While he was getting the barrels, Prospero turned a corner and found herself face-to-face with a tower of plastic-wrapped bottles. By the time Sondre was back, Prospero was eying a machine with wide metal tines like a fork.
“Can you drive that?” She pointed at the small yellow machine. “I’ve seen them move these pallets with it.”
“The forklift? Yeah. Why?”
She pointed at the stack of bottled water. “I want that.”
He walked away and grabbed what looked like tines on wheels. “Apallet jack is easier.” He slid it under the water cases, the tines entering the openings in the pallet, and then with seeming ease, toted the entire tower of water off to the dock.
She looked around for a second pallet jack.
“You fill the barrels and work on the variety,” he said when he returned. “I’ll take all of this out to the truck.”
“All?”
“I hate to say it’s a good idea since it’s your idea, but it is.” He rolled away with the second pallet of water before she could reply.
The flicker of hope that they could move past their conflict, that they could work together rather than against each other, made her walk deeper into the grocery storage warehouse to where they kept the meats.
At the far back corner was a cooler stocked with meat. They didn’t generally take as much of that. It wasn’t essential, as they’d always had fish aplenty—until the water had gone bad recently.
She stacked trays of ground meat, roasts, and the like on the trolley. On top of all of it, she added the best-looking steaks she could find. Then with as little remark as Sondre had made, she rolled her trolley filled with meat to the truck.
Sondre straightened and eyed her suspiciously. “That wasn’t on the list. It doesn’t store well.”
“Well, maybe it would makesomepeople happy.” She kept her back to him as she moved the meat to the stacks in the truck bed.
From behind her, Sondre finally said, “This doesn’t mean we’re friends, Prospero.”
She looked over her shoulder. “Agreed. Wouldn’t it be nice not to be enemies, though?”
He said nothing as he walked away into the warehouse for more water.
It wasn’t perfect, but as she’d told him about this plan: bandages help. And if bringing back dead cow would appease her adversary, she was willing to try.
More and more, she had begun to think the chief witch was right:there was no good solution. If the water was turned, and the air was unhealthy, and the space had become too small, continuing to cling to the past wasn’t the solution.
Unfortunately, mixing intothisworld was too dangerous. The most logical solution was to move the whole town, but even with magic, she wasn’t sure such a thing was even possible.
27Maggie
The first day’s long class appeared to be on medical magic, and Maggie was surprised to find the whole thing was genuinely interesting.
“I’m Dr. Jemison,” the witch at the front of the room said. “You’ve all met me in the infirmary for your intake exams. Everyone has basic healing as a result of the magic in your veins.”
Dr. Jemison had the most approachable manner of all the witches Maggie had met so far. Maybe it was because she was a healer. Maybe she was simply charismatic.
The doctor explained how their internal magical flow would un-age them to some degree and that basic illness and sicknesses were historically a nonissue in Crenshaw. Maggie’s stomach tightened at “historically.” Her experiences seeking legal loopholes meant she focused instantly on that detail.
Before Maggie could ask a question, the doctor said, “I need a volunteer for—”
The Norwegian band guy, Axell, spoke. “I will do it.”
“I didn’t say what I needed,” the doctor pointed out.
“I am willing.” He stood, and Maggie had to give him credit. Hewas still wearing a pair of his tattered jeans, and whatever his shirt was, it was cut low in the chest, revealing an intricate tattoo. That was not unusual. What wasoddwas that Axell was one of those who had taken to wearing robes. His were draped over him like a long suitcoat. The open robe flared out as he strode forward, and the sides of the robe were a giant elegant frame around the tattooed, muscular man. Though it ought to look contrived, it was natural on him, as if he had always worn such absurd clothes.
“What do you want of me?” He stared at their instructor in a way that made him seem in charge.
