Simon flinches—and nearly stabs her in the throat with one of the stony spikes that poke out at the peak of each wing. Niamh frowns at me. She has a fantastic face for frowning: long and wide, with a nose that looks like a prosthetic an actress would wear to win an Oscar. “Miss Wellbelove,” she says.

Simon’s face is pale. His jaw muscles are popping out of his cheeks, and his hands are knotted in fists on his thighs. Niamh tugs at his wing again, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

I touch his hand. “Can I—”

His eyes jerk up to mine, and he nods, clamping my hand in his. I take his other hand, too, and he squeezes it.

“Does it hurt?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No. It just”—he shakes his head again—“feels wrong to be touched there.”

Niamh has his left wing spread out. It takes up most of the small exam room. She’s got a bottle of iodine and a cloth. Has Simon been injured? I mean, recently? Penelope and Baz healed all his bullet holes in the desert. Simon and I haven’t really talked since …

Well, ever. We didn’t talk after the Mage died. And we didn’t talk much in San Diego. And we haven’t talked at all since we got home. I didn’t even ask him what my father wanted the other night.

Niamh swabs the back of his wing with her cloth, and his whole body clenches. “All right?” she asks.

“I’m fine,” Simon says, white-knuckling my hands. “Niamh’s a vet student,” he tells me.

I nod. “I know.”

“Lucky for me.” He’s trying to smile. His face is so pale that his skin looks yellow, and there are purple circles under his eyes.

“Lucky for me,” Niamh says flatly. “I’d never get a chance to dissect an actual dragon’s wings.”

Dissect?

Simon’s still trying to smile at me. “Don’t worry. She’s going to take them off first.”

Oh. He’s having the wings removed. Finally. That makes sense. If I woke up with dragon wings—and a bloody tail—I’d have them taken off before breakfast. Simon’s had wings for more than a year, and he doesn’t even have magic to hide them. Still …

I remember him flying towards me, over the sand. That look on his face, like he wouldn’t leave without me. The way he lifted Baz up and away from the fire. Even with no magic.

“Where’s Baz?” I ask him. “And Penelope?”

Simon shakes his head, jaw rigid, then turns to speak to Niamh. “I guess I am a rare opportunity,” he puffs out. “It’s not like a dragon will ever show up at A&E with an injured wing…”

“If a dragon loses the use of a wing,” she says, scrubbing him with the disinfectant, “the other dragons kill it.”