At one end of the hall was the wizard, arms crossed. At the other was Beatrix, down on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor as if it were part of her duties.
Never underestimate women, indeed.
He saw the men out—the snow was just starting, a few flakes falling lazily—and waited on the porch until they teleported away. Back inside, he quickly made sure the house really was empty of wizards save him. He could feel Beatrix’stension and the weight of the questions she was holding back.
“It’s OK,” he said the second the final room checked out. “Just, ‘Where are you getting your money, and it better not be from terrorists.’”
“Did he believe you?”
“I’d be shocked if he didn’t already snoop into my bank account, so it should be patently obvious that I’m spending my own cash. But what about Morse? Did he do anything? Say anything?”
“Not a word. Just stood there with no expression on his face. He never even took his sunglasses off.” She shivered. “He gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
“You and me both.”
Beatrix sighed. “I knew the deteriorating relations with Canada would be a problem. I just knew it.”
“That’s the bizarre thing,” he said, shaking his head. “The FBI agent didn’t so much as mention Canada. He was concerned about the League getting its hands on a weapon.”
Beatrix’s mouth fell open. Then she burst into helpless, infectious laughter. He started to laugh, too. There was something truly ridiculous about the idea.
“Could the magiocracy really have so completely misunderstood what we’re trying to do?” she asked, shaking her head. “I can’t quite believe that.”
“Maybe they understand perfectly,” he said, sobering. “Maybe they know I’m helping you.”
“Do you think Garrett?—”
“No, probably not.” He grimaced. “I think Morse put two and two together when we all rushed over to your house after he started installing the listening devices. Which means the magiocracy probably suspects I’ve figured out some way to track spellcasting, too.”
“Oh, Peter,” she whispered. “What can we do?”
He shrugged. Nothing to be done about it, as far as he could see.
“We could stage a falling out. You could—” She bit her lip. “You could fire me.”
“No,” he said. “Absolutely not. I need you.”
Her breath hitched. He suddenly noticed they were standing too close to each other. He backed up a step, blood zinging in his veins. Then he turned and made a beeline for the attic, lightheaded from the combined effect of their desire, hers manufactured and his all too real.
Beatrix finishedthe last brew of the day, set it with the others to be delivered later, and gave thought to practicing by herself in the second-floor room. She needed it more than Ella. And they still hadn’t figured out how to sense invisibility spells through knitting, an absolute necessity. But if she left now, there would be time to help Lydia with dinner, one of the few things they could do together that posed no danger in their bugged house.
Sheneededto practice. For Lydia’s sake. She walked from the brewing room, mind made up—and stopped dead at the sight out the hall window.
The languid snowflakes of the morning had at some point turned into a blizzard. Snow that looked well in excess of a foot piled on the ground, with more coming at a fast clip. In the windowless brewing room, she’d heard the whine of the wind and had thought nothing of it.
“Peter!” she called as she rushed up the stairs. “Peter, there’s?—”
“What?” He burst out of the attic. “What’s wrong?”
“Look out the window.”
As soon as he did, he laughed. “Just snow! Thank goodness, I thought the FBI was back.”
Just snow. Obviously the problem had not occurred to him yet.
“Yes,” she said, “but how am I to get home in this?”
His smile faded. “Oh.”
