“So we lean into that.”
“Lean into what?” My knees are killing me. Maybe we shouldn’t make a habit of this. I try to shift onto the floor, but there’s nowhere to put my legs.
“Here.” Baz pulls my left leg over his and then does the same with my right. As soon as he has them settled, he puts his arms around my waist again. It’s fuckin’ cosy is what it is. “Lean into your whole thing,” he says. “‘I was never the Chosen One, I’ve lost my magic, I’ve heard that you can help…’”
“Oh,” I say. And then, “Oh.”
“Right?” Baz says, squeezing me. “Right?”
“Pretend I’m looking for a saviour.”
“Because why wouldn’t you be! You’d be such a score for this Smith-Richards. If the old Chosen One thinks he’s the Chosen One…”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding, “all right. I can do that. Lean into it. I mean, it sounds kind of humiliating…”
“You’re used to humiliating,” he says.
“Am I.”
“I want to go hunting first.” Baz is already moving on. “You can come,” he adds.
“I always get to come along now, remember?”
He tips his head back and cocks a thick eyebrow. “I don’t think I said always.”
“Yeah,” I say, “always. Every time. Every night for the rest of my life.”
“Not for the rest of my life?”
“Pfft.” I move closer to him, holding on to his sides. “You’re going to be young and pretty forever.”
Baz pulls me even closer, by the small of my back. “Don’t say that,” he says, soft. “You don’t know that.”
“I don’t mind.”
He shakes his head, like he doesn’t want to think about it. “Snow … we’ve got a few minutes”—he pulls on me again—“before we have to leave.”
“All right, I’m ready.”
“No, I mean…” Baz moves his head from side to side like he’s trying to find words for something. It’s a rare look on him. “No matter what happens right now,” he says, his eyes on my chin, “we have to stop in a few minutes. So you don’t have to—you don’t have to worry about it going too far. Or being too much.”
Oh.
Baz glances up at my eyes. His pupils are wide and shiny. I’ve got us both shadowed by my wings. I nod, sucking nervously on my bottom lip.
“Lean into it,” he whispers.
My shirt is untucked. He slides one cool hand under it, just above my tail.
I lean forward to kiss him.
“Just for a few minutes,” he says, before I reach his mouth. “I’ll tell you when.”
* * *
The Smith Smith-Richards meeting is in the back room of a trendy pub, the kind of place that hosts acoustic concerts and stand-up comedy. There’s an older man with a clipboard outside, managing the door.
Baz and I watch from the patio of a Costa across the street. We’ve been watching for fifteen minutes. I bought us both muffins.
“All you’ve eaten today is cake,” Baz says.
“I had toast for breakfast. Toast isn’t cake.”
Smith-Richards’s meeting was supposed to start five minutes ago. The man at the door gives one last look up and down the street, then goes inside.
“Now?” Baz asks.
“Not yet,” I say.
A couple is walking quickly towards the door, like they’re late.
I yank on Baz’s arm. “Now.”
We jog across the street and slip in behind them. I remember to wave Baz through the door.
It’s crowded inside. The room probably holds a hundred people. Baz and I take two of the last empty chairs, in the back. There’s a handsome man already standing onstage, wearing jeans and a worn blue jumper. He looks like he’s in a band. Maybe there is a band playing tonight …
“Hey,” the man says into a microphone. “So, this is cool.” He spreads his arms wide. “Look at us…”
The crowd around us claps. These must all be magicians, right? I see a boy who was a few years ahead of us at Watford. I wonder if there’s anyone else I know.
“Yeah, no more meeting in living rooms for us,” the man onstage says, smiling. “No more manky pubs.”
A few people laugh.
“Only the finest pubs for us!” he cheers.
They applaud for him again.
“And now we have our new residential centre … That’s because of you, all of you. You’re making things happen!”
Baz is sitting tall, scanning the crowd. He’s got his toffee-coloured jacket back on, and he did something before we left my flat to make his hair look perfect. It hangs around his face in shiny black waves. Baz didn’t get even a little mussed up tonight when we went hunting. (Apparently he works more cleanly when I’m not talking about my previous sexual partners.) (Partner.)
I wonder which of these people is the Chosen One … Maybe they’ve got him stashed in the wings, waiting for his big entrance.
Baz elbows me. I turn, and he points discreetly towards the front of the room. Daphne is sitting there, gazing up at the guy in the jumper. Shit, maybe that’s who she left Baz’s dad for. She’s got stars in her eyes.
I mean … he is fit. Tall and broad-shouldered. Curly, golden-blond hair. Lead-singer face.
“Thanks for giving me a chance to recuperate,” he says. “Our last meeting was pretty intense. More intense for you than anyone, eh, Beth?” He’s smiling at someone in the audience. I can’t see their reaction. “Why don’t you come up here, and share with us?” He holds out his hand.
A woman is standing up and making her way to the stage. She takes the man’s hand and stands beside him for a moment, smiling at him. She’s pretty. Chubby. In her late 20s. The man seems older, 30 maybe. I’m not a good judge.
“How’re you feeling?” he asks her gently.
She laughs, wiping her eyes. “Good,” she says.
He takes the microphone off its stand and hands it to her. “Good,” she says again, into the mic.
“Good,” he says, putting his arm around her. “Why don’t you tell us about the last week.”
She laughs tearfully again. “I don’t know where to start!”
He just motions for her to go on.
“I’m not used to using magic,” she says. “So, at first nothing changed. Then I wrote myself a note, and I stuck it to my desk, and I made myself cast a spell every time I looked at it. It was hard, I kept hearing the Mage. You know how he was—‘Conserve your magic.’”
I nod. A lot of people nod.
“But then I’d think of you.” She smiles at the man, and he smiles back at her.
“Magic is infinite,” they say together.
The woman smiles wider, blushing and looking away.
Wait. Is that the Chosen One? That guy in the jumper? Him? I don’t know what I was expecting. Someone more intimidating. Or someone more obviously shamming, maybe even twirling a moustache. Not a hot young guy in jeans.
The woman keeps talking. “But every time,” she says, “my magic came to me when I called for it. There’s been no reaching. No scraping. One morning, I just stood in my kitchen, casting spells. I cast a ‘Full English.’ I cast a ‘Primrose path.’” The crowd is murmuring, impressed. “I cast a ‘Bread and roses’!”
The crowd gasps. A few people start clapping.
“I’ve been using magic every day,” the woman says. She wipes her eyes, but she’s crying too much for it to matter. “Even when I don’t have to. I’ve been casting spells just for the pleasure of it. And I keep thinking … This is what it’s been like for everyone else, all along. My parents, my boyfriend. It’s always been this easy for them.”
The man—it must be Smith-Richards—pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and actually wipes the woman’s cheeks for her, like she’s a child. She just keeps smiling and blushing. He takes the microphone back.
“This is what you deserve,” he says, still dabbing at her cheeks. “This is what you’ve always deserved. You�
��re a mage, Beth.”
Merlin, he’s just making her cry more. He’s crying, too.
“You’re a mage!” he says, laughing through his tears. “This was always yours, this was always inside you.”
He stops wiping her face, and they embrace. When they finally pull away from each other, the woman starts talking to him again. He quickly holds the microphone back up to her.
“When Jamie told us how it felt—” Baz and I look at each other. That’s gotta be Jamie Salisbury; has his magic been fixed already? “—it’s not that I didn’t believe him. I did! But I thought … Well, I thought he must have something that I don’t. That he was from an older family. Or that he must have more latent magic than I have. But I was wrong.”
Smith-Richards wraps his arm around her, and she leans against him. “You’re a mage,” he says into the microphone. “That’s all that matters, Beth. Magic is your birthright.” He looks around the room. “It’s all of our birthright.”
People at the front of the room are clapping, but everyone in the back seems distracted by something. Baz clears his throat and shifts in his seat.
Bloody hell … they’re distracted by me. I slouch down, as much as my folded-up wings will let me.
Smith-Richards is looking out into the audience, trying to figure out what everyone is looking at.
“Snakes alive,” Beth says, still standing close to the microphone, “it’s the Chosen One!”
Smith-Richards looks down at her, confused. But then he looks out into the audience again and makes eye contact with me. His eyes get wide. “Simon Snow,” he says into the mic.
Everyone who wasn’t already staring turns to gawk at me now. I sit up in my chair, smiling uncomfortably. Time to lean in, I suppose. Smith-Richards is walking towards me, down the centre aisle.
“If he touches you,” Baz murmurs, “I’m eviscerating him.”
Smith-Richards stops at our row. He’s even better looking this close. High cheekbones, square chin. He looks like a Burberry model. “It’s such an honour to have you here,” he says. He looks around, and everyone starts clapping, like they agree with him.
I smile tightly, sort of nodding at the rest of the room. If there’s one thing I can thank the Mage for, it’s that he never sent me out on dog and pony shows. Most of these magicians have never seen me in person before.
“We all owe you such a debt,” Smith-Richards says gravely, “for serving the World of Mages to the best of your ability.”
That seems like an insult, but I smile anyway and mutter, “Yeah, thanks, mate.”
“Is this your first meeting?” he asks. “Is there anything I can tell you about myself and our work?”
“Nope,” I say. “I’m good. Just came to check it out. Go ahead and, um, carry on. Thanks.”
“If you have any questions, please ask. We’re all happy to talk.” He runs a hand through his hair, like he’s embarrassed about something. The curls pop through his fingers one by one. “I’m glad you came tonight,” he says, looking out at the room again, “because this is a special night.”
A few people clap, but most of them just seem to be holding their breath, like he’s about to start giving out cars or something.
Smith-Richards walks back up the aisle. “Tonight we’re going to help another mage live up to their potential.” He’s looking from side to side, smiling. “So many of you have waited for so long…” He stops next to Daphne, and takes her hand. “And been so loyal.”
Baz takes a deep breath. He’s slid his wand from his sleeve into his palm.
Daphne’s looking up at Smith-Richards like he’s some sort of angel. He squeezes her hand and lets go, stepping back onto the stage.
He smiles out at the audience—you could hear a pin drop—and slowly reaches out his hand. “Alan.”
An older man stands up, whooping. Everyone around him laughs. Some people clap come more.
Smith-Richards waves him up. “Come on, Alan! Come on up!”
Alan walks to the front of the room, people patting him on the back as he goes. He climbs up onto the stage.
“You’ve waited so long for this,” Smith-Richards says, then points the microphone at Alan.
“I have at that,” Alan says, chuckling. “I didn’t realize I was waiting for you, Smith. But I was—I was.”
“Well, let’s not make you wait anymore,” Smith-Richards says. “Let’s give you the life you’ve deserved all along!”
He puts the microphone on its stand and pulls a wand out of his back pocket. He holds his other hand out to Alan.
I lean into Baz and whisper, “What should we do?”
“I don’t know,” Baz says. “I don’t think we can stop him…”
“We could stop him if we had to,” I counter.
“Whatever spell he cast didn’t kill Beth. It probably won’t kill Alan either.”
Everyone around us is leaning forward, eyes wide. (No one is gawking at me at the moment or checking out Baz.)
“Let it all out!” Smith-Richards casts.
There’s no noise, no sparks. I don’t know why I was expecting some; magic doesn’t work that way. Smith-Richards shuffles back a bit away from Alan, like the spell took great effort.
Alan looks up at him.
“Go on,” Smith-Richards says softly, reaching for the microphone again, “get out your wand.”
“It’s a fountain pen,” Alan says.
Smith-Richards laughs, but less exuberantly than before. “Get it out, man.”
Alan reaches into his jacket, takes out an antique fountain pen, and removes the cap.
“That’s inconvenient,” Baz says under his breath. “Though I suppose it could be worse, remember Gareth?”
I don’t answer. I’m too sucked in to what’s happening onstage.
Alan looks down at his pen, like he isn’t sure what to do with it.
“What’s a spell you’ve always wanted to do?” Smith-Richards asks.
Alan’s eyes are shining. “‘Death by chocolate.’”
“Do it, Alan. I know you have it in you.”
Alan holds up his pen. I don’t think anyone in the room is breathing. Maybe Baz.
“Death by chocolate!” Alan cries.
A giant Toblerone—the size of a rifle, it must weigh ten pounds—appears above them. Smith-Richards just barely catches it. Everyone laughs and applauds. Some people are crying. Baz is making a face like, Hmm. Not bad.
Alan has turned away from the crowd, his hands pressed to his face.
“Alan?” Smith-Richards says. “It’s all right, brother.” He pulls Alan into his arms, nearly dropping the chocolate bar. “It’s all right,” he says. “You’re healed now. You’re healed.”
After a minute, Alan pulls away, wiping his eyes with his sleeves.
“I don’t have another handkerchief,” Smith-Richards says. Everyone laughs. “Come on,” he says to Alan, “share this Toblerone with me.”
“I was going to bring it home to my wife.”
“Oh, Alan,” Smith-Richards says, opening the box, “you can just cast the spell again. As often as you like.”
Baz has his arms folded. He tilts his head back sceptically. “No one can cast that spell more than once a day.”
The chocolate bar is enormous. The audience applauds when Smith-Richards manages to break off a chunk. “That’s all I’ve got for tonight!” Smith-Richards says to the crowd. “But I’ll see you soon. Until we meet again, keep the faith. Keep encouraging each other. Don’t listen to anyone who tries to discourage you. Remember—they’re used to you as you are. They’re used to feeling more powerful than you. You’re challenging the world as they know it, and they don’t like it. They don’t like it, friends.”
He looks a little peaky, like the spell took something out of him. The man from the door—an older guy with longish grey hair and an earring—has stepped onto the stage to offer Smith-Richards an arm.
“You’re mages,” Smith-Richards says, looking out at t
he crowd. And then, I’d swear, he looks right at me. “Every one of you. Magic is your birthright.”
He gets one more round of applause as he walks offstage, letting the older man support him.
People are standing up. Some of them are turning to me, curious again. Some older lady hands me a leaflet. I should probably be leaning into this, trying to find out more about Jamie Salisbury. But I really just want to leave now.
Baz pulls me by the elbow. “Come on, let’s catch Daphne.”
I follow his lead, trying to find Daphne in the crowd. I don’t see her. But I do see someone else I recognize, walking quickly with his head down, at the edge of the room—Professor Bunce.
34
BAZ
I know Daphne saw me. She looked directly at me when that charlatan was fawning all over Simon. (That worked exactly as planned—Snow pretending to be interested. It was a Bunce-worthy idea.) As soon as said charlatan slinks offstage, I grab Simon and rush towards the front of the room, where my stepmother was sitting, hoping she won’t try to sneak away.
I recognize a few other people in the crowd, people I’d never even thought of as weak magicians. There was a girl sitting across from me who looked so familiar, but I couldn’t place her. I don’t think she went to Watford …
Smith-Richards seems to draw more women than men, which isn’t surprising, given his glossy appearance. His look is very—The Greatest Mage, a new fragrance from Ralph Lauren. He looks like Simon, frankly. But more Simony than Simon. He looks like the guy who would get cast to play Simon in the Netflix series.
No bloody thank you.
Daphne isn’t trying to get away from me. She’s standing just where I saw her earlier, her arms open. “Basil!” she says, sweeping me into a hug. “I’m so happy you’re here. That you’ve even heard about Smith. This means his message is getting out.”
“Mum”—I’m holding her by her shoulders—“I came to see you, not him. I’ve tried to call you so many times…”
“Oh, Baz,” she says, pulling away from me and frowning. “I was hoping you hadn’t come to fetch me.”
“That’s exactly what I’ve come to do. The girls miss you—they need their mother.”
Any Way the Wind Blows Page 18
