“Enough about me,” Peter said. “What brings you here again? Caught the omnimancing bug?”
Martinelli snorted, then shrugged, looking around the room. “Had the weekend to myself, thought I might as well deliver a few calves.”
“What about Mae?” Peter said, pulling Mrs. Martinelli’s name from the recesses of his memory.
“Still visiting her mother. Put me to work, boss.”
Peter nodded. “All right. I’ve got another farmer to help out, but first I want to check on Mrs. Clark.”
He sketched out her situation on the way, relieved to have a distraction from the thoroughly ruined love life he couldn’tfully explain. But when he knocked on the battered apartment door, Beatrix opened it.
He could handle himself when she came to work, when he saw her at church, even when she showed up on weekends, announcing herself with that knock. But on the rare occasion he saw her completely unexpectedly—with no time to brace himself—theswoopof his heart threatened to send him sprawling.
“Oh,” she murmured, grasping the doorframe, looking into his eyes.
She blinked and stepped back, letting them in.
“Omnimancer!” Mrs. Clark got up from her chair. “So good of you to come by.”
“Do you feel well enough to stand?” he asked, focusing on the immediate concern.
“Well—Icanstand, and that’s a decided improvement.” Mrs. Clark smiled at him as she sat. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
He nodded, relieved. “I’m going to cast a diagnostic spell and check your progress.”
The spell wasn’t bright green, but it wasn’t a full yellow like before, more a mix of the two.
“You’re definitely getting better,” he said. “Keep taking that brew until it’s finished.”
“Absolutely.”
He glanced around the room—trying to ignore the echoes from his past, the memories of where furniture had been and which pictures had hung on the walls.
“Where’s your family?” he asked.
Her smile widened. “Out making snowmen. Beatrix convinced my husband that I was in good hands.”
Beatrix. It stung that he wasn’t allowed to call her that in public, would never be allowed to. But it was good for Mrs. Clark that she was on a first-name basis with someone who would watch out for her as zealously as he would, and without the barrier of gender and wizardry between them.
“You are indeed in good hands,” he said. “You will tell us right away if you have any further problems? Promise?”
Mrs. Clark promised. He and Martinelli left. The moment they reached the street, Martinelli gave him a meaningful glance.
“Miss Harper never once looked away from you,” he said.
Peter’s ridiculous heart jangled in response, as if that mattered a whit.
Martinelli had paused, clearly expecting a response. Getting none, he said, “I really think you should?—”
“No,” Peter said, wishing he could explain. “Trust me.”
Martinelli raised his eyebrows, but he said only, “OK. I always have.”
The guilt Peter had staved off about telling Martinelli to go for his job rushed back.
“So what’s the farmer’s problem?” Martinelli asked.
Focus. “He’s adjacent to the Sedereys’ farm. Take a wild guess.”
