“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 begrudgingmean 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 nationalconference, 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 yourememberOmnimancer 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.
Therehadto 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.
