. (I can control the tail if I think about it, but it mostly moves of its own accord.)

  I rest on my heels. We should sit like this more often—I like the way Baz looks, looking up at me.

  He wipes his mouth with his butterfly-blue cuff. “Everyone at the meeting tonight will know who you are,” he says.

  “Right. That’s the problem.”

  “And everyone knows you’ve lost your magic.”

  “Apparently they don’t believe it,” I say, thinking of Lady Salisbury.