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Any Way the Wind Blows

Rainbow Rowell
Chapters (100)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. 53
  57. 54
  58. 55
  59. 56
  60. 57
  61. 58
  62. 59
  63. 60
  64. 61
  65. 62
  66. 63
  67. 64
  68. 65
  69. 66
  70. 67
  71. 68
  72. 69
  73. 70
  74. 71
  75. 72
  76. 73
  77. 74
  78. 75
  79. 76
  80. 77
  81. 78
  82. 79
  83. 80
  84. 81
  85. 82
  86. 83
  87. 84
  88. 85
  89. 86
  90. 87
  91. 88
  92. 89
  93. 90
  94. 91
  95. EPILOGUE
  96. AGATHA
  97. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  98. Also by Rainbow Rowell
  99. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  100. Newsletter Sign-up

Title Page

Any Way the Wind Blows by Rainbow Rowell

Copyright Notice

The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

Dedication

This book is for you. Never let them tell you you’re not magic.

1

LADY RUTH

There’s a candle in my window. Sputtering. Sizzling. Threatening to go out.

It won’t. It hasn’t. Not for twenty years.

I set a second candle beside it and point my wand at the wick—then hold my breath, hoping for fire.

The flame leaps up, warm under my palm. My tears finally come.

He lives, then. Jamie lives. Yes. Good. All right.

The flame is long and steady.

My son lives.

I reach for the decanter of Madeira by my bed. Cut glass. An antique. Andrew, my husband, wouldn’t approve of this. Spirits so readily at hand. But Andrew had me close at hand. Until the day of his death. Someone to share the burden of his sorrows. I never expected to walk this path so long by myself.

I am not a melancholy woman.

I’m not spiteful, I don’t hold grudges. There’s no time for it—a grudge will eat up your whole life and leave you on your deathbed, realizing you never lifted your head to the sun or had a second piece of cake.

I let in the light. I eat the cake.

I was born on the Sabbath, you see. Blithe and bonny, good and gay. Oh, I was a golden girl, full of life—full of magic. I came into this world to find happiness. And I found it! In my husband and my own children. In Lucy, especially.

My Lucy, my daughter …

Everyone said she was the spitting image of me—but she was better, I think. With her father’s sense of decency and my vigour. She was strong and stout and absolutely pink with life.

Until she met him.

The day the Mage died—has it been a year already? nearly two?—I took down a bottle of the good Madeira. I raised my glass. “This one’s for you, Davy. I drink to your death, you merciless bastard.”

That man twisted the life right out of my Lucy. Turned the girl’s head till she could only parrot his paranoia and prophecy.

I told myself it was a mercy when she ran away, a blessing that she disappeared without a trace. Davy was the most powerful man in the World of Mages. How far did Lucy have to run to escape his long reach?

I imagine her in California, under the sun. Or in Siberia, warm by a fire. I imagine her walking down a dirt road and leaving no tracks.