Any Way the Wind Blows

by Rainbow Rowell

  I lean against the wall across from the portrait and slide to the ground.

  I wonder who painted it. I can’t really see the paint. Maybe it’s more like a photo. Some sort of magickal wall print. You find all sorts of weird shit down here … I always thought this portrait must be ancient. But Lady Ruth’s daughter would only be in her 40s. Around the same age as Penny’s parents.

  She’s about my age, I think, in this portrait. She’s outside, in the sun. Her hair is almost yellow. And even though she’s crying, she doesn’t look unhappy. More … wistful. I used to think she looked like she’d lost something—but maybe I only thought that because I was down here looking for Baz.

  It would suck to have to go down into a crypt to visit your mother’s grave. I swear his family doesn’t even realize how creepy they are.

  I get out my phone and take a video of the portrait. I don’t know if I want to show it to Lady Ruth—it’s kind of disturbing. But maybe it’s a clue that could help her find her daughter. Maybe we should help her with that next, after we find Jamie. I hope she’s right, that this girl is alive somewhere. All grown up and just fine.

  I really don’t understand why both of Lady Ruth’s kids ran away. She seems grand to me. Laid-back, generous. I like her house. I like the way everything in it feels old. Older than Lady Ruth, even. Like it was built to have multiple lives. I’d like to have a house like that someday.

  I wonder what kind of a place Baz wants … I think I hear him coming back up the tunnel.

  There he is.

  He looks dramatic, lit up by torches. He’s casting two shadows.

  I get up from the ground and walk towards him. He turns his face away when I try to kiss him.

  “Did you just drink a rat?” I ask.

  He shrugs one shoulder.

  “I can’t believe you went hunting without me.”

  51

  AGATHA

  I’m driving this time. Dad let me take the Volvo. The drive to Watford has been torturous so far, even with air-con. I’m bad at small talk—because I hate it—but Niamh seems to be incapable.

  “When do you become a full-fledged magickal vet?” I ask, after twenty minutes of silence.

  “It’s not like there’s a certification,” she says. She’s got her cool sunglasses on, and she’s staring out the window.

  “But you’ll be done at some point?”

  “I just said, there’s no programme.”

  “Right.”

  After another twenty minutes, I try again—“Will you have an office of your own someday?”

  “Look,” she snaps, “I know that your dad can’t wait to get the thingamapigs out of his waiting area—”

  “For snake’s sake, Niamh! That’s not what I was implying. I was just trying to make conversation.”

  She looks suspicious. “Why?”

  “Because we’re in the car together on a long drive?”

  “You didn’t have to come.”

  I spread my fingers out over the steering wheel in frustration. “I want to help you with the goats.”

  “I thought you didn’t care about the goats,” she mutters.

  “I didn’t know about the goats. Hell’s spells, do you want my help or not?”

  She glowers out the window. “Yes. I want your help.”

  When we get to Watford, I park outside the gates. There are a few other cars parked out here. The Mage used to take his Jeep straight through the gates and over the drawbridge. What a dick.

  “I suppose it’s a good sign that we didn’t see any goats on the road,” I say.

  “Unless they’ve all fled the county.” Niamh has a medical bag slung over her shoulder. She pushes open the gates. As soon as we’re through, we see Simon and Baz, walking towards us on the Great Lawn.

  Simon breaks into a smile. “Agatha!” He jogs closer. “And … Niamh, right?”

  “Simon Snow,” Niamh says.

  “Hey,” I say. What are they doing here—is Watford under attack? Maybe that’s a paranoid way to think, but you’re more likely to run into Simon and Baz during an epic battle between good and evil than you are down at the pub.

  “This is Baz,” Simon says to Niamh. He points his thumb at her and looks at Baz. “This is Niamh. She’s going to take my wings off.”

  Niamh frowns. “He asked me to.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Baz says, reaching for her hand. “Nice to meet you.” He nods at me. “Wellbelove.”

  “Baz.”

  “What are you guys doing here?” Simon asks. He’s wearing a very nice collared shirt. Knit. Blue argyle. With short sleeves that hug his biceps. Is Baz shopping for him now?

  “Niamh is checking on the goats,” I say. “What are you doing here?”

  “Research,” Baz says.

  Simon lowers his eyebrows. “Ebb’s goats? Is something wrong with them?”

  I glance at Niamh.

  “They seem to be wandering away,” she says.

  “We’re going to round them up,” I add, “and make sure they’re all right. One of the nannies is pregnant.”

  “Well, we could help with that!” Simon offers.

  “You don’t have—” Niamh starts to say.

  But Simon has already decided. “I could fly up and tell you if I see them. That would help, wouldn’t it?”

  Niamh frowns. “It would,” she admits.

  Baz is looking at his shoes. He sighs.

  “Great!” Simon says.

  So I guess this is happening. Simon and Baz and me, walking across the Great Lawn together. With Niamh, of all people, to bear witness.

  Simon ends up taking the lead. I can tell he makes Niamh uncomfortable. Because she failed him, I suppose. She looks like she wants to pin him down and try that amputation again straightaway.

  “The goats are wandering off?” he asks. “Who’s herding them?”

  “No one,” Niamh answers.

  Simon is surprised. “They haven’t hired a new goatherd?”

  “Probably not a high priority…” Baz says.

  “You can’t just hire a new goatherd,” Niamh grumbles.

  “Can’t you?” Simon asks.

  Niamh shakes her head. In dismay, I gather. Especial dismay. “Do none of you know about the Goats of Watford?”

  “Snow knows all about them,” Baz says. “They’re practically his siblings.”

  Niamh scowls at him. She can’t begin to understand the dynamic here, but she doesn’t like it.

  “Niamh says the goats are sacred,” I say. (It’s unclear why I’m bailing either Niamh or Baz out of this conversation. They both deserve the worst of each other.) “She says they’re tied to the spells protecting the school.”

  “I don’t say it,” she says. “It’s oral tradition.”

  “I’ve never heard that,” Baz says coolly.

  Niamh’s completely indignant. “They’re in the Watford coat of arms!”

  “I thought those were pegasus,” Simon says. “Pegas-i.”

  “A-ha!” I say. “See!”

  “They’re goats,” Niamh insists. “Magic goats!”

  “Magic goats,” Baz repeats, distastefully.

  “Wait…” Simon has gone all earnest and intense. “So you’re saying Ebb had a really important job here…”

  “Obviously,” Niamh says. “The goats are vital to the safety of Watford.”

  “Then we have to find them,” he declares. “And make them stay.”

  Niamh really couldn’t be more dismayed with all three of us. “We can’t make them stay…”

  Simon’s already taking off his shirt. I thought his wings were spelled invisible, but they were just folded up on his back. He shakes them out and unfurls them.

  Baz is reaching out to him. “Let me cast a spell on you, so the Normals won’t see.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Simon says. “I’ll keep a low profile.”

  “Snow—” Baz looks genuinely concerned. “—please.”

  “Let him,�
�� I say. “Seriously.”

  Simon rolls his eyes. “Fine, but don’t make me invisible.”

  Baz flicks his wrist, and his wand appears in his hand. “There’s nothing to see here!”

  Simon shudders and shifts mostly out of sight. “I hate that one.”

  “You hate them all,” Baz says. “It’ll wear off. I didn’t put much oomph into it.”

  Simon flaps his wings and kicks up into the air. Niamh and I squint up at the sky, trying to keep track of him.

  “It’s easier if you don’t look directly at him,” Baz advises.

  He’s right. I let my eyes drift and watch Simon flying in my peripheral vision.

  “I see them!” he shouts down to us. “The goats!”

  “Where are they?” Niamh shouts back.

  “Kind of … everywhere?”

  52

  BAZ

  We spend the rest of the afternoon out in the hills behind Watford. I eventually stop trying to help; the goats don’t respond to any of my spells. I thought there might be something wrong with my wand, but the Irish girl—Snow’s veterinarian—says it’s the goats, not me. “They only respond to magic if they feel like it,” she says. “My spells roll right off them, too.”

  I recognize her from school. Niamh Brody. She used to have fierce blond hair, cut shorter than Simon’s. She played lacrosse and rugby, and she wore heavy work boots with her school uniform. Not Doc Martens or something fashionable. The sort of boots you wear to drive a tractor.

  She hasn’t lost her scowl since those days—nor her flair for brute force. She’s bullying the goats around, blocking them like a brick wall. Simon is herding them along from the air; he’s got a death-from-above move that gets the goats going—and makes him laugh like a maniac. Wellbelove is the only one the goats seem to actually listen to. I can’t tell if she’s using magic on them, or if they just like her.

  Anyway, the three of them seem to have made some progress—the goats are at least grazing in the same general area now.

  I’m sitting in the grass, watching Snow try to keep an old billy goat from wandering away. He gets in front of it and spreads his wings. “Bah!” The goat goes running in the other direction.

  Simon sees me watching him and smiles. He still hasn’t put his shirt back on—he doesn’t seem at all self-conscious about it. I suppose Brody has seen his wings before, and Agatha’s seen the rest of him …

  I scratch the back of my neck, looking down at the grass between my legs.

  Snow drops to the ground beside me and lies back in the grass, squinting. The late afternoon sun is picking up every thread of gold in his hair, and throwing every freckle and mole into sharp relief. His cheeks are flushed. He’s a bit out of breath.

  “Enjoying yourself?” I ask.

  He grins at me. “Yeah…”

  I hold up his shirt. “Any use for this?”

  Snow sits up, still smiling, and takes it from me, collapsing his wings, and pulling the shirt up his arms first, then over his head and down his chest and stomach. He’s watching Wellbelove try to bring one of the last goats in. “Use your wand!” he shouts.

  “I am!”

  “Not like that!”

  He’s up again, reaching for her wand. Wellbelove lets him have it. I wonder for a moment if he’s forgotten that he doesn’t have magic. But he’s not casting a spell … He’s just flicking the wand—holding it so that she can see.

  Since when does Snow understand advanced wandwork?

  He gives the wand back to Wellbelove, and she imitates him, hooking her wrist. “Join the club!”

  The goat cocks its head at her and scampers closer.

  Wellbelove beams up at Snow. “It’s working!” She casts the spell again, rolling her wrist more precisely.

  The goat goes prancing towards the herd.

  Agatha grabs Snow’s arm, delighted. “Who taught you that?”

  “Ebb,” he says. “I can probably remember a few more tricks. Though I think her staff was better suited for this…”

  The two of them trade the wand back and forth, while Snow teaches her the apparently fine art of magickal goat herding.

  They look like a painting, standing there. Or a photograph from the 1940s. Wellbelove is wearing wide-legged blue trousers and a white cotton eyelet shirt. Her hair is down. Straight as a pin and shining. Her colour is high.

  Snow stands easily at her side. Comfortable with her in a way he is with almost no one else. He’s got on lightweight grey trousers and that blue argyle shirt I lent him—that I bought, hoping to give to him someday. His curls are bouncing in the breeze.

  Crowley, they’re pretty together.

  A goat ambles towards me, nosing at the grass—then seems to catch my scent and startles away. “Good instincts,” I say.

  Are these goats really magic? Or is Brody having us on?

  I look for her on the far side of the meadow. She’s been trying to get a closer look at one of the goats—the pregnant one, I assume. But now she’s just staring at Simon and Agatha. Simon’s holding Agatha’s wrist, helping her with a big swooping gesture. It looks like choreography.

  I let my head fall farther between my knees. My hair shades my eyes. I’m getting too much sun.

  “Should we bring them in?” Snow shouts. “To the barn?”

  “We can try!” Brody calls back.

  I decide to help by staying out of their way.

  The three of them get on one side of the goats and try to drive them towards the school. The goats aren’t having it. They’re running through the gaps.

  “Enough!” Brody finally says, leaning over to catch her breath. “This’ll do. I’ve never managed to round them all up before. Maybe they’ll stay together for a while.”

  Simon crosses his wrists on his head, frustrated. “I thought they liked being together…”

  “They do, normally.”

  “Niamh thinks they’re grieving,” Wellbelove says.

  Snow looks stricken. “They miss Ebb?”

  Agatha nods.

  He looks around him at the goats, newly sympathetic to their terrible behaviour. “So we just leave them here? Alone?”

  “They have food and water,” Brody says, “and they can go home whenever they want. We can’t make them go.”

  Snow sighs and reaches down to pet the nearest goat. “Don’t run off,” he says. “You’ll regret it.”

  Wellbelove looks a bit beaten. “It does feel wrong to leave them…”

  “Well…” Brody pulls her bag up over her shoulder. “I have to get back to London, but … if you’d like to stay…”

  Agatha looks up. “I’ll take you back.”

  Brody nods, scowling, and turns to Simon. “Mr. Snow—” she says stiffly.

  “Call me Simon,” he says. “We’re goat-herding pals now.”

  She nods. “Whenever you’re ready … I’ve got a different plan for your procedure now. I think we should numb the wings at the outset, before we disinfect.”

  Snow looks taken aback. “Oh … Yeah. That’s an idea.”

  “Call the surgery,” she says, “and I’ll have them put you right into the schedule.”

  “Thanks. I’ll do that.”

  Wellbelove is looking at me. “See you, then. This was good timing.”

  I nod.

  She puts her hand on Snow’s arm and squeezes. “Thank you. That really was brilliant.” He lays his hand over hers and smiles at her.

  Then she and Brody are heading out towards the Great Lawn.

  Snow turns to me. I’m still sitting twenty feet away from him, in the grass. One side of his mouth quirks up. He starts walking my way.

  “What about you?” He’s standing over me now. “Did you get enough sun?”

  I shield my eyes. “Yes, am I getting scorched around the edges?”

  “You’re looking a bit … Iowa.”

  Snow holds out his hand, and I take it, letting him pull me to my feet. He keeps hold of it. “Can we take the long
way back?”

  “There’s only a long way back,” I say.

  “Through the Wood? There’s a marker there, for Ebb. I’ve never seen it.”

  I glance over at the dense line of trees across the meadow. “I might have to drink something…”

  “Not a goat,” Snow says earnestly.

  My cheeks twitch. “One of the famous Watford goats? Never.”

  He looks back over the flock. (Do goats flock? Or do they only herd?) They’re already spreading out. “Could you maybe cast a spell on them before we go?”

  “None of my other spells worked, Snow.”

  He tugs on my hand. “Yeah, but you could try…”

  “What kind of spell?”

  “Something to make them stay together.”

  I look out at the goats and sigh. I raise my wand. “There’s safety in numbers!” I shout. The goats don’t seem to notice.

  Simon kisses my cheek. “Thanks.” He pulls me towards the Wavering Wood. I really am going to have to hunt soon; that rat in the Catacombs merely took the edge off. “Ebb never mentioned that the goats were magic,” Simon says, swinging our hands. “Wouldn’t she have mentioned that?”

  “Don’t ask me. I never heard Ebb say anything useful.”

  “Your mum gave her that job. I’ll bet your mum knew the goats were magic…”

  I shrug. I don’t know what my mother knew. “Wellbelove looked … well,” I say, changing the subject.

  Simon gives me a wary look.

  I feel foolish for saying it. I try to clarify: “She looked better than the last time we saw her.”

  “Huh,” he half laughs. “I’m sure she’s happy to be well clear of those NowNext vampires.”

  “Do you think we need to tell anyone about them?” We haven’t talked about it yet—the fact that there are vampires trying to steal magic, and vampires running cities. None of us have talked about any of it since we got away from them.

  “I’m not sure…” We’re getting closer to the trees. Simon leans over to pick a stick up off the ground. It’s about the size of a sword. He slices it through the air in front of him. “Seems like maybe the Vegas vampires will take care of the NowNext.”