I usually love immersing myself in my customer’s stories of their lives, their chatter filling the shop every minute it’s open. Typically, I’m not a big fan of silence, or being stuck with my own thoughts. Takes me back to times that I’d rather forget.
But it seems like I’ve found a new favourite sound. Reva’s husky voice simultaneously ruffles and soothes something inside me, like a springtime breeze or a wayward caress down my spine.
We head through the back streets of Port Yarrow, aiming to avoid getting waylaid by anyone I’d usually be happy to chat to. Today, I only have time for Reva.
“What’s that noise?” Reva asks as the air fills with a high-pitched whizzing. A machine the size of a large sofa flies overhead, propellers spinning at a furious pace right as we’re crossing the road that leads out of town.
“A flotterbug,” I reply. “Piloted by some idiot who doesn’t seem to have a clue of how to fly the damn thing.” At her confused expression, I add, “They’re essentially homemade flying machines run on magic.”
And this one is flying low enough to ruffle our hair.
I grab onto Reva and yank us toward the ground just in time. The flotterbug soars barely six feet from the pavement, its propellers spinning wildly. Blades flash just over our heads as my heart somersaults.
“Holy Mother Ocean, that was close.”
“Too close.” My heartbeat’s a pounding bass in my ears as I cup Reva’s cheek, running my hands over her arms as I confirm she’s still in one piece. Shakily, I push up to standing, bringing Reva with me.
Mrs Lane from the butcher’s is across the road, making an unimpressed gesture at the sky. Warding off the evil eye right as the flying machine passes by.
“Did she... just tell whoever’s flying that thing to go fist themselves?” Reva asks.
Her words take me by surprise so much I bark out a shocked laugh, earning me another glare from Mrs Lane.
“Not quite,” I reply. “She was warding off evil. Some people are pretty superstitious around here.”
“They don’t like to see homemade, rickety flying machines zooming about the place?” Reva replies drily. “Whyever not?”
“It’s more that most of the machines are fueled by magic that they don’t like,” I admit. “That looks like Clive Morton up there. I didn’t know he had enough magic to fill a thimble, let alone to fuel that thing.”
As if proving my point, the propellers sputter and then go silent. The machine thumps to the ground, and Clive goes flying over the front, landing in a sprawled heap on the pavement.
“He’s got a garage just down from the shop. He’s constantly tinkering with things and buying bits and pieces from me to add to them,” I tell Reva as we watch Mrs Lane hurry over. She immediately starts laying into him, going as far as to tug on his ear like he’s an errant puppy.
“Do you think he’s all right?” Reva asks.
Clive sits up, adjusting the hat and goggles on his head that seem to be more for appearances’ sake than anything practical. From the arm-waving and yelling he’s doing, I’d say he’s had no lasting effects from his little tumble.
“He’s fine.” I check her over, hands on her shoulders as I inspect her from head to toe. “Are you?”
She gives a low laugh, brushing off my hands and my concern. “All in one piece. Does that kind of thing happen often around here?”
“More than you might expect. Perils of living amongst a bunch of magic users.”
Reva hums under her breath, and I have no idea what she might be thinking. Does she like it here? Would she consider trying it out? Or will her instincts to keep moving mean we’ll need to move to somewhere new?
Continuing along, we reach the narrow road that leads out of Port Yarrow without further incident. I’ve got everything crossed thecoven house is just as uneventful, or I’m not sure my heart will cope with the strain.
“What do you think we’ll find?” Reva asks.
“I have absolutely no idea,” I say. “Hopefully something that’ll tell us these sorcerers of Aster’s have gone far away.”
She nods distractedly and I reach down to give her hand a quick squeeze. “Now, tell me about where you grew up and everywhere you’ve lived since.”
“You want me to rank them too?” she teases. I nod eagerly, unable to hide my enthusiasm. “It might take me a while. How far is it to the house?”
“It’s maybe a mile and a half,” I reply. “Some of it’s uphill but it should take us less than an hour. You don’t think you’ll run through them all by the time we reach it?”
“If I give you the short version, sure,” she replies. “Then on the way back, you can repay the favour.”
