“What, youwantedhim to write about—” He stopped short, catching up with her. Rydell had said he would cover their wedding come hell or high water. If he didn’t have even a small item on it, that wasn’t by choice.
“You’re right,” he said.“Damnit. Let’s see if he left a message.”
They clattered into the kitchen, Beatrix turning the telephone ringer back on as he hit play on the blinking answering machine.
Out came the perky voice from the night before. “Omnimancer, it’s Olive—Mr. Rydell’s answering service?Sonice talking to you! I wanted to tell you that I did pass your message on to him, but turns out it was after deadline for his Sunday column when you called, and—oh, Omnimancer, he was somad!I’m terribly sorry! I thought you should know so I tracked down your number! Congratulations again to you and Mrs. Blackwell!”
Beatrix slumped into a chair. “I’m not sure he actually had it in for us before, butnow…”
An unnerving thought.
“I wish we’d just invited him,” she said.
He shuddered. In no way did he wish the man had been there, smirking and scribbling acid commentary in his notebook.
“Listen, we can”—he cast about for something—“do an interview with him. Exclusive details, etc. etc.”
It was her turn to shudder. But she nodded, so he left a message with Rydell’s answering service, a different woman this time.
Breakfast was quiet, Beatrix’s eyes on her bowl. Couldn’t they have just twenty-four unmolested hours to enjoy their new marriage? Was that so much to ask, for cripes’ sake? He ate his oatmeal with grim efficiency, arguing with Rydell in his head as he scanned other headlines in the newspaper.Tensions Continue to Mount with Canada. Key Vote on Typic-Rights Bill Tomorrow.
“Husband mine,” Beatrix murmured.
That gave him an unexpected thrill. “Yes?”
Her lips curved ever so slightly. “Nothing. I just wanted to say that.”
“I love you,” he whispered, taking her hand. “Every day of my life I swear I will prove that to you.”
Her expression was suddenly solemn. “I don’t for an instant doubt it. You don’t have to prove it to me.”
How he wanted to kiss her. But for all they knew, the magiocracy had cameras pointed at them, eyes watching from afar.
Wait …
“Something just occurred to me, wife mine.”
“Oh? What?”
“Well—now that we’re married, if someone were to, for instance, see a photo of us kissing right here, at our kitchen table, they would think it perfectly just and right. And I’d like to take full advantage of that. Right now. Assuming that plan appeals to you, of course.”
Beatrix leaned in, her lovely, mischievous smile flaring to life. “Yes. Oh, yes.”
Rydell, the magiocracy—all of it faded beneath her lips, her tongue, the press of her hands against his back. They were married. That was what mattered.
After breakfast,they rushed Martinelli’s widow home—Beatrix silenced by the terrible thought that his death was her fault, no matter how unintentional—and then they had to make appearances at no fewer than four rallies, all of them in districts of swing-vote senators who had until one o’clock the following afternoon to make up their minds. It was, at least, an excellent distraction.
She clapped until her hands ached, collected more petition signatures and told the large gaggle of reporters at each event that yes, this was exactly how she wanted to bespending her honeymoon. Which was both laughably false and absolutely true, because she would be damned if she didn’t do everything in her power to get this measure passed.
“Well,” Lydia murmured as participants at the final rally dispersed in the darkness, “what do you think our odds of success are, Senator?”
Gray gave an expressive shrug. “On paper, we’ve got the votes. But if you’re asking me what will actually happen tomorrow—well, I’m not counting my chickens before they hatch.”
“It helps to have the Senate leader on board, at long last,” Rosemarie said.
And that was true. But Gray’s point weighed on Beatrix as they drove home for a final pre-vote conversation—just her, Peter, Lydia and Rosemarie—within the privacy of spellwork. What was the magiocracy up to that might hit them tomorrow?
Inside the second-floor room being repurposed for brewing, Lydia pressed both palms on the preparation table they’d managed to drag up the stairs earlier.
