rituals might achieve that effect.”
“I’ll get on that as soon as we’ve finished here,” he said with a nod. “I can’t scout as I did in Laredo, so that’s right out. But I can relay messages. Today”—he hesitated, ducking his head—“I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”
A flicker of pleasure washed over me. “I am. Just a bit bruised. By the way, could you call Chuch and let him know we’re fine? He’ll pass the word to Saldana, who’s riding to the rescue like a white knight.”
“Must be nice,” Booke muttered.
I raised a brow. “What?”
“Getting to play the hero.”
“Well, he hasn’t done anything yet,” I said. “He might just make things worse.”
But he wasn’t looking for sympathy. By his expression, his agile mind had already moved on to something else. “You mentioned a strange residue.”
“From the bed-and-breakfast. We figure it’s a component, but we don’t know what it is or whether it’s used in a baneful or beneficial spell.”
“I wish I had a sample. I’d know,” he added without false modesty.
“There’s no FedEx here,” I grumbled, “and it would take forever in the mail, assuming they’d even send it out.”
Booke sighed. “Rotten you can’t just wish it here.”
His casual comment gave me an idea, possibly a stupid one, but nothing ventured and whatnot. “This . . . pocket world, how real is it?”
“Real enough to communicate ideas, not facilitate touch.” He shrugged.
Well, I wasn’t asking so we could make out. “Can I change it?”
Booke sat forward, arms resting on his knees. He’d caught on, and his expression reflected keen fascination. “As I said last time, Corine, what you see depends upon your expectations. What I see is quite different. Only our thoughts intersect as an absolute. What exactly do you have in mind?”
I struggled to articulate it. “I want to bring you here, where I am. And then I want to try to make this . . . shared space . . . real enough to give you that plastic bag. We wouldn’t have to touch.”
“Dream translocation?” he asked, thoughtful. “I’ve heard of it. Legends say devoted lovers gave each other tokens over long distances . . . not that I think you and I—”
I waved away his embarrassment. “Thing is, you need to share the setting with me, so we need to build the image together, right?” He nodded. “So how do we go about that?”
Booke considered for a long moment. “I’d say describe your current location in great detail until it becomes real to me.”
What the hell? I didn’t have a better idea.
I couldn’t have said how long I spoke, but the room reshaped around us as I built the house in my mind’s eye as well. Eventually we had a complete replica of Mrs. Everett’s farmhouse, except for the view of the woods. We sat in the parlor, and Booke gazed around with apparent absorption. He got up to explore and came back to report in a few minutes.
“This is brilliant,” he exclaimed. “I can even smell the dust.”
“So let’s test the rest of my theory,” I said. “At worst, we fail.”
He shook his head. “At best, we make history.”
With a nod, I stood and went to fetch Chance’s backpack, which had been near the front door the last time I saw it. I unzipped it and brought out the zipper bag. I shook it a little and the powder danced inside it.
Before handing it to Booke, I said, “I’ll call you from the library tomorrow. Don’t worry if you can’t get a hold of me, because—”
“You’re in a black hole,” he finished.
“Near enough.”
We fixed the combined force of our wills on the bag, making it real in a joint effort. This wasn’t some mental representation of the bag; it was the bag. I knew every crinkle in the plastic, every ounce of its weight. When I let go, it would no longer be here, but there, across an ocean.
At last, I extended my hand toward him. He took the powder from me, but our fingers brushed in the
“I’ll get on that as soon as we’ve finished here,” he said with a nod. “I can’t scout as I did in Laredo, so that’s right out. But I can relay messages. Today”—he hesitated, ducking his head—“I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”
A flicker of pleasure washed over me. “I am. Just a bit bruised. By the way, could you call Chuch and let him know we’re fine? He’ll pass the word to Saldana, who’s riding to the rescue like a white knight.”
“Must be nice,” Booke muttered.
I raised a brow. “What?”
“Getting to play the hero.”
“Well, he hasn’t done anything yet,” I said. “He might just make things worse.”
But he wasn’t looking for sympathy. By his expression, his agile mind had already moved on to something else. “You mentioned a strange residue.”
“From the bed-and-breakfast. We figure it’s a component, but we don’t know what it is or whether it’s used in a baneful or beneficial spell.”
“I wish I had a sample. I’d know,” he added without false modesty.
“There’s no FedEx here,” I grumbled, “and it would take forever in the mail, assuming they’d even send it out.”
Booke sighed. “Rotten you can’t just wish it here.”
His casual comment gave me an idea, possibly a stupid one, but nothing ventured and whatnot. “This . . . pocket world, how real is it?”
“Real enough to communicate ideas, not facilitate touch.” He shrugged.
Well, I wasn’t asking so we could make out. “Can I change it?”
Booke sat forward, arms resting on his knees. He’d caught on, and his expression reflected keen fascination. “As I said last time, Corine, what you see depends upon your expectations. What I see is quite different. Only our thoughts intersect as an absolute. What exactly do you have in mind?”
I struggled to articulate it. “I want to bring you here, where I am. And then I want to try to make this . . . shared space . . . real enough to give you that plastic bag. We wouldn’t have to touch.”
“Dream translocation?” he asked, thoughtful. “I’ve heard of it. Legends say devoted lovers gave each other tokens over long distances . . . not that I think you and I—”
I waved away his embarrassment. “Thing is, you need to share the setting with me, so we need to build the image together, right?” He nodded. “So how do we go about that?”
Booke considered for a long moment. “I’d say describe your current location in great detail until it becomes real to me.”
What the hell? I didn’t have a better idea.
I couldn’t have said how long I spoke, but the room reshaped around us as I built the house in my mind’s eye as well. Eventually we had a complete replica of Mrs. Everett’s farmhouse, except for the view of the woods. We sat in the parlor, and Booke gazed around with apparent absorption. He got up to explore and came back to report in a few minutes.
“This is brilliant,” he exclaimed. “I can even smell the dust.”
“So let’s test the rest of my theory,” I said. “At worst, we fail.”
He shook his head. “At best, we make history.”
With a nod, I stood and went to fetch Chance’s backpack, which had been near the front door the last time I saw it. I unzipped it and brought out the zipper bag. I shook it a little and the powder danced inside it.
Before handing it to Booke, I said, “I’ll call you from the library tomorrow. Don’t worry if you can’t get a hold of me, because—”
“You’re in a black hole,” he finished.
“Near enough.”
We fixed the combined force of our wills on the bag, making it real in a joint effort. This wasn’t some mental representation of the bag; it was the bag. I knew every crinkle in the plastic, every ounce of its weight. When I let go, it would no longer be here, but there, across an ocean.
At last, I extended my hand toward him. He took the powder from me, but our fingers brushed in the
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