“No.” He said it to his hands in his lap, then made himself look her in the eye—see her startled expression. “I was out of ideas even before the attack. Utterly out. Either I’ve made something that cannot be contained or I’m just incapable of figuring out the solution, and for the sake of the human race I hope to God it’s the latter.”
“Peter,” she murmured, and then stopped, cocking her head. “Is that the door?”
The knocking was nearly soft enough to miss. He turned to go answer it.
“I’ll come with you,” she said.
Miss Dane gave ahmmph. “Then I’m coming, too. Can’t have people thinking the two of you are alone in this house.”
They clacked down the stairs, Peter’s roiling emotions clarifying for a moment into black humor as he consideredall the months he and Beatrix had been alone in the house without anyone—besides Mrs. Price—thinking much of it.
He peered through the peephole, half-expecting a reporter. But no—it was tiny Mrs. Hattington, the pastor’s wife.
“Oh, Omnimancer,” she said, smiling tremulously when he opened the door, “I so hate to ask because I do understand you’re still recovering, but would you happen to have any more of your migraine remedy? George ran out last week and he’s suffering.”
He winced. “Please come in, and I’ll check.”
As he walked to the brewing room, he heard Miss Dane say, “I’ll be upstairs”—her job was done. Beatrix told the pastor’s wife, “I think we do still have a bit left.” When he’d put the ransacked house back to rights, he found half the bottles of prepared medicinals broken, but he too recalled that some of the migraine tincture had survived.
It was, in fact, just one vial. He stared at the sad collection of other bottles: three cold curtailers, two cough suppressants and a few other health aids. Over the past week he’d given Mrs. Clark the last of the vitamin doses for her children, Mr. Levin the last of the anti-arthritic distillate, and Miss Ross the last of the brew that kept her diabetes in check, thinking all the while that soon he would be able to make more.
For all his gloomy thoughts in the previous twelve hours, it simply had not occurred to him until now to consider the consequences of his new disability for everyone else in town.
He walked out with the vial and handed it to Mrs. Hattington.
“You look very tired, Omnimancer,” she said, gazing up at him, her gray hair peeking out of an enormous hat. “You’re not getting enough rest, are you. All this running back and forth you’re doing, and here you are just two weeks removed from your coma.”
“I didn’t sleep well last night,” he said. “That’s all.”
The pastor’s wife leaned toward Beatrix. “I do wish you two would marry soon. He needs someone to look after him, and—well, it would be better all ’round. Once you marry, surely all this hubbub will settle down.”
He tried to catch Beatrix’s eye, hoping she would not say, “In fact, we plan to marry on Monday.” He hadn’t had a moment to bring it up yet.
But Beatrix wasn’t looking back at him. She grimaced and shook her head. “You know, ‘surelynoweverything will settle down’ is what I’ve been telling myself every day since it began. I’m beginning to lose faith that it will happen.”
“You poor dears.” Mrs. Hattington squeezed Beatrix’s hand and gave him a pat on the cheek, as if he were thirteen rather than thirty-three. “I know it’s been very hard for you.”
“People who’ve known me my whole life treat me differently,” Beatrix murmured.
“George plans to speak about the biblical exhortations against gossip when we have the supper next Saturday. The one we’re hosting at church with the Methodist pastor and Rabbi Katz, you know. I hope that will do some good.” Mrs.Hattington gave a deep sigh, as if she doubted it would. “Thank you very much for the remedy.”
The moment he closed and locked the door behind her, he swiveled and towed Beatrix up the stairs, her hand in his. They had to talk. He couldn’t put it off.
“Could we have the room for a few minutes?” he said to Rosemarie and Lydia.
“No, wait,” Beatrix said, “there’s something we need to discuss first.”
She re-secured the room. He flicked the light back on and looked at her, wondering if she too had their marriage on her mind.
“We need to alter the plan,” she said. “Peter must keep omnimancing.”
He stared at her. “What?”
“We all wish he could,” Miss Dane said tartly, “but I rather think that ship has sailed.”
“No,” Beatrix said, “hear me out. He will tell Mayor Croft that he feels well enough to begin omnimancing again soon, but only brewing from here on out. Most of brewing requires no magic at all.”
For a dizzying second, he was swept up in the memory of a months-old conversation at the beginning of her employment with him.Many steps in brewing don’t need a wizard’s touch, Miss Harper. You can handle those.
