Chapter 4
Peter, fifteen feet up in an oak tree, was dropping a handful of leaves into his pile below, thinking how much easier life would be if magical fuel could be harvested by magic, when the sound of movement reached his ear.
Person or animal? He stared, taken aback, when it turned out to be Miss Harper tramping through the undergrowth—in bare feet.
“Is this how you commuted to Croft’s store?” he called down.
She leapt backward, clipping a bush, but recovered her dignity with admirable speed. “Usually.”
He supposed it was a quicker walk to cut through the forest, but still, her parents’ home had to be practically a mile off. He shook his head. “I do hope you’re carrying shoes in that bag.”
“I am, Omnimancer. Is there a dress code for cleaning a disaster area?”
The unexpected bit of humor—sharp as a porcupine, but funny nonetheless—startled him into a laugh. “No. But your cleaning duties are over.”
She looked even more shocked than when he’d announced his presence from the tree.
“We’re going to Baltimore to replace brewing ingredients,” he said.
“Ah. Give me a moment in the disaster area and I’ll be ready to go,” she said, striding off.
He supposed Beatrix Harper, thirty-three, might be slightly more bearable than Beatrix Harper, thirteen. She’d been tempered by something. The mess the mayor said she’d been left with after her parents died, probably.
He picked leaves for a few more minutes to give his assistant time to put herself together, then cast the preservation spell that would stave off rot.
At the rate he was going, he needed to harvest for hours every day or he’d certainly run out before the leaves reemerged next spring.
And that wasn’t even counting the magical fuel he’d need to research his way out of the catastrophe he’d created in D.C.
Perhaps Miss Harper would have to climb trees after all.
Blackwell owned a Pierce-Arrow, of all things—a sleek silver convertible, top down. She bit her tongue, but her exasperation must have been evident.
“Whatever you’re thinking, just spit it out,” he said. They were taking Route 40 at a fast clip, wind whipping tendrils from her bun and strands of hair from his queue.
“How much did this car cost you?” she asked as neutrally as she could.
He raised his eyebrows. But he named a figure.
“That’s slightly more than all four years of my sister’s college tuition,” she said, shaking her head.
“See, this is what’s wrong with the world as run by wizards: outrageously expensive sports cars for our overseers, and nothing for women’s education besides the obligatory grants for teaching and nursing. ”
“Are you sure you’re not simply begrudging me an expensive sports car?”
“Should I be?” she said, taken aback by his anger. He’d laughed at her earlier complaints about the country’s power structure, but this he took personally—as if they had some sort of history beyond growing up in the same small town.
He glowered at the road ahead. “What exactly do you propose? A ban on magic? You know that’s impossible. Once the genie is out of the bottle, it can’t be forced back.”
She opened her mouth, caught herself and bit her lip. If he actually wanted intelligence on Lydia, he would gather it just like this.
Something dangerously close to a smirk replaced his scowl. “Well?”
It made her look foolish, but she couldn’t say. The answer to his question was her sister’s speech for the national conference, and she wasn’t about to give the magiocracy a sneak peek.
“Miss Harper, even de-emphasizing magic is doomed to failure. It’s had a hundred years to burrow itself into our society.”
She didn’t roll her eyes, but it was a close thing. “Ellicott Mills has managed to go largely without for the past five.”
“More than that, if the state of the omnimancer’s house is any clue to Graham’s quality of work near the end of his life.” He shook his head. “But just wait to see how the town reacts when word gets out that a replacement is at their beck and call.”
“It’s more the other way around!”
“Yes, well,” he said, lips twisting wryly, “you would think that.”
“I’m serious. Do you remember Omnimancer Graham?”
His smile faded. “Yes.”
Graham had effectively charged for his services—not in cash, which he must have thought would bring the Justice Department down on him for graft, but in favors.
Continual ones, if you wanted him to act quickly—or at all—when you needed him.
Invite him to dinner. Give him gifts. Comp his purchase at your store.
She couldn’t have been the first to complain to the wizard ethics board, but nothing had ever been done. Perhaps the board thought a tiny town and its tiny county should be grateful for what they got.
She glanced at Blackwell. Did he intend to pick up where his predecessor left off? His face gave nothing away.
Fifteen minutes later, he pulled the car into a parking garage on Lexington Street. The sidewalk overflowed with Saturday shoppers, but they parted around Blackwell like the Red Sea for Moses.
There had to be typics growing their hair long and coloring it silver in hopes of the same instant respect-or-fear from strangers—not that it was possible to truly replicate the look.
Blackwell’s glowed in the morning light.
And the long coat with innumerable pockets for leaves and whatever else wizards required was a dead giveaway on a summer day.
Either he worked a cooling spell into it, or he was sweating into his unmentionables.
But she had to admit it looked impressive. The midnight blue fabric swirled behind him like a cape as he sped down the street, coming to rest around his boots only when he stopped at a shop marked Edinger’s.
“After you,” he said, opening the door.
The building was the size of two rowhouses, its ground level packed floor to ceiling with brewing supplies. It smelled like a thousand spices mixed together. Her eyes watered.
“May I help you, sir?” said a clerk—a typic, hair a sandy brown.
“I need this filled.” Blackwell handed over the list she’d made the night before. “Are you able to take care of it while we wait?”
The clerk’s eyes widened at the extent of the order, but he showed them to a corner with antique leather chairs tucked around a side table.
“Can you buy leaves here?” Beatrix said, wondering whether Blackwell could really pick what he needed before autumn hit in earnest.
He sighed, slumping into the chair across from her. “Technically, yes, but I’d hate to do it.”
He sounded like a man spending his own money. She wanted to ask him about that, but she hesitated, lost her nerve and instead went with, “Are plant leaves acceptable? Something you could grow in the greenhouse to get you through the winter?”
He shook his head. “Trees only—old-growth trees. Other leaves are essentially useless as fuel. First off, you need to use far more of them to get any kick. Worse, the power they provide isn’t consistent, so you run a high risk of screwing up your spell.”
He lapsed into silence. She looked around, wondering for the first time why he’d insisted she come today.
Surely not just to help carry the packages out.
She certainly could use the extra pay, but once she caught up on the chores she should have done last night and this morning, her weekend would be all but over.
The clerk, passing by, set several bottles of liquid on the table. Blackwell lifted the smallest of the set.
“Aconite,” he said. “A critical ingredient in brews for high fevers, arthritis and tonsillitis, if used in tiny amounts. Otherwise, it’s a deadly poison.”
Was it wise to mention that after strong-arming her into this job? She suppressed a laugh and tried to look attentive.
“Two drops are sufficient for most medical tinctures. Six, for severe cases. Never use more than that.” The aconite bottle clinked against the table as he set it down. “I hope you have a steady hand.”
She stared at him in blank astonishment. Surely he didn’t mean … “Are you saying you intend me to—to brew?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps it’s slipped your mind, but I’m not a wizard.”
He waved a hand, dismissing the objection. “Strictly speaking, many steps in brewing don’t require a wizard’s touch. Nothing’s stopping you from handling those.”
Paradigm-shift moments had never treated her well before. Her mother dying after giving birth to Lydia. Her father following two years later. The discovery that their finances were in ruins, rendering impossible all her plans for college and a pioneering career as a medical researcher.
But this appeared to be altogether different. A good change. As close as she would probably ever get to what she’d really wanted to do.
She could hear Rosemarie’s reaction now: Of course—he’s trying to gain your trust. Don’t be a fool. She did once, in a weak moment, tell Mayor Croft her career aspirations. Blackwell could have extracted that piece of information on top of all the rest.
“Unless, of course,” he said, “you would prefer cleaning.”
“No!” The word burst out before she could consider whether Rosemarie would think it the right answer.
She was so very tired of mindless tasks. Of a life that held no relation to the one she’d envisioned. Of fighting for equal rights instead of enjoying them.
She would have to be continually on her guard, that was all.
Blackwell withdrew a notepad from an interior pocket and handed it to her with the heavy pen she’d borrowed the night before. “All right. This”—tapping another bottle—“is adder’s tongue. Taken as a tincture, it’s an emetic—do you know what that means?”
“Induces vomiting.”
“Yes, good. The fresh leaves also make an excellent poultice for swelling. This one is oil of agrimony, the main ingredient in a dressing for open wounds.”
They left the shop two hours later, half-a-dozen tightly packed boxes floating behind them, at once heavy and light. She felt the same way. Tense. Jubilant.
He said little on the trip home, other than to ask where he could replace broken panes in his greenhouse, and thank goodness for that—she wasn’t in the right state of mind to parse every word for nefarious intent. She spent the time thinking of questions. Many, many questions.
Then they came around the bend into Ellicott Mills.
The omnimancer’s mansion popped into view—along with a line of people so long, it snaked from the front door to Main Street and well down it, clogging the sidewalks, blocking the road.
It looked like someone from every household in town, plus outskirts.
“Shit,” Blackwell said under his breath.
She stared at the mass of humanity standing, sitting and in a few cases dancing in front of them. No one had liked Blackwell’s predecessor—no one. Either they’d forgotten how Graham took advantage of them, or they were hoping against hope that a wizard bred in Ellicott Mills would be different.