what, maybe twelve of them disguised as servants at Lauren’s house?”
Caitlin nodded, following along. “She has no trouble producing as many as she needs, with very little time to spare. Which means—”
“Which means,” I said, “she’s not building them from scratch! There’s no way she has time to be Carmichael-Sterling’s full-time public relations director, serve as Lauren’s right-hand woman and hired gun,
and
sit in a woodshop for as long as it takes to carve and assemble dozens of life-sized wooden armatures from scratch.”
“She’s outsourcing,” Caitlin said.
“Exactly. Someone builds them; she animates them. Which means somewhere, not far away, there’s a woodshop getting some very distinctive custom orders.”
“A shop,” Caitlin said, “that will have her current address on file. How many woodworkers can handle that kind of workload? It’s not like when I was a girl, when—”
She paused.
“What?” I said.
“Never you mind what it was like when I was a girl. Let’s just say it was before plastics were in vogue, and skilled artisans were more highly valued than they are today.”
I made a point of never asking Caitlin her age. This seemed to make her happy.
I clinked my glass against hers and took a sip of pinot noir. “Tomorrow, after we see what Naavarasi’s got planned for us, we start hunting for woodworkers. When it comes to magic, Meadow Brand is a one-trick pony. That’s about to bite her in the ass.”
This felt good. Caitlin and me, bouncing ideas off each other, pushing each other to think of angles we never would have come up with on our own. It wasn’t something we had to work at—it just happened naturally, like we were two parts of a perfectly geared engine.
The sommelier swooped in, a tall Chinese man with a pristine white cloth draped over his forearm. He expertly refilled our glasses, twisting the bottle just right so as not to spill a drop, then glided away again.
“Speaking of the baron,” Caitlin said.
“I know. She’s the sommelier. And she was one of the valets outside the parking garage. I’m pretty sure she was one of the tourists on the elevator with us, too. Now that I’m not being blindsided with visions of my ex-girlfriend, I can pick up on her glow. Think we should say anything?”
“No,” Caitlin said. “I think she’s showing off. Don’t look impressed. You’ll just encourage her.”
“How should I look?” I said.
“You should look at me. All night long.”
“That,” I said, “is a plan I can get behind.”
Seven
I woke up in my favorite place in the world: curled in Caitlin’s arms. She was already awake—she didn’t sleep so much as meditate—and her deep emerald eyes flickered open to meet mine.
“Hello, sunshine,” she purred. Her body pressed against mine in the swirling expanse of gray silk sheets, warm as a kitten’s fur.
“Hello yourself. Ready to live dangerously?”
“Every day,” she said. “Right after a hot shower and a good breakfast. Danger goes better with mushroom and spinach omelets.”
I rolled out of bed. “And bacon,” I said, groaning as I stretched my arms. “Bacon cures all ills. That’s a science fact.”
We hit the road around nine, cruising southeast under a cloudless sky with the mountains rising up in the distance. The address Naavarasi had given us was in Henderson, near the old Water Street District. With Caitlin navigating, I narrowed down the address and pulled the Barracuda up to the curb outside a prim little suburban nest with white vinyl siding and a shaggy postage-stamp-sized lawn.
The street wasn’t just sleepy, it was comatose. No birds, no lizards, not even the distant drone of airplanes. The mild breeze, staving off the worst of the morning heat, fell still as we stepped out of the car.
“That’s not ominous or anything,” I said, peering at the curtained windows.
I didn’t expect a fight, given what we’d been told, but I’d come prepared for
Caitlin nodded, following along. “She has no trouble producing as many as she needs, with very little time to spare. Which means—”
“Which means,” I said, “she’s not building them from scratch! There’s no way she has time to be Carmichael-Sterling’s full-time public relations director, serve as Lauren’s right-hand woman and hired gun,
and
sit in a woodshop for as long as it takes to carve and assemble dozens of life-sized wooden armatures from scratch.”
“She’s outsourcing,” Caitlin said.
“Exactly. Someone builds them; she animates them. Which means somewhere, not far away, there’s a woodshop getting some very distinctive custom orders.”
“A shop,” Caitlin said, “that will have her current address on file. How many woodworkers can handle that kind of workload? It’s not like when I was a girl, when—”
She paused.
“What?” I said.
“Never you mind what it was like when I was a girl. Let’s just say it was before plastics were in vogue, and skilled artisans were more highly valued than they are today.”
I made a point of never asking Caitlin her age. This seemed to make her happy.
I clinked my glass against hers and took a sip of pinot noir. “Tomorrow, after we see what Naavarasi’s got planned for us, we start hunting for woodworkers. When it comes to magic, Meadow Brand is a one-trick pony. That’s about to bite her in the ass.”
This felt good. Caitlin and me, bouncing ideas off each other, pushing each other to think of angles we never would have come up with on our own. It wasn’t something we had to work at—it just happened naturally, like we were two parts of a perfectly geared engine.
The sommelier swooped in, a tall Chinese man with a pristine white cloth draped over his forearm. He expertly refilled our glasses, twisting the bottle just right so as not to spill a drop, then glided away again.
“Speaking of the baron,” Caitlin said.
“I know. She’s the sommelier. And she was one of the valets outside the parking garage. I’m pretty sure she was one of the tourists on the elevator with us, too. Now that I’m not being blindsided with visions of my ex-girlfriend, I can pick up on her glow. Think we should say anything?”
“No,” Caitlin said. “I think she’s showing off. Don’t look impressed. You’ll just encourage her.”
“How should I look?” I said.
“You should look at me. All night long.”
“That,” I said, “is a plan I can get behind.”
Seven
I woke up in my favorite place in the world: curled in Caitlin’s arms. She was already awake—she didn’t sleep so much as meditate—and her deep emerald eyes flickered open to meet mine.
“Hello, sunshine,” she purred. Her body pressed against mine in the swirling expanse of gray silk sheets, warm as a kitten’s fur.
“Hello yourself. Ready to live dangerously?”
“Every day,” she said. “Right after a hot shower and a good breakfast. Danger goes better with mushroom and spinach omelets.”
I rolled out of bed. “And bacon,” I said, groaning as I stretched my arms. “Bacon cures all ills. That’s a science fact.”
We hit the road around nine, cruising southeast under a cloudless sky with the mountains rising up in the distance. The address Naavarasi had given us was in Henderson, near the old Water Street District. With Caitlin navigating, I narrowed down the address and pulled the Barracuda up to the curb outside a prim little suburban nest with white vinyl siding and a shaggy postage-stamp-sized lawn.
The street wasn’t just sleepy, it was comatose. No birds, no lizards, not even the distant drone of airplanes. The mild breeze, staving off the worst of the morning heat, fell still as we stepped out of the car.
“That’s not ominous or anything,” I said, peering at the curtained windows.
I didn’t expect a fight, given what we’d been told, but I’d come prepared for
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