think I’ve become that mom.”
“Because Astrid thinks she can get Jacks back from the brink of death?”
“She’ll do it.” Her belief was rock solid.
Somehow, that made his own doubts more painful. “In the meantime, you save others?”
“It was find a purpose or wallow in despair,” she said, tone pointed. “Not a tough choice.”
He fingered the skater’s portrait. “Jacks did these?”
“Yep.” Reaching into a satchel, Olive produced a magic paintbrush. It was the first chantment Will had ever seen up close. The paintbrush was wrapped in a coil of fine copper wire, and it had a small plastic nub over its few remaining bristles.
“It’s falling apart.” He touched it gently. “I thought Astrid had toughened it up.”
“She did what she could, but heavy use wears them out. Theory is it’s the energy. Katarina’s got a physicist in Santiago trying to figure out if electrons are actually moving through the objects, if it’s friction or heat…”
“We saw wear and tear with a lot of Alchemite chantments,” Will said. “Arthur complained that by the time he confiscated anything, it was too frail to use.”
Olive’s eyes darkened. “Rotten luck for him.”
“Not a fan of Arthur’s, I take it?”
“I take the napalm runs personally.”
It was awkward: until yesterday, after all, Will had been with the people bombing the town. He turned to the skate club pictures. “So … thirty people at risk? That’s not bad.”
She gave him a strange look. “You were looking for Astrid, right? Boss,” she told her pipe whistle, “Will’s on his way.”
He took the hint, continuing down the hall, wondering if she’d “phoned” Astrid out of courtesy or to warn her.
The ballroom was a long rectangle with an arched, coffered ceiling and alcoves that ran the length of the dance floor. It was gloriously ablaze with blue light—glasses, jars, even test tubes filled with liquid magic hung from the chandeliers.
The room was full of people, the biggest concentration of volunteers Will had seen yet, grouped around tables that lined the parquet dance floor, poring over more sketches. As his eyes roamed the crowd, the wiki filled in biographical data. One woman was contaminated; she’d been turning into a llama until Astrid treated her. The guy beside her, a doctor, had been cured of a drug habit that cost him his license. A trio nearby, lifelong friends, had come so that Ev could gendermorph them.
This was Olive’s crew: the Lifeguards. Unsettled, he tried counting heads. There were hundreds of people.
“Morning!” Astrid passed a silver bracelet to a gangly man with dusky skin and facial tattoos before drawing Will off to the bandstand, out of the way. “How you feeling?”
If Olive had been warning Astrid—if she was hiding something—it didn’t show. Then again, she’d always had a decent poker face. “Overwhelmed. What we did in St. Louis…”
“It’s going good there. The windstorm didn’t do much damage, and the rain and the break from the heat seem to have been appreciated. Power grid’s mostly restored. The mass healing earned a lot of goodwill.”
“Which is going to the Alchemites.”
She shrugged.
“Astrid, about this agenda of spreading contamination willy-nilly—”
“Honestly, Will, it freaks me out too.”
“Does it?”
“Of course,” she said. “But we all went over and over it. The consensus was people should get used to living with magic before the Small Bang.”
“It was a group decision?”
She nodded. “Also, some of the volunteers accused me of hoarding magic in America.”
“Hoarding? Who would want to live this way?”
If she was insulted, it didn’t show. “There’s lots of personalities here, lots of opinions. Some of the volunteers are afraid of a future where the United States controls most of the vitagua and everyone else makes do.”
“Is that likely?”
“No, it’s not what happens,” she said. “But let’s talk
“Because Astrid thinks she can get Jacks back from the brink of death?”
“She’ll do it.” Her belief was rock solid.
Somehow, that made his own doubts more painful. “In the meantime, you save others?”
“It was find a purpose or wallow in despair,” she said, tone pointed. “Not a tough choice.”
He fingered the skater’s portrait. “Jacks did these?”
“Yep.” Reaching into a satchel, Olive produced a magic paintbrush. It was the first chantment Will had ever seen up close. The paintbrush was wrapped in a coil of fine copper wire, and it had a small plastic nub over its few remaining bristles.
“It’s falling apart.” He touched it gently. “I thought Astrid had toughened it up.”
“She did what she could, but heavy use wears them out. Theory is it’s the energy. Katarina’s got a physicist in Santiago trying to figure out if electrons are actually moving through the objects, if it’s friction or heat…”
“We saw wear and tear with a lot of Alchemite chantments,” Will said. “Arthur complained that by the time he confiscated anything, it was too frail to use.”
Olive’s eyes darkened. “Rotten luck for him.”
“Not a fan of Arthur’s, I take it?”
“I take the napalm runs personally.”
It was awkward: until yesterday, after all, Will had been with the people bombing the town. He turned to the skate club pictures. “So … thirty people at risk? That’s not bad.”
She gave him a strange look. “You were looking for Astrid, right? Boss,” she told her pipe whistle, “Will’s on his way.”
He took the hint, continuing down the hall, wondering if she’d “phoned” Astrid out of courtesy or to warn her.
The ballroom was a long rectangle with an arched, coffered ceiling and alcoves that ran the length of the dance floor. It was gloriously ablaze with blue light—glasses, jars, even test tubes filled with liquid magic hung from the chandeliers.
The room was full of people, the biggest concentration of volunteers Will had seen yet, grouped around tables that lined the parquet dance floor, poring over more sketches. As his eyes roamed the crowd, the wiki filled in biographical data. One woman was contaminated; she’d been turning into a llama until Astrid treated her. The guy beside her, a doctor, had been cured of a drug habit that cost him his license. A trio nearby, lifelong friends, had come so that Ev could gendermorph them.
This was Olive’s crew: the Lifeguards. Unsettled, he tried counting heads. There were hundreds of people.
“Morning!” Astrid passed a silver bracelet to a gangly man with dusky skin and facial tattoos before drawing Will off to the bandstand, out of the way. “How you feeling?”
If Olive had been warning Astrid—if she was hiding something—it didn’t show. Then again, she’d always had a decent poker face. “Overwhelmed. What we did in St. Louis…”
“It’s going good there. The windstorm didn’t do much damage, and the rain and the break from the heat seem to have been appreciated. Power grid’s mostly restored. The mass healing earned a lot of goodwill.”
“Which is going to the Alchemites.”
She shrugged.
“Astrid, about this agenda of spreading contamination willy-nilly—”
“Honestly, Will, it freaks me out too.”
“Does it?”
“Of course,” she said. “But we all went over and over it. The consensus was people should get used to living with magic before the Small Bang.”
“It was a group decision?”
She nodded. “Also, some of the volunteers accused me of hoarding magic in America.”
“Hoarding? Who would want to live this way?”
If she was insulted, it didn’t show. “There’s lots of personalities here, lots of opinions. Some of the volunteers are afraid of a future where the United States controls most of the vitagua and everyone else makes do.”
“Is that likely?”
“No, it’s not what happens,” she said. “But let’s talk
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