Chapter 7
Beatrix led them up the stairs to the second-floor newsroom, telling herself that there was surely some rational explanation for the way he’d delivered his marriage proposal. He was nervous. Or wracked with stress about going public. Or—or anything except the obvious conclusion.
It hadn’t occurred to her until now that the scandalous photograph wasn’t simply a deadline to do what they would have done regardless.
The picture made marriage a requirement rather than a choice.
Lydia’s presidency depended on it. But he wanted to marry her, so why would that be a problem now that he actually could?
This was not the time to think about it.
She opened the door to the newsroom and looked for Helen Hickok.
The reporter’s desk was empty, the typewriter silent.
Beatrix’s heart sank, but then she heard a hubbub across the massive room and looked over.
Hickok stood with one hand on the desk of a scowling man, the other hand making slashing movements in the air.
“No, you will not”—slash—“take out that quote”—slash—“because you are not”—slash—“a complete idiot,” she said, her ringing voice carrying.
The man answered her, though his exact words were eaten up by the distance between them.
“No, more like twenty percent,” she said, giving him a pat. “The longer you work with me, the less idiotic you get.”
The man said something else. Hickok threw back her head and laughed. “All right, then,” she said. She turned, caught sight of who was standing by her desk, and literally ran for them, strands of her bright-orange hair slipping from her updo in her haste.
“Oh—this, I have got to hear,” she said.
Peter’s solemn expression gave way to a half-smile. Under normal circumstances, Beatrix was sure, he would have laughed.
“Come on, come on,” Hickok demanded, pulling chairs from the desks of less dedicated reporters who took Sunday evening off.
“Whatever this is about, it’s a great story.
Three League for the Prohibition of Magic leaders and a wizard.
Sit!” she ordered, whipping a notepad off her desk and a pen from behind her ear.
“Talk! You first,” she said, gesturing at Beatrix with her pen.
“This is Peter Blackwell, our town omnimancer.” Beatrix took a breath. Calm, be calm. “You know everyone else, of course. Peter, meet Helen Hickok, the Star’s political reporter.”
“Delighted,” Hickok said. “Headline, Harper—why are you here?”
Rosemarie had suggested beginning at the beginning. Beatrix simply handed over the envelope. She knew Hickok well enough to understand which way would be better.
“Ah,” the reporter said, nodding as she assessed the photograph. “Washington sent this to you in hopes of forcing Lydia Harper out?”
“No,” Lydia said. “Washington sent it to League leaders so they would force me out.”
“When?”
“Today.”
Hickok hmm’d over the photo for a moment. Peter slipped his hand into Beatrix’s, the warmth of it spreading up her arm. She was being silly, surely—seeing problems that weren’t there. The scandal, on the other hand, was all too real. She needed to focus on defusing it.
Hickok looked up. “All right, now the rest of the story. Your turn, Omnimancer.”
“I’m from Ellicott Mills originally,” he said. “When I came back to town, I hired Beatrix to help.”
Hickok snorted. “I find that hard to believe.”
“That I would hire her?”
“That she’d agree to work for a wizard.”
“Yes, well,” Beatrix said, a bit archly, “I didn’t really get a choice in the matter.”
She’d never made light of that before, but she no longer felt it so keenly. She knew him too well now, knew his intentions and how much his mistakes weighed on him, and besides—she didn’t give him a choice about Plan B. That consideration made her ironic smile slip just as he began to answer.
“No,” Peter said, “so you can imagine how awkward it was when I …” His face was pale. “When I fell in love with her,” he murmured, looking at the reporter, not at her.
That was when it hit her—belatedly, with all the power of a strike to the chest.
Just because she’d continued to love him after the Vows lifted didn’t mean he still felt the same way about her.
What were the odds that they would both come out the other end with a strong desire to continue the relationship? When had he actually said he loved her since the Vows dissolved, other than right now for the benefit of a story they needed?
“I take it from the photograph that you ended up falling for him, too?” Hickok asked her.
“Yes.” Her voice trembled. She forced a smile. He’d kissed her twice—didn’t that mean something? But no: The first time, she’d kissed him. The second time, he’d kissed her in lieu of saying something about his feelings, likely knowing that Rosemarie would put a swift stop to it.
One of them ought to be launching into a not-quite-accurate explanation of their engagement. But he didn’t, and she couldn’t.
Into this heavy silence, Rosemarie—bless her—stepped in.
“Omnimancer Blackwell proposed to Beatrix, and she accepted. Of course, they intended to marry right away. It would have been inappropriate for them to continue working together, otherwise. But then—explain what happened the day after you proposed, Omnimancer.”
“I fell into a coma that I only just woke from yesterday morning,” he said.
Hickok’s eyes widened and her breath caught, but there wasn’t so much as a second’s break in her furious scribbling. “What happened?”
“It’s not entirely clear, but it was a terrible blow for Beatrix,” Rosemarie said, poking her in the back in what she assumed was an effort to get her to stop standing in a dazed stupor and say something.
“I—I thought he wasn’t going to make it.” She could feel her eyes welling for reasons not entirely connected to the remembered trauma. “Then he suddenly sat up in bed.”
“That photo was taken right after,” Lydia said.
“Hold that thought,” Hickok said. She picked up her telephone and rapidly dialed a number. “Greene? I need you. Can you get here in ten?” She paused, scowled, and said, “Eat your dessert later! … All right, yes, fifteen, I can wait fifteen.”
She hung up, shaking her head. “Right. What do you think about all this, Madam President of the Women’s League for the Prohibition of Magic?”
“I think if League members knew Peter Blackwell, they would immediately grasp that he is exactly the sort of man we want on our side,” Lydia said.
“The magiocracy isn’t just trying to get me booted out of League leadership.
They want to keep him from helping the League.
You’ve seen the evidence that Washington is interfering with our efforts on typic rights.
Well, I didn’t know this at the time, but he provided it to Beatrix. ”
Hickok looked up from her notepad—still taking rapid-fire notes, but eyes focused on them. “Oh?”
“I stumbled upon it after moving here and was deeply concerned about what this meant for our democracy,” Peter said.
“Everyone should be concerned,” Rosemarie said.
“Once I knew, I planned to tell my membership about Peter and Beatrix, and the help he’s supplied us, but then he landed in the hospital,” Lydia said.
“Not only did Beatrix nearly lose her fiancé, but she also lost her job, and it’s been an absolutely chaotic month for us.
Washington clearly wanted to deliver the news first so they could twist it beyond recognition. ”
Hickok bit her lip, deep in thought for a moment.
Then she asked a quick succession of questions, all of which Rosemarie or Lydia answered.
Beatrix let it wash over her, grateful her input was not required.
She looked down, caught sight of the diamond glinting on her ring finger, and closed her eyes.
An irritated voice from behind them said, “I’m here, I’m here,” and they turned to find a disheveled man weighed down with bags and a very large camera. She put a hand on Hickok’s desk to steady herself as she realized what he was here to do.
“C’mon, Hick, some of us have families, and—”
“Greene, this is Lydia Harper, national president of the Women’s League for the Prohibition of Magic—I believe you’ve met? This is her sister, Beatrix, a fellow League leader. This is Omnimancer Peter Blackwell, Beatrix Harper’s fiancé—”
Greene started to chuckle.
“—and that’s not even the most interesting part of this scoop, but do please tell me how I’m wasting your time,” Hickok said, raising an eyebrow.
“No, you win,” he said. “Follow me, folks.”
In a corner of the newsroom that served as a studio, Beatrix stood with Peter’s arm around her, trying to convince herself that he loved her even as more reasons he might not popped into her head.
He’d showed no sign of attraction to her before the Vows.
He was nearly denied an education beyond eighth grade because of her mother’s bias against him. And Plan B.
Most of all, Plan B.
Greene took the first photo, his camera’s bulb letting out a spine-tingling poof. She tried to smile. He kept cocking his head and rearranging them. Look here. Sit there. Stand together.
Finally he said, “Don’t look at me this time. Look at each other.”
She glanced down as she turned toward Peter, trying to slow her breathing, to delay the moment. He took her hand, the one now adorned with his grandmother’s ring. She forced herself to look up.
Signs of distress were all over his face—subtle but clear. He reached out with his free hand to cup her cheek. Then he closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to hers, letting out a shuddering breath.
Poof-poof-poof-poof.
“There we are,” Greene said. “That’ll do, thank you.”