“That’s all right,” I say. “Conserve yourself.”
He rests his hand on his thigh. “But the spell makes me feel like I’ve run a marathon. I’m still getting the hang of it. I’ve only cast it a few times now. I’ve been working on a way tofocusmy talents.”
“You mentioned the first person you healed,” Simon says, somehow miraculously back on track, “Jamie.”
“Jamie,” Smith-Richards repeats warmly. “He was one of the first people who really believed in me. I mean, he trusted me to cast this totally new,weirdspell on him.”
“And it worked?” Simon asks.
Smith-Richards grins. “It totally worked. Jamie . . . He didn’t even have a wand when I met him. Full-blooded magician. Had never cast a ‘Clean sweep.’ Wasn’t even allowed at Watford. And now he’s fully fluent.”
“That’s amazing,” Simon says.
Smith-Richards is beaming at him. Literally. The sun has moved behind Smith-Richards’s head and is lighting him up like a saint.
“Could we meet Jamie?” I ask.
“I’d love to meet him,” Simon says earnestly.
“Yeah”—Smith-Richards looks excited—“I’d love for you to meet him, too.”
Simon scoots even farther off the sofa, ready to spring up. (Directly into Smith-Richards’s lap.)
“Should we call for him?” I ask.
“Oh . . .” Smith-Richards sits back in his chair. “I’m sorry. Jamie doesn’t live here. But I could text him? And arrange something? Maybe at the next meeting?”
“That’d be great,” Simon says.
There’s a knock at the open door. We all look up. That same girl is standing there, still looking scared of Simon.
“Hey, Pippa,” Smith-Richards says. “Is dinner ready?”
She nods.
“Thanks. I’ll be right down.”
She hurries away.
“You really ought to stay for dinner,” Smith-Richards says. “Daphne would be glad to see you.”
“Thank you,” I say, “but I don’t want her to think I’m checking up on her.”
“All right.” Smith-Richards reaches for my hand again, then claps Simon on the shoulder. “Let’s exchange numbers, in case something comes up.”
“Sure,” Simon says, getting out his phone.
Smith ends up doing the typing. “I’ll see you at the next meeting, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Simon says, “for sure.”
“And Simon—let yourself be comfortable. If you want to keep the wings put away, I get it. But we’re all magicians here. You don’t have anything to hide.”
Simon is blushing. “Okay, um . . . thanks.”
Smith-Richards walks us to the door.
44
