He lifts up his chin. “It’s okay, Penelope. It was fun. I got to see a little bit of London. And a little bit of magic.” He smiles. “I met some either/orcs.”
“Let me get cleaned up,” I say. “Then I’ll figure out your ticket.”
Shepard hands me the orange juice he’s been holding. “I’m sorry you got dumped,” he says. “I didn’t know.”
“Me neither, apparently.”
He gathers the sausage roll trash and stands up. “Anyone who would break up with you multiple times isn’t playing with a full deck.”
“That’s not true, but thanks.”
Shepard walks away. His hair nearly brushes the top of my doorway.
“I do wish I could have helped you,” I say.
He pauses and shrugs. “It’s okay.” Then he walks out of the room and turns back to me. “You really were the first person to ever give me any hope of getting my soul back. I’m still grateful for that.”
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, youarecorrect. 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 aspectrumof 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.
