Chapter 20 #2
“All right, let’s go,” he said, jumping to his feet. “We’d better make sure a brewing-only restriction will fly.”
Remarkably, it did. He’d been sure at least one of the towns or counties would pitch a fit about paying for a wizard who wouldn’t fix a leaking roof or fight farm pests, but brews were apparently their main priority.
Just as remarkably, Croft was able to get that worked out in twenty-five minutes flat.
“Excellent,” Croft said, beaming at them. “Couldn’t be happier that you’ll do it, Omnimancer.”
“It’s not as good a deal for Ellicott Mills as one-hundred percent of an omnimancer for free,” Peter said, clinging to his misgivings. “People might be annoyed by the wait.”
Croft snorted. “People can go soak their heads.”
“I hope that’s not what you’re planning to tell anyone coming to complain—”
“No, no, it was clear as day that you wouldn’t be able to go on working for free once you were married, never mind how big your hospital bills were. This way we won’t lose you entirely. Anyway,” Croft added in a conspiratorial whisper, “our town’s contribution to the collective pot is housing.”
Beatrix’s laugh was so infectious, Peter couldn’t help joining in, no matter how uneasy he still felt.
When they got back home, their answering machine had nine messages.
Omnimancer and Mrs. Blackwell, I was outraged to hear what happened to you, and I wanted to tell you that my friends and I are taking up a collection …
Sir and madam, you don’t know me but I feel I must help after all you’ve tried to do …
Mr. Omnimancer, you and Mrs. Omnimancer helped my little girl last year even though we’re not from Ellicott Mills, and I’ll never forget it. I can only send a little bit, but I’m asking all my friends to do the same, and you know that a lot of little bits add up …
And on and on like that. He stared at the machine, stunned.
“I thought everyone hated us,” he murmured finally, as the last message wound down and the machine clicked off.
Beatrix wrapped her arms around him from behind, laying her head against his back. “When you’re laid low, you find out who your friends are.”
Someone knocked on the door just as the telephone rang. He glanced at the time: Nine o’clock on the dot.
“I’d better …” he said, gesturing to the phone. The same brisk female voice as the morning before asked him to hold for the general, and he watched Beatrix open the door and give Mrs. Clark a hug as he waited to disabuse the Pentagram of the notion that he’d be coming back.
The line click-clicked. “Hello again, Blackwell,” Whitaker said. “Will you accept the offer?”
“Thank you, but no.”
The pause that followed suggested shock.
Still, Whitaker’s voice was as smooth as before when he said, “I understand you might not want to leave Mrs. Blackwell home by herself, given the danger she’s in.
I’ll assign a bodyguard. A typic Marine, if you’d rather not have a wizard. She’ll be perfectly safe.”
Now it was Peter’s turn for unsettled silence.
In all their fearful activity the last twenty-four hours to deal with their financial crisis, they’d given next to no thought about the death threats.
He couldn’t protect himself, let alone Beatrix.
And Beatrix couldn’t use her most effective defense without landing them both in prison for breaking the magic-use law.
How much uncertainty and risk was he willing to stomach to do the right thing? How could he live with himself if anything happened to her?
“Blackwell?” the general said.
Do we have principles, or don’t we?
He closed his eyes.
“I appreciate your offer, General, but my answer is still no,” he said, trying to sound firm about it. “Good morning to you.”
He hung up, a hard knot in his stomach.
Townspeople flocked to their door and pressed money on them the whole morning.
Mr. and Mrs. Fischer said their entire fall crop would have been destroyed if Peter had not fought off the beetles, and they only wished they could give more than $50.
Mr. Edderly said he never could have afforded to patch his roof non-magically, so he considered it a flaming bargain to hand over $29.58.
Mrs. Price, of all people, showed up with an envelope that she said contained an amount past-due to him, leaving without answering questions, and it was only when he saw the $800 within that he realized she was talking about the high school scholarship she’d agreed with Beatrix’s mother not to give him.
Mr. Freelow appeared with a jar of coins he’d been “saving for a rainy day, and I can’t imagine anything rainier than those terrible bills facing you!”
So many in Ellicott Mills had so little (not counting Mrs. Price, of course) that Peter accepted the help only because he knew that refusing it would be a grave insult.
He particularly hated to take Mr. Freelow’s coins because the man’s painful bursitis was overdue for a treatment Peter could no longer give.
Brews didn’t help: It required a spell, said several times with a laying on of hands to the affected areas.
No way to fudge that to make it appear to be his spell while actually coming from Beatrix.
“I can’t tell you how grateful I am, Mr. Freelow,” he choked out.
Mr. Freelow beamed and hobbled off. It was literally the first time Peter had ever talked to him that he hadn’t said a word about the bursitis, and that made the whole thing worse.
“I know,” Beatrix murmured, upstairs in the new brewing room later, resting in a chair after they’d finished moving ingredients and tools from the old one. “I can’t stand the thought of not helping him, but I don’t have a clue about how we could pull it off.”
He sighed. “That’s not all.” And he told her about the Pentagram’s offer of a bodyguard.
She stood and slipped her arms around his waist. “I don’t think anyone’s coming after me. I’m worried about you.”
“I didn’t seriously think anyone would come after me, either, and I was sadly mistaken.”
She said nothing for a moment, and he regretted the words. What good did it do to frighten her?
Then she extracted a leaf from her pocket, pressed it against the back of his hand and raised them both—her hand and his—into a spellcasting position.
Not frightened. Strategizing.
“Cast the protection spell on three,” she said. “OK?”
He nodded.
“One, two …”
“Scield!” he bellowed, loud enough to cover up her use of the spellword, and watched as a translucent stream of magic appeared to flow from his fingers. He had just a second to consider how he felt about that when he remembered that scield was invisible.
“You used beorgan,” he said, voice reedy.
“Yes,” she said, “it’s the stronger spell, so …”
She was still talking, but he couldn’t hear her. He gulped air to prove to himself that the spell hadn’t gone awry, but it didn’t help, his lungs burned, it was happening again—he couldn’t—couldn’t—
She pushed him into a chair. “Peter,” she said, “deep breaths! Slower, or you’ll hyperventilate!”
Bit by bit, he caught his breath. Panic attack. He’d just had a panic attack over a spell she’d surely cast correctly.
“Are you OK?” Her eyes were wide, her hands tightly gripping him. “That was absolutely idiotic of me—”
“Do it again,” he said grimly, getting up.
This time—once he’d talked her into it—his panic was more manageable simply because he knew what to expect.
He made her cast the spell over and over until the memory of being slowly asphyxiated by beorgan while trapped in the basement lost some of its terrible immediacy and he could concentrate on the matter at hand.
Holding a leaf, hiding it after the fact, moving in concert with her.
Pretending to cast a spell she’d worked was terrible in a different sort of way, but he didn’t have the luxury of wallowing until his loss felt less raw. Assuming it ever would.
“Peter,” she said, and he realized with a start that it was now she who was out of breath. “I—I need to stop.”
How many spells had he made her cast? He’d lost track, but it had to be at least three dozen. “I’m sorry,” he murmured as she leaned against the brewing table.
“I’m the one who needs to apologize.” She winced. “How do you feel?”
Useless. He couldn’t bring himself to say it, though. He led her to the armchairs they’d brought over from otherwise empty bedrooms and said, “Let’s think about how to help Mr. Freelow.”
“What about the anti-arthritic brew?”
He shook his head as he sat next to her. “Contraindicated, the book says.”
“Well, there’s what we were just doing, but …” She trailed off. The disadvantage was too obvious to need saying. They’d both have to lay their hands on Mr. Freelow, and it would seem so odd that the man wouldn’t be able to help talking about it afterward.
“We shouldn’t be casting anyway,” he said. “People would wonder why I’m making an exception for him but not for anyone else who needs a spell.”
“We could work on a new brew.”
“I’ve never done medicinal R&D—my experience is strictly on the spell-and-rune side. And even if I had, how on earth would we test it?”
She sighed. “Good point. I’m not sure how to determine the effectiveness of a bursitis remedy on a mouse.” She got out of her chair and curled up on his lap. “But a brew to prevent conception—now that would be easy to test.”
Almost despite himself, he smiled. “Rabbits. Lots of rabbits.”
“Exactly.”
“If only we had any idea what we were doing. Not to mention money to spare for side projects.”
She sighed again, more deeply this time. He sat in silence with her for a moment, an arm around her waist, trailing his fingers idly along the rippled fabric of her skirt, the inviting softness of the thigh it hid doing things to him. He kissed the curve of her neck. She hummed appreciatively.
“What makes you suggest this particular innovation, wife mine?” Not wanting to be impregnated while mostly asleep occurred to him as the answer, but the catch in her throat and the way she pressed against him pointed a different direction.
“Well—oh,” she said as he slipped a hand under her skirt. “I’ve wanted to work on it since I became friends with Sue, but …”
She trailed off as he ran the pads of his fingers up her leg.
“Yes?” he prompted, stopping at her upper thigh.
“I admit I now have thoroughly selfish and carnal reasons,” she whispered.
He slid off her underwear. Blood roared in his ears as he made her writhe on his lap. There was so much he could not do, but this—this was remarkably easy.