“It can’t always be my fault.”
She expected to hear why itwasin fact always her fault, but he said nothing. He hunched over, one hand flat on the PC’s tower, lost in thought. Or waiting for something to happen.
“Oh,” she said, resisting the urge to slap her forehead. “You’re fixing my computer with magic. You werealwaysfixing it with magic, weren’t you?”
“You should come with a warning.” He hit the restart button. “‘Person before you is brighter than she appears.’”
“Why, I think that’s a compliment.”
“Or an insult, depending on your point of view.”
Naturally his compliments were insulting. She leaned toward him from her spot on her couch and asked, “Do you use magic to fix everyone’s computer?”
“No.”
“Then how come—”
“Daggett.”
“Right. Sorry. Week off.”
So why did he keep showing up?
When he emerged from the shadows the following evening to pick an insignificant fight, the answer dawned on her: He was bored. And possibly lonely. He apparently preferred arguing with someone who got on his nerves to however he normally spent his evenings.
How did he normally spend them? Whatwashe doing at Ashburn?
He would never tell her directly. She needed to attack the problem sideways—she needed to get him talking about his life before Ashburn.
She glanced up to find him waving his arms at her like a traffic cop. “Are you even listening?”
“No.” She tucked her feet under her on the couch. “I have a bone to pick with you: Iowa isn’t all flat. It’s very hilly just north of here, though I’ll bet you’ve never bothered to look.”
Hartgrave made no protest at this change of subject, perhaps because one insignificant fight was as good as another. “Go see Germany’s mountains,” he said, “and then tell me what’s ‘very hilly.’”
Exactly the response she’d counted on. “You miss them,” she suggested, trying not to sound avid about it.
“I ...” He stopped, and she thought she’d crossed some sort of line. But when he spoke—words softer than normal, both in volume and sharpness—she guessed that she’d merely surprised him. “I do miss them. More than I thought I would.”
It made her think better of him, this sign that home called as strongly to him as it did to her. “How old were you when you left Germany?”
“Seventeen.”
“Oh—heading off to college, then.” (As if she didn’t know.)
His reaction was remarkable. His face tightened, his slouch increased and he said “mm” in a tone that did not invite more questions.
“Where?” she asked anyway, unwilling to give up.
He turned and headed out. “It’s my week off, Daggett.”
“What’s the big deal about telling me you went to Cornwall University?” she called to his back, curiosity and exasperation propelling her to her feet.
His coat flared around him as he did a rapid one-eighty.“What?”
“It’s not a secret—it’s on your profile.”
“What are you talking about?” He rushed back, eyes wide, face pale. “What profile? Where?Daggett!”
