22
AGATHA
Someone puked in Exam Three. Dad says I don’t have to clean it up, but I’m keeping a low profile anyway, restocking the paper towels in all the other exam rooms and wiping down the counters. I’m just finishing Exam Five when Niamh barges in.
“Oh. Miss Wellbelove,” she says. “There you are.”
I keep wiping the counter. “Dad says he’ll take care of it. My cleaning spells are pants.”
“What?”
“Exam Three.”
Niamh frowns at me for a moment. “I wanted to talk to you about yesterday.”
“Yesterday?”
“Your … friend.”
“Oh.” I throw my paper towel in the bin and click my tongue. “Of course.
You want to talk about Simon.”
“Yes, I—Well, I wanted to apologize. You were—Well, you are correct.
My bedside manner isn’t ideal. I’m better with things that can’t talk back or … walk away. I think it’s my fault that Mr. Snow spooked.”
She’s standing there, with her head down, looking surprisingly pitiful. Part of me appreciates it very much. Niamh is awful and should feel awful. But another part of me …
“Niamh. It isn’t your fault.”
“It is,” she tells the ground. “If your father had been presiding, the wings would have come right off, and everyone would be happy.”
“Ha!”
She lifts her head. To frown at me.
“Honestly. Niamh. You can’t blame yourself for anything Simon Snow does. You can’t try to influence him at all. It’s like trying to influence a mad dog.”
She’s still frowning—I think this one indicates confusion. What a spectrum of frowns this woman is capable of. Fifty shades.
“Don’t feel bad about this,” I say. “Simon will have his wings off when he wants them off. Or he’ll saw them off himself with a dull blade. Or lose them in a run-in with a harpy.”
She looks truly appalled with me. Which is fine. Let her spend eight years of her life with Simon Snow, and then she can judge.
“My point is,” I say, “this isn’t on you. Or me. We’re just bystanders.”
The door to Exam Three opens again. It’s my dad. Niamh frowns at him.
“Oh, Niamh,” he says. “And Agatha. Niamh, are you still heading out to Watford this afternoon?”
“Yes, Doctor. But I can stay if you need me.”
“No, no, go ahead. Nice day for it.” My dad glances over at me. “Say, you should take Agatha with you. I’m sure you could use an extra wand.”
“No,” I say, before I’ve thought it through. Niamh and my father look at me, waiting to hear why not. “I … I told Janice I’d cover the phones for her while she goes on break.”
“Pish,” Dad says. “She’ll manage somehow without you. Niamh, Agatha had planned to study veterinary care herself.” He looks back at me, and I can hear him thinking, But who knows what she’s planning now?
Niamh is looking at me, too, trying very hard to smile like a normal person. （Close but no cigar, Niamh!） “Of course,” she says. “I’d be glad of the help.”
“Grand,” my dad says. “Have a good time, Agatha. Say hello to Mitali if you see her.” The door closes behind him.
Niamh is still grimacing at me. “I’ll come find you when I’m ready.”
“Great.” I nod.
Grand.
23
PENELOPE
I try to pull myself together in the shower. It helps to have a plan. Next step: Get Shepard home.
I buy him a plane ticket for this evening. Don’t tell my mother, but I can pay for almost anything online with “A penny for your thoughts.” （I think it works so well for me because of my name.） I’m not going to worry about getting caught for this. If anyone figures out I’ve been kiting plane tickets, this won’t be the one that seals my fate.
The only real risk is that the magic will fail somehow before Shepard gets home. I don’t want him to get into any more trouble. （Though I’ve never met anyone with such a nose for it, not even Simon.） （I’m trying not to wonder about the “interesting” thing Simon was texting about. I am not falling back into this routine with him. Not if he hates me for it.） （Evidently Baz was less easily dismissed than I was. Fine. Let Baz be the one who gets repeatedly dumped.）
When I walk out into the living room, Shepard is pulling on a fresh T-shirt. His denim jacket is lying on the back of the sofa. It’s rare to see his arms—he wears that jacket even indoors, even in June. The tattoos trail out from his shirt sleeves, all the way down to his wrists. They’re so ornate, they almost seem to move.