Any Way the Wind Blows

by Rainbow Rowell

  The kitchen is behind the living room. I’m kneeling backwards on the couch, trying to get her attention. “It sounds worse than it is—‘mermaid venereal disease’…”

  There’s a succulent in a pot on the kitchen counter. Penelope dumps it in the sink.

  “I’m sure I can’t pass it to another human being,” I say. “It’s not even a disease, really—it’s tied to how they fertilize eggs—”

  There’s a stack of mail on the table. Penelope picks it up and sets it on fire.

  This is going so much worse than I expected, and I didn’t think it would go well. I sit back onto the couch and look for my glasses. I find Penelope’s glasses first and take them to her in the kitchen.

  “Penelope,” I say holding them out to her.

  She grabs my wrist and jerks her fist over my hand. “There will be blood!”

  “What the fuck!” My hand is bleeding.

  Her glasses are on the floor. She picks them up. “Hang on,” she says, “let me get a teacup for you to bleed into.”

  “Why am I bleeding?”

  “So that we can draw a door.” She holds a teacup under my palm.

  “What? No!” No, no, no, no, no, no …

  “We’ll have to move the sofa out of the way … How big was the door you drew the first time?”

  “We can’t do this, Penelope. We aren’t ready for this.”

  “I’m ready,” she says. “We’ve got everything we need—milk, soil, ashes…” She looks at the empty teacup and squeezes my hand. “Blood.”

  “But we don’t have a plan.”

  “I have a plan.”

  “Are you going to tell me?”

  She tilts her head up at me—“No”—then looks down at my hand—“Can you bleed faster?”

  56

  BAZ

  I helped Simon pick out a sofa today.

  One minute, we were eating toast in his bed, and he was wiping his hands on my pyjama bottoms, and I was wiping my hands on his pillow—and the next, he was practically daring me to go to Ikea with him. (He’d been in a such a desolate mood last night, after visiting Ebb’s grave; I was relieved to see him so cheerful.)

  He purchased: A navy-blue sofa. Four plates, four mugs, cutlery. Two sets of towels. Two pillows. A duvet. And two sets of bedding—one with thick purple stripes and one with giant green apples. (Who knew Snow was whimsical?)

  “You should choose one set, Baz.”

  “They’re your sheets, Snow.”

  “Yeah, but you’re going to be sleeping on them.”

  (I would sleep on a bed of straw to be close to him. I’d sleep in the back of a truck.)

  He found a kitchen table he liked, then got kind of overwhelmed looking at chairs. “I need everything,” he said. “This is going to take all day.”

  “We can come back,” I said. “Ikea isn’t going anywhere.”

  We ate lunch in their cafeteria, and Simon spent half his inheritance on Swedish meatballs and Daim cake.

  He was wearing another Watford hoodie to cover his wings. One that he hasn’t yet sliced to ribbons. I could tell he was overheated. (I don’t know what the short-term solution for this is—a silk shawl? A lightweight poncho?) I noticed a few people noticing the hump on his back. But none of them seemed to think he was hiding anything.

  We held hands the whole day. At lunch, he sat with his arm resting on the back of my chair. “If you can’t be gay at Ikea,” Snow reasoned, “where can you?”

  Was this the best day of my life?

  I’m nearly certain.

  It was so good that I haven’t come down yet, even sitting here in another one of Smith-Richards’s meetings, this time in the very front row. Smith-Richards sent Simon a text this afternoon, making sure we’d be here—making sure Simon would be here. As if he’d miss it.

  Daphne grabbed us as soon as we walked in and dragged us up front. The better to see Smith-Richards’s pore-less skin, I presume. He hasn’t come out yet. Daphne is on the edge of her seat, waiting for him.

  I’m feeling too cheerful to harass her about calling home. At least my father seems to be doing better this week. I’ve been checking in. Vera, my old nanny, has agreed to come help with the kids. Her family is in Hampshire, so she won’t stay for good, but maybe she can see him through Daphne’s bout of madness. (I’m very relieved that my father doesn’t need me in Oxford; it’s very important that I stay in London and eat toast in Simon Snow’s bed. On his new striped sheets.)

  Simon squeezes my hand. “Do you see Jamie?”

  We can’t see anyone without cranking our necks around and calling attention to ourselves. “No.”

  “Maybe he’s running late.”

  The show is about to begin. You can tell because they’re playing Coldplay over the speakers, and everyone is getting jumpy. Daphne takes my other hand and squeezes it tight. She’s beaming tonight—she looks like she spent the day shopping for dinnerware with her boyfriend at Ikea. (How doomed is my father?) (Maybe he can offer Vera an enormous raise…) (Maybe he can marry her.)

  The room erupts when Smith-Richards walks in. He holds up his arms to acknowledge everyone. “Thank you,” he mouths over the applause. Simon lets go of my hand to clap.

  Smith-Richards hops onto the stage. (Why step when you can hop.) When he sees Simon, his warm smile gets even more incandescent. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says to Simon, waving. We’re sitting so close to the stage, we can hear him.

  He’s looking artfully casual tonight—white painter’s trousers, a blue split-neck shirt, some sort of red and gold bandanna knotted at his throat … It suits him, loath as I am to admit it. It would suit Simon better.

  An older man—the same one who was at the door the other night—hands Smith-Richards a microphone. “Hello!” he says into the mic. “Everyone! It’s so good to see you…”

  Smith-Richards goes right into his pitch: How much he cares about everyone in the room, how he wants to help them, how he believes he can help them. How they deserve so much more than life has given them so far.

  It’s not that he’s wrong about all this, I suppose. It’s just that he’s insufferable.

  I look over my shoulder. There are more people here tonight than at the last meeting. Smith-Richards is going to have to find a bigger pub. Maybe he should rent a church; the vibe would be spot-on.

  I still don’t see Jamie. There’s a guy I recognize from Watford … Ian somebody, a few years older than us. And a woman who plays tennis at the club. Are all of these people low-magicians? Or are they just normal magicians who think they deserve better?

  Alan, the man who got the power-up last week, was holding court at the back of the room when we came in, regaling everyone with stories about all the big spells he can cast now.

  Smith-Richards is ratcheting up the intensity tonight. He’s saying he wants to help more people, more quickly—that they shouldn’t have to wait any longer for their birthright.

  Daphne’s enthralled. Her mouth is actually hanging open.

  Simon is leaning forward, his elbows on his thighs, taking in every word. Does he truly believe all this? He keeps giving Smith-Richards the full benefit of the doubt, and more. It’s like Simon wants someone else to be the real Chosen One—and he wants it to be someone like Smith-Richards, someone who’ll wear the crown more comfortably than he himself ever did. I lay my hand on Simon’s neck and scratch at the back of his hair, where it’s too short to curl. He glances over his shoulder to smile at me.

  We’re going hunting after this. And then we’re getting fish and chips. And then we’re going back to Simon’s apartment together. Tomorrow morning, we’ll have toast in bed.

  I rub his neck, and he doesn’t shrug me off. (This must be another place where it’s okay to be gay—or whatever Simon is.)

  I look over my other shoulder, scanning the other side of the room for Jamie. I’ve seen most of these people before. Oh, there’s Máire. I thought she’d already chosen a Chosen One. Hedging her bets
, apparently. I wonder where Agatha’s old roommate is tonight; I haven’t seen her yet.

  I look back up at Smith-Richards and cross my legs, trying to at least appear as if I’m paying attention. He’s still being clinically sincere: “I’ve been consulting with some of my most loyal friends and looking at ways to expand my reach. If I can cast the spell on one mage, why not cast the same spell on two or three—”

  My breath catches in my throat. Agatha’s old roommate!

  “Or six.”

  That’s who she is.

  “When we next meet, tomorrow, I’ll be bringing six of my most faithful—”

  The girl.

  “—and steadfast supporters—”

  The quiet girl. At the door. Pippa.

  “—onto the stage, to stand beside me—”

  It’s Philippa! Agatha’s old roommate, from Watford. She lost her voice.

  “—and step into their destiny.”

  I stole her voice. In fifth year.

  “My dear friends…”

  I stole her voice.

  “Patrick, Melinda—”

  Miss Possibelf said it would come back. She promised.

  “Eliza, Gloria, Daphne—”

  Daphne shrieks and throws her arms around me.

  “And you, Martin.”

  I stole Philippa’s voice.

  I was trying to steal Simon’s.

  It hasn’t come back …

  Daphne is weeping. I peel her arms away from me.

  It never came back.

  I lay a hand on Simon’s shoulder. “I have to go,” I say. It’s not a whisper, because everyone in the room is shrieking and crying.

  Simon looks concerned. “Go where?”

  “I know this is your fault!” he shouted at me that day. Out on the Great Lawn. The day I stole Philippa’s voice.

  I’m standing up. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

  He’s standing, too. “I’ll come now.”

  “I know you did this!” he cried.

  I pat his back. I try to push him down. “No, you stay. I need—” I’m walking away. “You stay. I’ll see you later.” I’m running away. Out of the pub, onto the street. I need a car, a taxi.

  Philippa.

  I stole her voice.

  I stole her voice.

  And it never came back.

  57

  SIMON

  I knew that Baz didn’t like Smith—that he doesn’t believe in him—but I didn’t realize he was taking it so personally. I guess it’s because of his stepmum and his dad. Maybe Baz thinks that if Daphne gets stronger, she won’t want to go home.

  At the moment, Daphne’s crying like we’ve just won the World Cup. When Baz ran off, she threw her arms around me instead. Six people. Smith is going to heal six people, all in one night. How long before he’s helped every magician in this room?

  He’s motioning for everyone to calm down, but I don’t think they will.

  “I won’t be casting the spell tonight,” he says. “I hope to spend the next day in meditation. Tomorrow we’ll be meeting somewhere very special…”

  The crowd gets quiet, waiting.

  “Watford.”

  A few people gasp. A few people clap. And laugh. They’re delighted.

  “Headmistress Bunce has invited us to use the White Chapel!”

  “I was married there,” Daphne whispers to me.

  I killed the Mage there, I decide not to say.

  Smith steps closer to the edge of the stage. “If there are people in your life whose hearts are softening to our message … bring them tomorrow. Let them see the truth of what we’re offering. And if there are people in your life who still harbour doubts, invite them, too! Invite everyone! Let’s throw our doors open to the entire World of Mages and show them what equality looks like! That magic belongs to us all!”

  The room goes wild for him. I’m clapping, too. Good for Smith. Good for Daphne. Good for everyone in this room who might have a chance at something bigger and brighter.

  Smith sees me clapping and smiles at me. “Good night,” he says to the crowd, “and see you tomorrow at Watford!”

  He sets down the microphone and hops off the front of stage, reaching for my arm. “Simon, come quick, before I get mobbed.” He pulls me towards the side door. As soon as we’re through, he hugs me with one arm. “You came,” he says.

  “Smith, congratulations. This is really exciting.”

  He looks almost embarrassed. Nervous. “Yeah, I’ve been working on expanding the spell, and, I don’t know, I’m tired of waiting. People shouldn’t have to wait.”

  “It’s so cool, I’m happy for you. Is Jamie meeting us back here?”

  “Oh”—Smith’s face falls—“Simon, I’m really sorry. I couldn’t talk him into coming. He’s such an introvert, and he says everyone treats him like a saint now. I told him it will get better after more people have been cured. Then he won’t be such a curiosity.”

  I nod. I’m not sure what to say. I wish Baz was here to help me steer the conversation.

  “If you want to talk to someone who’s been healed,” Smith says, “I could introduce you to Beth, from last week. I think she’s here.”

  “Sure.” I don’t want to seem overly interested in Jamie. “I’d love to talk to Beth.”

  “Actually … are you coming tomorrow? I know she’ll be at Watford tomorrow, and you can meet her family, as well.”

  I smile at him. “I’m definitely coming tomorrow. I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Cool. I’ll save you seats up front. Simon…” Smith still looks nervous. “Would you mind going for a pint with me? I was hoping we could talk…” He laughs and rolls his eyes. “Chosen One to Chosen One.”

  “Smith, I’m not—”

  “No. I know. I’d just really like to talk to you.” He gives me the full serving of those blue eyes. “I feel like you’re the only one who understands…”

  * * *

  A half hour later, Smith and I are sitting in a no-nonsense pub across the street from his building. The pub serves food, so I’m happy. (Baz and I were supposed to get dinner. I texted him twice before my phone died. He probably went hunting without me.)

  Smith has a thousand questions for me about being the Greatest Mage—about the way people used to treat me, and why the Mage kept me hidden away … “They say that you had so much magic, other magicians would get drunk off it.”

  “Sometimes,” I say. “Sometimes it made them puke. It used to give my girlfriend migraines.”

  I’ve got a plate of fish and chips with mushy peas. All Smith ordered was a lager. He plays with the glass, watching the bubbles roll around. “I’ve never had that kind of magic,” he says.

  “Count yourself lucky,” I say, reaching for the vinegar. “It was unnatural. Impossible to control. Well…” I look up at him. “Maybe you could have controlled it. I could barely hold a wand.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  I pick up a chip. “My wand?”

  “Your magic.”

  “I mean…” The chip is burning my fingers. I drop it.

  “You must,” he says. “You had more magic than anyone, and then…” He swirls his glass. “Phoof. Nothing.”

  Do I miss my magic?

  It wasn’t mine, was it? And I was never any good at it—I regularly scorched the earth just trying to make it work.

  Do I miss going off? No.

  And I don’t miss the way other mages treated me. They could never see past my power.

  Do I miss casting spells? Merlin, half the time they backfired. I suppose the other half of the time, they didn’t …

  I could make fire. And air. And water.

  I could melt butter and boil tea.

  I could have wings when I wanted them.

  I could protect everyone. Every time. Nothing was impossible for me when I had magic—no war couldn’t be won.

  Do I miss it?

  “Yeah,” I say. “Every second of every day. It’s
like I’m missing a hand. Like—I have two hands, and I should be happy about that, but I used to have three, you know? And now I can’t even figure out how to tie my shoes. Fuck yeah, I miss it. All the time.”

  Smith is smiling at me. Which really doesn’t seem appropriate, the bastard. He looks well pleased with himself. “Simon…” He’s practically grinning.

  “For fuck’s sake, Smith, I just poured my heart out. Have some compassion.”

  He grabs my wrist. “No, Simon, I—” He shakes my arm, still grinning at me. “I can help you.”

  “I can tie my shoes. That was just hyperbole.”

  He laughs out loud. “Simon, I can fix your magic!”

  My mouth is open, but I’m not saying anything. I sit back against the wall of the booth.

  Smith moves his hand down to mine and clutches it. “I can make you a magician again.”

  “How…”

  “My spell,” he says. “I could cast it on you.”

  “But I’m not a mage—”

  “You were the greatest mage—”

  “That was never true—”

  “It was literally true!” He squeezes my hand. “You may not have been the Chosen One, Simon, but you were the most powerful magician our world had ever known. Don’t tell me you weren’t a mage…”

  “Smith…”

  His eyes are shining. He’s looking at me like we’re old friends. Like he knows me inside and out. “I didn’t cast the spell tonight,” he says, “because I was saving it for you. I knew you wouldn’t want to be part of the spectacle tomorrow, onstage…”

  “I don’t know what to say…”

  He picks up my other hand and laughs. “Say yes!”

  I shake my head. “I gave magic up to make things right.”

  Smith’s face goes soft. He holds our hands between us. “Simon, you made the ultimate sacrifice so that our world could heal. Now let me heal you.”

  58

  SMITH

  One day at a time, Evander always says. One chapter.

  This is my Simon Snow chapter. (Simon Snow, what a name! What an advantage. He even sounds the part, I’m almost jealous.)