Simon flinches.

“Out of mercy,” she says, pulling his wing taut again.

“Right,” he says.

“That’s savage,” I say.

She rolls her eyes. “They are dragons.”

Simon swallows. “I met a dragon once.”

“I’m not surprised,” Niamh says. “Look here—I’m already done with the back of this one. I told you it’d be quick. I’m moving to the front now.” She manoeuvres herself around his wing and starts on the paler leather there.

Simon jumps again. He yanks my hands against his chest—sweet Circe, he’s chilled through. I can’t remember Simon’s skin ever being cold. He used to be a furnace. When I’d sit next to him to watch a film, he’d sweat through his shirt and mine, and his arm would stick to my neck.

He may not be in pain, but he is suffering.

I lift my chin at Niamh. “Why do you have to disinfect his wings if you’re just going to cut them off?”

“Surgical procedure,” she says.

“But you wouldn’t be able to disinfect an animal this way. In the field.”

She narrows her already narrow eyes at me. “I would try.”

Simon squeezes my hands. “It’s all right, Agatha.”

It isn’t all right. He’s trembling. Simon doesn’t tremble. “He’s clearly uncomfortable.”

“Well, it is an amputation,” she says. “Uncomfortable is rather our best-case scenario.”

I lift my chin higher. “Your bedside manner leaves something to be desired, Miss—Niamh.”

“No one has ever complained, Miss Wellbelove.”

“Have you worked on any talking animals?”

“I’m not complaining!” Simon says.

“Look…” Niamh releases Simon’s wing, and it snaps closed so tight, it’s practically flat against his back. She frowns at the wing, then frowns at me. “Look,” she says again, more calmly. “I’m going to take good care of your boyfriend, I promise. Your father never would have asked me to do this if he didn’t trust me.”

I let go of Simon’s hands—just as he’s letting go of mine.

I step away from him. “I—”

“It’s all right.” Simon has sat up straight. He’s squared his shoulders. He still looks badly shaken, but he’s spreading his left wing out again and holding it mostly steady. “I trust you, Niamh. I can get through this.” He looks at me. “It’s all right, Agatha.”

“Of course,” I say to him, my voice mild again. “I’m sorry.”

“No…” Simon shakes his head. His shoulders fall a bit. “You shouldn’t be. I mean—Agatha. I’m sorry. You know?”

Oh.

No.

Not now. Not …

Now I’m shaking my head. And I’m crying. For heaven’s snakes and hell’s, too—I told myself I was done crying over Simon Snow.