they’re still around.”
“Fine. The Roused will want to know how long it’s going to take to get the magic thawed.”
Astrid frowned. “I know it all goes—the grumbles say so.”
“In five years time, or fifty?” Patience pressed.
“What if I ask Katarina about finding a … would it be a hydrologist?” Astrid said. “Someone who can measure how many gallons of magic there are and how fast we’re moving it.”
“It’s a start,” Patience said.
“Okay.” Astrid’s attention was elsewhere: Bramblegate had flowered amid the ruined pile of concrete. She stepped through and was gone, moving on to her next task.
Patience jerked her suitcase, trying to make it roll on the soft sand. “Here I am playing ambassador, and what do I get? No limo, no entourage—”
“Let me get that.” Scooping it up, Ev began to march, glad to have an excuse not to look at her.
“I wasn’t fishing for help.”
“I don’t mind.” His transformation had given him the body of a fifty-five-year-old man and the libido of a thirteen-year-old boy. Around Patience, he felt desire that was nigh unbearable.
Knowing it was magic that made her sexy didn’t help.
She has twenty years on you, Ev. Remember when she was just the dotty old crank on your Mascer Avenue mail route? “I doubt we rate an escort. It’s not far, and we’re no threat.”
“I’d appreciate some VIP treatment. I liked being on TV—”
Ev said: “Having a million fans. What’s not to like?”
“And you, you’re the mother of their best shot at freedom. Definitely a red carpet visitor.”
“I’m not the red carpet type. Do you think it’ll be hard to find Jacks?”
“They’ll know where he is,” Patience said. Something must’ve shown in Ev’s face, because she added, “You don’t look happy about that.”
“Astrid killed the Chief,” Ev said. “And the Chief wanted Jacks to be a witch-burner.”
“The Chief wasn’t the best of fathers, maybe, but I wouldn’t worry—Olive raised Jacks to be a peacenik. Besides, Ev, the boy is mad in love with your daughter.”
“Look what contamination did to Sahara,” Ev said.
“Sahara was a self-centered half-crazy brat before she got anywhere near magic.”
“It warps you, Patience. I thought I was someone else, remember? Near took Astrid’s head off once, for trying to set me straight.” Ev shuddered, remembering the rages that had overtaken him after he’d been exposed to raw vitagua.
It started on his mail route; he had suddenly known that the envelope in his hands was a vicious attack on the woman receiving it. Hate had boiled through the paper … and he had been unable to cope. Such things didn’t happen, he had rationalized, and something in his mind gave.
Scared and grasping at straws, he’d decided he wasn’t psychic—he’d just deduced what was in that envelope. An ex-husband, a bitter breakup. It was a small town, and he knew all the local gossip.
But the insights kept coming, intimate details of strangers’ lives. To cope, Ev had adopted the persona of his favorite fictional detective.
Since Astrid had learned to treat vitagua sickness, Ev felt sane again. Now that his body was male, he felt more sound than he’d ever been during his early life. Daughter, mother, wife—all those Evs had been costumes. All of them fit wrong.
But even now, he wasn’t quite himself. Traces of the detective persona remained: a fondness for hats, hokey chivalry.
Patience didn’t get this. She had been exposed to vitagua, but Astrid treated her within minutes, before her sense of self could fracture.
“Say for the sake of argument we find Jacks alive,” she said now. “Say he’s insane and looking for revenge.”
“You think he died?”
Patience shrugged. “No. Astrid promised the Roused that if they saved Jacks, she’d thaw the unreal. There’s a lot of magic here: they can pull it off.”
“Can we afford to turn him loose?”
“Not our call,
“Fine. The Roused will want to know how long it’s going to take to get the magic thawed.”
Astrid frowned. “I know it all goes—the grumbles say so.”
“In five years time, or fifty?” Patience pressed.
“What if I ask Katarina about finding a … would it be a hydrologist?” Astrid said. “Someone who can measure how many gallons of magic there are and how fast we’re moving it.”
“It’s a start,” Patience said.
“Okay.” Astrid’s attention was elsewhere: Bramblegate had flowered amid the ruined pile of concrete. She stepped through and was gone, moving on to her next task.
Patience jerked her suitcase, trying to make it roll on the soft sand. “Here I am playing ambassador, and what do I get? No limo, no entourage—”
“Let me get that.” Scooping it up, Ev began to march, glad to have an excuse not to look at her.
“I wasn’t fishing for help.”
“I don’t mind.” His transformation had given him the body of a fifty-five-year-old man and the libido of a thirteen-year-old boy. Around Patience, he felt desire that was nigh unbearable.
Knowing it was magic that made her sexy didn’t help.
She has twenty years on you, Ev. Remember when she was just the dotty old crank on your Mascer Avenue mail route? “I doubt we rate an escort. It’s not far, and we’re no threat.”
“I’d appreciate some VIP treatment. I liked being on TV—”
Ev said: “Having a million fans. What’s not to like?”
“And you, you’re the mother of their best shot at freedom. Definitely a red carpet visitor.”
“I’m not the red carpet type. Do you think it’ll be hard to find Jacks?”
“They’ll know where he is,” Patience said. Something must’ve shown in Ev’s face, because she added, “You don’t look happy about that.”
“Astrid killed the Chief,” Ev said. “And the Chief wanted Jacks to be a witch-burner.”
“The Chief wasn’t the best of fathers, maybe, but I wouldn’t worry—Olive raised Jacks to be a peacenik. Besides, Ev, the boy is mad in love with your daughter.”
“Look what contamination did to Sahara,” Ev said.
“Sahara was a self-centered half-crazy brat before she got anywhere near magic.”
“It warps you, Patience. I thought I was someone else, remember? Near took Astrid’s head off once, for trying to set me straight.” Ev shuddered, remembering the rages that had overtaken him after he’d been exposed to raw vitagua.
It started on his mail route; he had suddenly known that the envelope in his hands was a vicious attack on the woman receiving it. Hate had boiled through the paper … and he had been unable to cope. Such things didn’t happen, he had rationalized, and something in his mind gave.
Scared and grasping at straws, he’d decided he wasn’t psychic—he’d just deduced what was in that envelope. An ex-husband, a bitter breakup. It was a small town, and he knew all the local gossip.
But the insights kept coming, intimate details of strangers’ lives. To cope, Ev had adopted the persona of his favorite fictional detective.
Since Astrid had learned to treat vitagua sickness, Ev felt sane again. Now that his body was male, he felt more sound than he’d ever been during his early life. Daughter, mother, wife—all those Evs had been costumes. All of them fit wrong.
But even now, he wasn’t quite himself. Traces of the detective persona remained: a fondness for hats, hokey chivalry.
Patience didn’t get this. She had been exposed to vitagua, but Astrid treated her within minutes, before her sense of self could fracture.
“Say for the sake of argument we find Jacks alive,” she said now. “Say he’s insane and looking for revenge.”
“You think he died?”
Patience shrugged. “No. Astrid promised the Roused that if they saved Jacks, she’d thaw the unreal. There’s a lot of magic here: they can pull it off.”
“Can we afford to turn him loose?”
“Not our call,
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