Any Way the Wind Blows

by Rainbow Rowell

  He makes a fist in my hair. “Because I felt it. I felt it not working.”

  SIMON

  Smith’s building was quiet. Everyone was still out celebrating his big announcement. He took me into his office, and we sat in two folding chairs, facing each other.

  “What are you going to do first?” he asked. “When you get your magic back?” He was wearing a shirt the colour of his eyes, with a little scarf that made him look like he spent the day on a racing sailboat. Maybe he did.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t even have a wand anymore.”

  “I have an extra you can have.”

  “You have an extra wand?”

  “I inherited my grandfather’s—and both of my parents’. I use my mother’s.” He flicked his wrist, and his wand slid out of his sleeve into his palm. That’s how Baz wears his wand sometimes; he has a holster that straps to his forearm. It’s dead sexy when he takes off his shirt.

  “Are you nervous?” Smith asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, “I suppose I don’t want to let you down.”

  He laughed. “You won’t let me down, Simon. This is about helping you. Are you ready?”

  “Sure.” I was as ready as I was going to get. “Yeah, Smith. Let’s do it.”

  Smith sat a little straighter. He held out his left hand to me, and I took it. (I’m not used to touching someone who’s as warm as I am; he felt almost feverish.) Then he pointed his wand at my chest.

  Even in that moment, I was telling myself not to get my hopes up, that the spell wouldn’t work. But I’d seen Smith cure other people. I couldn’t help but think it might work …

  “Simon Snow,” Smith said in his onstage voice, like I wasn’t his only audience. “You’ve given so much to the World of Mages. Too much. It’s time for you to step back into the light. Let it all out!”

  I felt it right away. Smith’s magic hit me at my core and then moved outward. It was like a bubble growing in me, filling me up, pushing against my skin, then popping.

  He was smiling at me. “How do you feel?”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Here.” He handed me his wand. “Try a spell. Start with something simple.”

  “Um…” Was there anything simple? Was there a spell I could count on? I let go of him to shift the wand into my dominant hand. It was pale wood with some sort of stone inlaid in the handle. It looked like a pool cue.

  I pointed the wand, and Smith laughed, moving my wrist, so that I was pointing out into the room and not directly at him.

  “Light of day!” I cast. That was a spell I could usually cast before; it’s one of the first spells they teach kids. Nothing happened. I tried another children’s spell. “Sparks fly!” Nothing.

  “Let’s try…” Smith stood up and walked to his desk. He unlocked a drawer and pulled out a different wand, made of milky green glass. “This.”

  I traded him for it. It was heavy. “I’ve never seen a glass wand before.”

  “It was my father’s. Now, take a deep breath, Simon. Remember that intention counts. And conviction.”

  I got to my feet and pointed the glass wand away from us. I tried to believe in it. In me. In Smith. I imagined the end of the wand lighting up like a candle. “Light of day!”

  Nothing.

  I took a deep breath. I held the wand more firmly. I pictured Baz back in Magic Words class, standing with his chin up and his shoulders back. I pictured every consonant as I pronounced them—“Fire burn and cauldron bubble!”

  More nothing.

  Right, I thought, that’s that. That settles it.

  Smith was rubbing his chin. “Let’s try…”

  “No,” I said, turning the wand and holding the handle out to him. “It’s not going to happen.”

  “Maybe you just need to get your confidence back—”

  “No.” No, no, no. I set the wand on his desk and ran my fingers through my hair. “It didn’t work, Smith. I don’t feel anything.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Not a spark.”

  Smith was frowning. Thinking. “What did your magic used to feel like?”

  “Like a forest fire,” I said quickly. “Look, I’m sorry—”

  “Let’s try again, Simon.”

  “Smith, no—”

  He was already pointing his wand at me. “Let it all out!”

  I didn’t even feel the bubble popping the second time. I think Smith could feel the spell fail on his end, too. He looked down at his pool-cue wand, then let his arm drop to his side. “Simon … I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right, Smith.” It would be all right. It would. I tried to smile at him, so he didn’t feel bad. “Maybe this is useful. Now you know how it feels to cast the spell on a Normal.”

  Smith’s face had completely fallen. He was in shock, I think. “I really believed you were a magician, Simon…”

  “You weren’t the only one.”

  “You gave yourself wings…”

  “I should go.” I started for the door.

  “Wait—” He reached out to me. “We should talk.”

  I sighed. “No offence, Smith. But you don’t have to comfort me. I’ve been living like this for more than a year. If anything, I should thank you. This confirms what I already suspected: I was never a magician. I don’t need to be healed.”

  I was never a magician. Never magic.

  I was just some kid the Mage picked out, with no family who could object. I think I must have been part of an experiment—like one of those swords the Mage tried to enchant. He used me. He lied to me.

  I was never the Greatest Mage. I didn’t belong at Watford. It was all a fluke. Worse than a fluke—a plot.

  “Simon!”

  I’d already left Smith’s office at that point. I was walking out of the building, running down the steps to the street. Smith was standing up in the doorway, under the HOME FOR WAIFS sign. There was just enough light to make his eyes shine blue.

  “Are you coming tomorrow,” he asked, “to the meeting at Watford?”

  Oh God, no … No.

  “I’ll try,” I said.

  “It would be great to see you, Simon. To have you there.”

  I nodded. Then I ran away from him. I ran all the way home.

  * * *

  Baz is rubbing the patch of real skin between my wings. I have extra bones in there. Even after Niamh cuts the wings off, I’ll still have two lumps, empty sockets. There might be some nerve damage—Dr. Wellbelove is hoping it will respond to magic.

  My bedroom gets pitch black at night. I can just barely see Baz’s face, even though he’s right in front of me. Even though we’re chest to chest. My thigh is resting on his, and he’s tucked his knee up between my legs.

  I’m stroking his hair. It’s still wet. He smells so good, and it isn’t just soap—it’s Baz. He smells cold and clean. Like running water. Like damp wood. He doesn’t smell like anything living, but he doesn’t smell like anything dead either. I’ll never get enough of it. My lungs won’t hold on to it—they betray me every time I exhale.

  Baz scratches between my wings like he’s scratching a dog between its ears. It sends a shiver down my spine. I try to move closer. Our chins bump.

  “I’m done with Smith-Richards,” I say.

  “Good,” Baz says. His voice is soft.

  “But what will we tell Lady Ruth?”

  “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

  I nod. I’ll worry about it tomorrow. All of it: Smith. Jamie. Me. The thing Baz isn’t telling me.

  The bed feels good. Feels clean. “I like these sheets.”

  “Me, too.” Baz scratches my back. “Good job, Snow.”

  “I like finding you here,” I say. Very quietly.

  I can hear him breathing. “I could always be here,” he says. Very, very quietly.

  I nod my head again. Our noses bump. Baz works his left hand under my neck, pressing and holding me there. I want to kiss him—but I don’t want to barrel t
hrough this moment. I think this might be a moment. And I don’t want to knock over whatever it is we’re building. Here in the dark.

  “Baz…”

  “Hmm.”

  “Is this what people do?”

  “What do you mean, Snow?”

  “I’m not sure…”

  He tightens his grip on the back of my neck. His fingers are cold. My fingers are cold, too, in his wet hair. I bring my other hand up to his throat; it’s cool. There’s no warm place on him. If I dip my tongue into his mouth, it’ll be cold there, too. If I want Baz warm, I have to do it myself.

  I’ll do it myself.

  I kiss him, and he hums again.

  I kiss his mouth open. Cool, cool.

  “Mmm,” he mmms.

  I can still see him, even when I can’t, even with my eyes closed—I know his face too well.

  Is this what people do? Get as close as they can and then push closer? Burn each other’s faces into their eyelids? Let each other into every gap? And then what? Then just tomorrow, and more?

  I want something.

  I don’t know what I want.

  I don’t know what I’m supposed to take.

  “Snow…” Baz’s voice is soft.

  I kiss him. I kiss him.

  “Simon … just kiss me for now.”

  “All right. I am.” I kiss him.

  “Just kiss me for the sake of kissing me.”

  I kiss him. “Baz…”

  “Mmm.”

  “I want my sheets to smell like you.”

  “I smell like you, Snow. I used your soap.”

  Between kisses: “You smell like a cave.”

  “That’s romantic.”

  “You smell like a hidden waterfall.”

  “Better…”

  “I can’t get enough of you,” I kiss.

  “Just kiss me. Please…”

  I kiss him. I push my chest into his. I knot my fingers in his hair—

  “No,” he whispers.

  I pull my mouth away. “No?”

  Baz rubs his nose into my cheek. His voice is barely there. “Be gentle with me … Even though you don’t have to.”

  “I—” My hand goes slack in his hair. “Gentle?”

  “Please, Snow.”

  I let some air between us. “Don’t say ‘please,’ Baz.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you don’t have to,” I say. “You don’t have to, I’ll give you whatever you want.” I stroke his Adam’s apple with my thumb. I slowly move my other hand back through his hair. “Was I hurting you?”

  “No…”

  “You want me to be gentle?”

  He nods his head.

  “All the time?”

  “Now.”

  I nod my head. I kiss him. Gentle. Gentle. For the sake of it. He smells so good. Like rushing water. Like something underground. (I found a hidden waterfall once. There was a key there. I took it.)

  Baz holds the back of my neck. He presses his other hand between my wings and drags his fingertips down my spine. I kiss him. I kiss him. Like I’m lapping up water from a stream. Is this what people do? I’m gentle, I’m so gentle.

  Baz holds me fast. He moves his body in a wave against mine, moves against me like a serpent. “Just kiss me,” he says between kisses. “Mmm,” he mmms between breaths.

  Is this what people do? At night? In the dark?

  I was never magic.

  I hitch my knee higher on his hip. He pushes his palm down my back. I wrap my tail around his forearm, and I’m gentle. He isn’t. And I am.

  “Kiss me,” he says.

  I kiss him.

  “Please,” he says.

  “Baz, don’t—”

  “Please…”

  “I will.” I do.

  He doesn’t have to beg. He never has to beg. I’ll give him whatever he wants. Can’t he see that, here in the dark—that I’ll give him whatever he wants? My hand is gentle on his scalp, gentle on his throat. I couldn’t break him if I tried. I won’t try.

  “Baz.” I kiss him. “You can have whatever you want.”

  “I want to always be here.”

  “I want that, too. I love you.”

  He’s moving against me in waves. I hitch my knee higher. He’s wearing pyjamas. I’m wearing boxers. We’re both hard. I’m being gentle, he isn’t. I was never magic. He was human once. My fingers clench in his hair—

  “Simon,” he says, and it isn’t good.

  I let go.

  “Simon…” he says. That’s better.

  My wings spread out of their own volition.

  Baz. Like a wave, against me. Like a serpent moving through the sand. (The Humdrum sent a three-headed snake once—I chopped all three of them off.) I hold Baz’s face in both my hands. Like he’s made of glass. Like he’d break. He won’t. I kiss him. And it’s cool. I kiss him like he’s cold water, and I’m drinking.

  He wraps his palm around the base of my tail. He holds me by the neck. He rocks and rocks and rocks into me.

  “Baz…”

  “Please, Simon.”

  “You don’t have to…”

  Is this, is this, is this what people do?

  Is this what he wants? Is this what I’m allowed to take?

  He’s rocking into me, and I need this to happen again someday in the light. I don’t know what Baz’s face looks like, like this, when he’s coming undone. And I can’t keep my eyes open anyway, when I’m coming against him.

  Is this, is this, is this …

  Is this magic?

  Is this enough?

  63

  BAZ

  Simon is breathing hard.

  At some point he stopped kissing me, but his head is still resting on my face.

  Is he okay? Was that okay? Are we okay?

  I can’t ask him, I don’t want to say the wrong thing. So I lie very still and try to read his heavy breath, his dead weight. I’m still squeezing the blood out of the base of his tail, so I unclench my fingers one by one. The length of it slips away from my arm, uncoiling and falling onto the bed.

  Is Simon okay?

  I mean, obviously, no, never. The real question is—what kind of not-okay is he at the moment? And what do I need to do to deal with it?

  Is he scared? Embarrassed? Overwhelmed? Did he even want that to happen? He’s never been with a guy, maybe he didn’t like it. Maybe it wasn’t what he was expecting. It’s messier than being with a girl. (Isn’t it?) (I don’t know anything about being with girls.) (I don’t know anything about being with guys.) (I know a lot about furtively bashing one out while my roommate is off fighting magickal crime, then hoping he doesn’t wonder why I’m taking a shower in the middle of the afternoon.)

  Simon’s still got both hands on my jaw and cheeks. His fingers have come to life a bit. Tensing. I can practically hear the gears turning in his head. (Never a good sign. His brain is an engine that only overheats.)

  In a minute, maybe less, maybe in a second, the wind is going to change. We’re deep in the minefield now, with no safe path out. My hand is still on the back of his neck. All I want is to ride this out. To show him we can keep getting through every sort of breakdown together. (Is that what this was? A breakdown? Is that how I’m going to have to file it away? Because that’s going to kill me a little.) (A little more.) Is Simon okay? His fingers are awake on my face, gently stroking my cheeks. And he’s lifted his head a bit.

  “Baz?” His voice is all breath.

  I’ve still got him by the back of the neck. I think of minefields. I think of those mechanical bulls. Are those real? We didn’t see any in America. I squeeze his neck. I’m going to ride this out, we’re going to—

  “Baz? Are you okay?”

  I …

  I nod.

  “You’re still cold,” he says, and he brings a wing over and around me.

  “I’m fine. Are—Are you okay?”

  He pets my cheek. His thumb ghosts over my bottom lip. “If you
are.”

  I squeeze his neck. “That’s not how it works, Snow.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  Is it?

  He hasn’t moved his leg. I haven’t moved mine. We’re slotted together and sticky. I put my arm around his waist, carefully, and flatten my hand against his back. I’ve been biting my lip. “I’m okay.”

  Simon kisses me. He’s still being so gentle. Maybe I’ll have to tell him that he can stop now. (Maybe I’ll never tell him.)

  “You’re being quiet,” he says.

  “Only because you’re kissing me.”

  “You’re being weird.”

  “You’re not…” I shake my head. Our lips brush. I shiver. He tightens his wing around me. “You’re not freaking out.”

  “Did you want me to?” he asks. “It’s probably not too late.”

  “No … I…”

  Simon slides one hand down to the back of my neck, and wraps the other arm around me. He’s mirroring me. He’s gentling me. He whispers, “I don’t know what you’re thinking. I can’t tell whether I should be embarrassed or sorry or…”

  “Or what?”

  His mouth is close to mine. “Happy?”

  I close my eyes and let out a breath. “Is that on the table?”

  “Baz … we kinda sorta had sex. And I didn’t cry or break anything.”

  I laugh. It sounds wet.

  “Babe…” he says. That’s new. That’s extraordinarily stupid. “Are you freaking out?”

  I hold him a little tighter everywhere that I can. He does the same.

  “I’ve never done that before,” I say into his chin.

  “I know.”

  “I think I probably did it wrong.”

  “There’s not really a wrong—”

  “I know that’s not true, Snow.”

  He’s nosing at my cheek. “Did something happen that you didn’t want to happen?”

  “No.”

  “Did you feel good?”

  “Yes, obviously.”

  “Me, too. Hey—” He tries to find my eyes in the dark. His pupils are wide as saucers. “Me, too.”

  I swallow. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah…” He kisses me. “So good, Baz.”

  I hear him say it. And I feel him say it. And I feel something in my stomach clenching around it. “I’m a mess,” I say. “I should—”