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Back Any Way the Wind Blows Save as PDF
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

I can’t see my tail either. But I can touch the place on my back where it comes out of me. I pull the tail out of my jeans and wrap my fingers around the base, feeling the bones inside shifting. Dr. Wellbelove says the tail’s connected to my spine. He doesn’t want to remove it outright—he’s afraid of nerve damage—so he’s leaving an inch or two. I’m going to look like a docked terrier when he’s done with me, but at least I’ll be able to wear normal jeans again.

The wings will be gone completely. (His intern wants to dissect them, and I said that’s fine.) I’ll have long scars down my back when it’s over. Dr. Wellbelove was sorry about that, but I don’t care—I’m already covered in scars. I’ve been magickally patched up too many times to count, and most healing spells aren’t cosmetic.

Tomorrow.

My wings will be gone tomorrow.

I face the mirror and try to imagine myself without them. It’s not the same as imagining myself before I had them. Before I created them.

I square my shoulders. My arms are tanned from the sun—all that American sunshine—but my chest is pale. Soft. I look soft. I look like someone who’s spent the last year on the sofa, which is exactly who I am.

Or was. I don’t know who I am. Fuck, I’m nothing at the moment. I’m between Simons. I don’t even have a sofa.

I don’t have anything. I’ve burned it all down, and tomorrow I’m going to burn some more.

There’s a knock at my front door. That was fast.

I head into the living room and shout at the door. “Just leave it outside, mate! Thanks!”

They knock again.

“Christ,” I mutter. “No one is going to steal my pad thai.” I grab my T-shirt on the way to the door, but I’m not going to hassle with putting it on over my wings unless I have to. “Just leave it!” I shout, kicking the broom handle away. “Thank you!”

More knocking. If this is that goblin again, I’m gutting him.

The dagger is in my back pocket. I get it out and crack the door. “Just leave—”

It isn’t Deliveroo.

Or a goblin.

It’s Baz.

13

BAZ

It took me an hour to find him, and most of that was just the cab ride. Simon’s living in Hackney Wick.

He’s got the door chained. He’s standing on the other side, shirtless, his eyes cold and his jaw set. “How did you find me?” he asks. Like he doesn’t know there are a hundred spells just for this. It’s hard to hide from someone who loves you.

“Magic,” I say.

“I asked you not to.”