Chapter 24
“Attention, everyone!”
Peter stopped staring at his sash—purple with “Justice” embroidered in gold letters—and focused on Lydia.
She could pass for the Statue of Liberty’s avenging cousin, draped in a dramatic white dress with a bullhorn in place of a torch.
Her sash was gold, purple letters spelling out “Democracy.” Beatrix, standing between them in a less flashy but new dress he’d persuaded her to buy, was tying on a sash that said “Fair Play.” Behind them, women and far more men than they’d anticipated were milling about with signs, banners and in some cases babies.
“Are we ready?” Lydia asked.
“Ready,” Rosemarie said, steel in her voice and a glint in her eye.
“Ready,” a dozen or more League leaders chorused.
“So ready,” said Joan Hamilton, whose apartment he once ransacked as he closed in on Plan B. (A sudden flash of morbid curiosity: Did she miss spellcasting, too? Did she feel its absence in her bones? Was it right to make her stop?)
“Peter?”
He blinked and looked back at Lydia. “Yes. Ready.”
“Bee?” she murmured.
Beatrix gave an almost imperceptible shudder, lifted her chin and nodded.
“Right, then.” Lydia lifted the bullhorn to her mouth. “Time for Washington to see what America wants! Forward!”
The march was deafening, exhilarating, nerve-wracking.
They processed through downtown, along streets the D.C.
police had agreed to close to vehicular traffic, with onlookers darting toward them at a rate of what seemed like one every thirty seconds.
Some wanted to shake Lydia’s hand. Some wanted to shake his hand, or Beatrix’s.
Many were aiming to join the parade, though a few were doing it to jeer and catcall.
And two men tried to forcibly kiss Lydia, something scield unfortunately could not protect against. He ejected the pair without having to resort to borrowed magic.
Then he spent the remaining five minutes of the procession—on Constitution Avenue, fittingly—soaked in adrenaline and on the verge of snapping.
When they finally reached their podium on the National Mall, he sank into one of the seats reserved for speakers, reassuring himself that the worst was over.
Lydia was safely up on the platform. The crowds settled in for the coming speeches; no one was charging at her.
It hadn’t rained, it wasn’t miserably hot, the turnout was breathtaking and if he could just get through his speech without screwing it up …
He pushed to his feet and stationed himself next to Beatrix. She was standing a yard behind Lydia, shifting as her sister moved about. “OK?” he murmured.
Beatrix nodded without taking her eyes off her sister. “I’ll be even better in a few hours.”
He snorted. “Because the event will be done, or because our speech will be over?”
“Wait, we have to give a speech?” Her tone and expression were so earnest that only the sardonic twist of her lips the next moment saved him from blind panic.
“Hilarious, wife mine.”
She gave him a thin but genuine smile, squeezing his hand. He sipped his coffee, feeling better. Well—somewhat better. They did, after all, have a speech they couldn’t get out of delivering.
He recited the opening lines in his head. Wizard and typic, we’re all Americans. And all Americans should agree that fair rules make our country stronger. Beatrix had written those words, and he liked them. But they’d sounded far better coming from Lydia than in any of his many attempts.
Beatrix had argued to Lydia and Rosemarie that the speech should touch on rights for women, not just typics writ large. She’d lost that battle. Afterward she’d laid in bed with him, staring at the ceiling, and said she was very tired of the whole thing.
Now she sat next to him, neck muscles so tight he could see the strain.
Miss Hamilton gave the opening speech. She was every bit as rousing as Lydia.
(Why oh why had Lydia insisted that he and Beatrix go last?) She was followed by the national president of the Sugarworkers.
After him came the West Virginia senator whose legislation was undone by behind-the-scenes trickery.
Then Lydia stepped up to the microphone, which meant they were next.
Wizard and typic, we’re all Americans, he thought, nerves rising. Wizard and typic, we’re all Americans. Wizard and typic … It was just a speech, for God’s sake—he needed to calm down.
“You are part of history, all of you,” Lydia said. “We’ve just now received early estimates on the size of this crowd. More than three hundred thousand people! The largest-ever demonstration in Washington, D.C.!”
The women and men spread out on the mall in front of them roared their approval, covering up his groan. Just a speech in front of the largest-ever protest in the nation’s capital. Well, it would all be over soon, at least.
He tried not to jiggle in his seat. He glanced at Beatrix to see how she was holding up and wasn’t surprised to find her staring unblinkingly at her sister’s back, as if she could protect her by not looking away.
Thank goodness they were almost done. Twenty-one minutes for Lydia’s speech, five for theirs—wizard and typic, we’re all Americans—
His muscles seized up. All of them, it felt like, from his neck to his limbs to each of his toes, leaving him frozen in place on the seat.
For a short, confused moment of blank shock, even his mind seemed to have iced over. Then thoughts hit one after the other: Tetanus? A seizure? A stroke?
Magic?
He tried to whisper to Beatrix, still in his line of sight, but his tongue would not accommodate him. His heart was beating, his lungs were working, he could move his eyes—that was it.
He hadn’t heard a spell. Had someone managed to poison him?
Oh, fuck, had they all been poisoned? Something in the water?
But Beatrix shifted in her seat. Lydia continued to speak.
No, it was just him. It was like being once again flat on his back in the forest, unable to move as Marbella Draden set off the weapon—except this time it couldn’t be the paralytic agent she’d used on him, because he’d still been able to talk after she’d dosed him.
Help, he tried to call out. Help, something is wrong. Help!
Somebody grabbed his shoulder. He was turned slightly in that direction, and he shifted his gaze to see if he could tell who it was. His stomach dropped. No sign of the hand he could feel. The person touching him was invisible.
Lydia—run!
The sound that came out of his throat didn’t come even close to approximating those words.
It was a croak, covered by Lydia’s fiery speech.
Oh God, what if the magiocracy meant to attack her?
It seemed insane, but why else would they immobilize him?
And the scield spell around her would not protect against a truly powerful assault—he had to do something—
His muscles suddenly engaged, but not in the way he was attempting to use them.
He got to his feet without meaning to do it.
His neck shifted, turning his head toward the crowd.
His hand shoved into his pocket, his fingers roughly grabbing leaves.
At that point—grasping the conspiracy now and utterly panicked—he put every ounce of concentration to bear on making the loudest sound he could, any sound, to get Lydia’s attention.
A whispery rasp was all he could manage.
His arm extended, hand aimed at her back. No—STOP—
“No!” screamed a voice, but not his. Pounding footsteps somewhere to his left: “Lydia!” It was Rosemarie, thank God for Rosemarie and her ability to suss out invisibility spells!
Lydia turned. “What—”
A crackling bolt of magic struck her. She crumpled to the ground, blood blooming on her white dress. Somebody—Rosemarie?—rammed into him. And the wizard teleported with a hand still clamped on his shoulder, dragging him inexorably along.
Everything vanished into the void as if he’d imagined what had just happened. As if Beatrix’s worst fears had not come completely, dreadfully true.