Any Way the Wind Blows

by Rainbow Rowell

  “All right,” I whisper.

  He brings his hand up, catches his thumb on my bottom lip. “You’re pink.”

  “Breakfast,” I say.

  He rubs my lip roughly against my teeth. My jaw goes slack.

  Simon glances up, into my eyes, and then rubs my lip again, more gently. I shiver.

  I touch his side, his skin, his ribs. He thinks he’s fat—he isn’t. He just isn’t a starving teenager anymore. He’s solid and stalwart. And so warm … His skin feels different when he’s been sleeping, I don’t understand why. Thicker somehow, more lush. I move my hand to the small of his back, just above his tail, and pull him closer—he grimaces.

  I lift my hand away. “Are you injured?”

  Snow shrugs. “A bit. My wing’s cut up. From the glass in the Chapel. I have to heal the old-fashioned way.”

  I kiss his cheek, quickly. “What can I do?”

  “Can you…” He pushes me onto my back (I let him) and rolls partly on top of me. It frees up his wings, and he relaxes them, half spread, above us. “Thanks.”

  I reach up to pet the edge of one wing. It twitches.

  “Does that hurt?” I ask.

  “No, it…” He wrinkles his nose, like he isn’t sure. “No—it’s sensitive; it doesn’t hurt. The cuts are farther back.”

  I go on, rubbing the bony ridge of his wing. It’s kid-glove soft and warm like the rest of him.

  Simon relaxes into me, nuzzling his face in my cheek.

  I’m going to miss these wings. This tail. I won’t tell him so—I don’t blame him for wanting them gone. But I love them now the way I love every part of him. I get my other arm around him, and rub his other wing, too. He groans into my neck.

  “Okay?” I ask.

  He nods. After a minute, he mumbles, “Do you feel like you’re in bed with a dragon?”

  “Not in a bad way,” I whisper, feeling the thick cords that run through the top of his wings. (Simon Snow has muscles no one else does.) “Do you feel like you’re in bed with a vampire?”

  “Yes,” he says. Then laughs.

  I move my hands down to his sides, where it’s safe to pinch him.

  “Ouch,” he laughs. “I’m injured.”

  I pinch him again, just above his waistband.

  He’s still laughing. He tries to push my arms away. “Ouch. Stop. I meant—‘not in a bad way.’”

  “There’s no good way to be in bed with a vampire.”

  “I beg to differ,” he says, biting my neck. “It’s only been good so far.”

  I close my eyes and push my face into the side of Simon’s head. I want that to be true. I want it to stay true.

  “I’m sorry I lied to you,” he whispers.

  I wrap my arms around his waist. “Promise me you won’t do it again.”

  “No.”

  “Snowww,” I groan. “I thought you didn’t want me to be angry right now.”

  Simon lifts himself up, rests on his side, on his elbow, and takes my face in both hands. “I think I made the right decision. To protect you and Penny.”

  “We don’t need protection.”

  “You do,” he says, mulish. “Sometimes.”

  “What I need is to be able to trust you.”

  “You can, Baz. Trust me to make the right decision. In the moment. Trust me to think on my feet.”

  Simon’s blue eyes are open, guileless. He isn’t manipulating me now. His eyebrows are tense. His lips are parted. His teeth are very white.

  “You can trust me,” he says again. “You already do.”

  He’s right …

  But he’s also wrong.

  “You’re infuriating,” I say.

  He kisses my cheek. Quickly. “Be infuriated later.”

  “No. You’ve run out of extensions.”

  He brushes my hair out of my eyes, runs his fingers along my scalp. “I think this is what people do…”

  “What are you talking about, Snow?”

  “You said last night that I disappoint you constantly.”

  I shake my head. “I didn’t mean—”

  He catches my chin. “You did. I do. I let you down. And yet you don’t stop…”

  “I don’t stop?”

  Simon swallows; it’s my favourite show. “Loving me.”

  “Simon…” I kiss him. He kisses me back. My arms are tight around his waist. My head is in his hands.

  I’ve wanted this …

  With Simon …

  Since I knew how to want.

  But it isn’t what I thought it would be. It’s like I dreamed of kissing him in black-and-white, and now I’m kissing him in colour. And his mouth is sour. And his face is shining with summer morning sweat. There’s hair under his arms and down his stomach, and the skin on his forearms is three shades darker than on his chest.

  He still disappoints me sometimes. But not …

  I pull my mouth away. “I’m not disappointed.”

  “I know,” he says, kissing me.

  “You don’t let me down.”

  “It’s all right, Baz.” He kisses me. Then kisses me again.

  “As long as you—”

  He kisses me with his mouth loose and his tongue pushing fat into my mouth. My jaw drops open, and I move my hands to his hips, clutching him.

  “As long as we—” I say when he takes a breath.

  He pushes his tongue back into my mouth, and it’s obscene. His mouth is getting wetter and sweeter. I groan and give up on my sentence. As long as we keep on trying, I was going to say. But now I’m just trying to keep my fangs from popping. Now Simon is fucking into my mouth again, and I’m pushing my fingertips down the side of his pants, because I want to, and this is what’s happening, I think.

  Simon growls and lifts up off of me.

  “I’m sorry—” I say immediately, sitting up.

  But Simon is pushing his jersey boxer briefs down, and kicking them off his ankles. Then he pulls the blanket back over us as high as his wings allow. “Okay?” he asks.

  “Yeah, I…”

  “I love you,” Simon says, settling over me again, all skin and bones and belly. “I’ll keep getting better for you, I promise.”

  What could be better than this?

  “You don’t have to,” I say.

  “Yeah…” He takes my chin in hand again. “I do.”

  SIMON

  Baz looks so good right now, does he know it?

  All that inky black hair curling on his paper-pale neck. He looks less grey than usual. Or maybe I’ve just acclimated to it. I like him grey. I like him.

  I like his narrow shoulders—narrow compared to mine, anyway. All of him longer and leaner than me. I like comparing us. I want to lay myself over him elbow to elbow, hip to hip. I want to grow my hair out, so I can see what it looks like, twined up with his around my finger.

  Baz came back. This morning. He was always going to come back. I think he always will, if I make it good for him. I think he wants this, wants me. And I’m going to make it so good for him. This morning. This life.

  I’m being gentle—it’s already easier, now that I know how much he likes it. The way he goes boneless when I hold him like china. When my hands are whispers not shouts. I’m going to keep finding out what he likes.

  This is what people do.

  They get close and try to stay there.

  They stay.

  They keep trying to hold on to each other, even though it’s not really possible, I don’t think. Because people are always moving, aren’t they. But this is what they do. They keep trying.

  I’ll keep trying.

  To keep him well.

  To keep him happy.

  Merlin, I’m too turned on to think. I love him, I love him. But I also want to do this, whatever it is that works between us. With Agatha, it—No, never mind, that doesn’t matter.

  I’m holding Baz’s jaw and kissing him. I’m stroking his cheek like he’ll break. My cock is in his hip. He’s pushing his bri
efs off, he’s trying to stay under the blanket—I help him.

  This would be good enough. Just this. Baz. Finally. Beside me.

  “You don’t disappoint me,” he says, reaching for me.

  “It’s all right,” I say. “I knew what you meant.”

  He holds my face in both hands. I hold his like it’s precious.

  This is what people do. This is what we’ll do. Baz and me.

  His lips are pinkish grey. His tongue is nearly red. His fangs are down, I’ll be careful.

  “You smell so good,” I say.

  His eyes are half closed. “Like a cave.”

  “Like cold water.”

  “That’s not a smell, Snow.”

  I lick his lips. “So good.”

  “Stay with me,” he whispers. “Don’t get lost in it.”

  “I won’t,” I swear. “I’m here.”

  He makes a fist in my hair. “Stay with me.”

  “I will.”

  BAZ

  Maybe this is enough. Simon. Finally. Beside me.

  Maybe it’s too much.

  Maybe I’m the one getting lost …

  (This is what I wanted, but I didn’t know what it was like. His heart is beating in my throat. His hands are everywhere. His tail. He has so many ways to hold on to me.)

  I push his face away from mine. “I need—”

  “What do you need, babe?”

  I hold on to his cheeks. “I need you to know that I’m not disappointed in you.”

  “Baz, it’s okay. I know.”

  “I believe in you.” I cover his mouth, so he’ll listen. “Simon, I believe in you.”

  He doesn’t try to argue. Not right away. His face looks so red under my hands. My bloodless fingers. My blue nails.

  Simon pulls my wrist down. “Do you trust me?”

  He knows I do. That I did, even when I hated him. (I never hated him.)

  “Yes.”

  “Can I touch you?”

  I nod my head.

  83

  SIMON

  I’m not crying. Neither is Baz.

  My wings hurt. I lie on my stomach, so I can spread them out.

  Baz sits beside me, and I know he’s inspecting the damage from yesterday. They’re just cuts, I’ll live.

  I feel his fingers on the back of my neck.

  “You can be angry now,” I say.

  He pulls my hair.

  84

  SIMON

  A few hours later, Baz is sitting on my bed with his violin, holding it like a guitar. He’s not playing anything, really. Just making cheerful noises with it. I didn’t know Baz’s violin was capable of cheerful noises. At Watford, it always sounded like it was crying.

  “Does that hurt?” he asks.

  I’ve got my wings folded up as tight as I can, and I’m buttoning a shirt over them. “Yeah, but there’s no way around it.”

  “You could leave them out,” he says, “and I’ll cast spells at everyone who looks at you.”

  “Seems impractical,” I say. “I’ll cope. I can spread them out once we get to Lady Ruth’s.”

  “She’ll like that.” Baz stands up, leaving the violin on my bed, and comes over to me. He moves my hands away and finishes buttoning the shirt. It’s his shirt, an olive-green cotton one with complicated stripes and short sleeves. (I’ve never even seen Baz wear short sleeves.)

  “Are you going to dress me every morning?” I ask.

  “If you allow it, absolutely.”

  I’ll probably allow it, what do I care.

  “I don’t want to wear flowers,” I say. Baz is wearing flowers. His button-down shirt is grey with sprays of pink and blue lilacs. He makes it look manly somehow, with his indigo trousers and grey lace-up shoes. I’d look like a sofa.

  “No flowers.” He kisses my cheek. “So noted, rosebud boy.”

  I look up at him. “That’s what the ghost called me—your mother. That’s what she said.”

  Baz is looking in my eyes. “I remember.” He runs his thumb over my cheek. Then my bottom lip. “My rosebud boy.”

  * * *

  Lady Ruth has the door open before we get to it. “Simon!” she says. “Baz! Come in, come in!”

  She hugs us both. I try not to wince.

  “Do you mind if Simon lets out his wings?” Baz asks. “They’re injured.”

  “Oh, of course!” she says. “The wings are always welcome. I wish I could walk around with wings.”

  I take off my jacket, and Baz casts, “Like a glove!”—which makes the shirt tailor itself around my wings. It’s probably the best way to deal with them, but I can’t count on Baz and Penny always being around to cast it for me.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” Lady Ruth says, herding us into the dining room. “I may have gone overboard on the sandwiches, even for me—but we are celebrating. Jamie!” she shouts. “The boys are here!”

  “Great snakes…” I say. The dining room table is cram-jammed with food. Finger sandwiches, little cakes and tarts, meringues. All on fancy pink and green pedestals and platters. It’s like Wonderland. I half expect the dormouse to poke his head out of the teapot.

  Right in the middle of everything, stuck right into the table, is a tremendous sword. An antique, it looks like, with a golden pommel.

  “Tch, Jamie,” Lady Ruth mutters. “He thinks it’s very funny to leave his sword around. Jamie! Come and move your sword!”

  “I’ve got it,” I say, reaching for the sword and sliding it out of the table. It hasn’t left a mark—it must be magic. It’s got a nice heft. Well-balanced, too. “This is a hell of a blade.”

  I look up. Lady Ruth is staring at me like she’s just seen a ghost. Jamie is in the doorway, looking just as shocked.

  I turn the sword and offer him the grip. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have, um…”

  He doesn’t take it.

  “Sorry,” I say again.

  BAZ

  Snow has apparently committed some massive sword faux pas. He’s standing there, holding it out, and the Salisburys are looking at him like he just stuck his hand in the butter. Or worse, like he’s threatening them.

  “That’s…” Lady Salisbury gasps. “That’s an Excalibur!”

  Simon looks down at the sword, his eyes goggling. “This is Excalibur?”

  “It’s an Excalibur,” she says. “Made by Merlin himself.”

  “I don’t understand…” Simon says.

  Neither do I. But if this means Snow is the once and future king, I can’t say I’ll be surprised at this point.

  “It’s a family sword,” Jamie says, still looking gobsmacked. “Made for the House of Salisbury.”

  “I’m not a Salisbury by blood.” Lady Ruth’s voice is trembling. “Once it’s planted, I can’t budge it.”

  “I…” Simon looks like he wants to set the sword down, but that seems like another faux pas.

  Lady Salisbury rushes towards him, past the sword, to throw her arms around him. “Oh, my child, my child!”

  Does this mean …

  Could Simon be …

  SIMON

  Lady Ruth is hugging me even more tightly than usual. I move the sword behind me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “You’re a Salisbury,” Jamie says, still staring at me.

  “I’m certain I’m not. It must be a fluke—I’m not even a magician.”

  “Oh, my child,” Lady Ruth says again. She’s crying. “My child.”

  “I’m not—”

  She pulls away from me and takes my face in her hands, like she’s looking for something there. “I’ve waited so long for you. Where is your mother?”

  “I’m sorry?” I whisper.

  “Come!” She pulls me out of the dining room.

  “Lady Ruth—” I say, letting her drag me. I look back at Baz, but he just shrugs, as confused as I am. He and Jamie follow us up the stairs, to Lady Ruth’s bedroom, to the shrine she keeps by the window.

  Jamie’s candle burns br
ight.

  But her daughter’s candle has finally sputtered out. A thread of smoke curls above it.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say.

  What have I done?

  85

  LADY RUTH

  Lucy.

  Her candle.

  She’s gone.

  Or perhaps …

  Simon Snow is standing before me, holding my husband’s sword. I can see Lucy in the set of his shoulders. And Davy in the set of his eyes. Why didn’t I see it before?

  Lucy is gone. But perhaps … perhaps she let go.

  I told her to bring the child home. I prayed and pleaded. Bring it home. Let me help you keep it safe.

  And here he is.

  Here he must be.

  My Lucy’s child, my flesh and blood.

  My Simon.

  86

  BAZ

  “I’m sorry!” Simon is looking frantically between Lady Salisbury and the candle.

  “It’s all right,” I say, trying to get to him.

  But Lady Ruth is hugging him again. “It’s you. You’ve finally come home.”

  “This is a mistake—” Simon insists.

  “My sister had a child…” Jamie Salisbury says, standing beside his mother. “She told us that she had a child.”

  “I can’t be—”

  “You must be,” Jamie says gently, pointing at the sword. “Merlin, Simon, you even look like him.”

  Oh …

  He does.

  Doesn’t he?

  Those narrow eyes. That tilt of his head.

  I thought …

  I thought he’d learned it. Was imitating it.

  Simon Snow is the Mage’s heir.

  He was.

  All along.

  87

  SIMON

  No.

  No.

  Because that would mean—

  It would mean—

  No.

  The Mage found me in a care home. He said he followed my magic.

  (But that was a lie; I didn’t have magic.)