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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

“Just keep it for now,” I say. “It’s like the smallest thing in your life that you need to figure out.”

He laughs. “You sound like my therapist.”

“A lot of your insults are compliments, I think.”

Snow leans back on the headboard. “You’re both always telling me that I have bigger things to worry about.”

“Or—” I rest my chin on my violin and pull the bow over the strings. “—maybe we’re both telling you to worry less, in general.”

“I don’t think that’s what she meant.”

“You should call her and ask.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “You’re not clever.”

I play another note. “I am.”

Simon holds the sword out in front of him, twisting his wrist, then tossing the hilt gently, switching his grip.

“Does it feel like handling an incredibly rare and precious antique?”

“It feels fucking solid,” he says. “Maybe even better than the Sword of Mages.”

“I wonder if it has a name…”

“They said it’s Excalibur.”

“They said it’s an Excalibur. Like, that’s the brand name. It might have a family name.”

“Yeah…” He’s looking at the sword, frowning.

I play the beginning of a song.

After a minute, Snow brings his free hand up and wipes his cheek with the back of his wrist.

I keep playing. He wipes his eyes again. I pull the bow away.

“Don’t stop,” he says.

“Is it making you cry?”

“Partly. Isn’t that what it’s for?”

I laugh. “No.”

He elbows me, so I start playing again. I suppose I have picked a melancholy song … (I like melancholy songs.) Snow messes about with the sword, occasionally wiping his cheek on his bare shoulder.

When I’m done, I lay the violin in my lap. Simon passes the sword to his left hand and slumps into my side.

“Do you think it’s real?” he asks.

“The sword?”

“Do you think I was a magician? All along?” His voice is rough, and his cheeks are flushed. There’s one damp curl hanging over his forehead.

“Yes,” I say. “That’s clear now.”

He hides his face in my T-shirt. “It’s too much for me.”

I set the violin on the floor by the bed, then rest my hand over his on the hilt of the sword. He lets go. For a moment, I wonder if I’ll be able to lift it, but I can. I set it by the bed, too.

Simon crawls half into my lap, burrowing his face into my chest.

I lay my cheek on top of his head and hold him behind his ears.

“It would be too much for anyone,” I say.

EPILOGUE

ONE YEAR LATER

AGATHA

I could leave the goats to themselves all day. They’d be fine, and there’s plenty for me to do back at Watford. The goats know their own way home.