Your Magic or Mine? (7 page)

Daria gave them the facts: due in September, no idea if a boy or girl, no names picked out yet. Gloriana managed to sit through that and the following questions with a minimum of distress. When her parents indulged themselves in some reminiscences about their children’s births, however, she wanted to run screaming. At least Daria and Clay didn’t look too happy about the tales, either.

Her mother finally shooed the men out of the kitchen, saying she knew they wouldn’t want to discuss pregnancy details. While the guys went off to have a celebratory brandy, the women cleared the table and talked of morning sickness and gynecological matters. Or rather the other three did; Gloriana sat in a corner and concentrated on
enduring
the discussion. She didn’t want to even think about the subject, but she couldn’t tell anyone about her confusing feelings—they felt somehow traitorous.

The discussion went on for a half an hour before she could reasonably say good night and escape.

Thank goodness, she thought on the drive, she had built her own house on the farm a half mile away from the big house. As much as she loved her family, she didn’t feel like being good company at the moment. First the debate or Forscher—or both—unsettled her, then Daria’s news. If she didn’t calm herself down, she wasn’t going to fall asleep easily tonight.

A little itch started under her bra right over her magic center, and she rubbed it before pushing the button to open her garage. One thing about Texas, there were always bugs.

“Hello, Delilah,” she said to the black and white basenji when she came into her kitchen.

The dog answered back with her customary yodel and became very interested in sniffing her shoes and skirt.

“I know,” Gloriana said, bending down to pet her, “all those smells from all those people. I’m glad you’re a barkless dog. I don’t think I could bear yapping after the hoopla tonight.”

Delilah grunted and leaned into her hand.

“Did you have fun with Mother today? How about a run? I’m too wired to go to sleep.”

When Delilah heard the word
run
, she looked Gloriana right in the eyes and grinned.

“Come on,” Gloriana said and led the way to her bedroom to change.

In five minutes she was jogging down the road to the greenhouses, leash in one hand, flashlight in the other. She wished she could use
lux
, but you never knew who might drive by and see the strange light. The air was cool, probably upper fifties or lower sixties, and fresh. She could practically smell the basil growing on her left and the tarragon on her right, and she inhaled deeply.

How she loved spring here in the middle of Texas—the chartreuse of the new tree leaves, the tender shoots of the vegetables and herbs showing their heads aboveground, the bluebonnets and Indian paintbrush carpeting the fields around the farm, the adult birds bringing their chicks to the feeders for the first time, the new calves and lambs trying out their legs, the sheer promise in the soft air.

Her magical botanical talent brought her close to the earth, its seasons, its flora and fauna. Her abilities to nurture growing plants, to help them blossom and set their fruits and vegetables, to use them for healing and well-being in people and beasts alike, were an intrinsic part of her. She couldn’t imagine being without them, seeing the world … seeing the world like Marcus Forscher must—in terms of cold, hard numbers instead of intense colors, tastes, and fragrances.

The thought of the mathematician reminded her of her larger dilemma—her reaction to Daria’s news. She couldn’t decide why he seemed somehow linked to the situation. What was going on in her head to cause these feelings of restlessness, of anticipation, and, at the same time, of sorrow? She’d been fine until Daria’s announcement. Happy the debate was over, happy she wouldn’t have to see her opponent again, and then?
Boom!
One pregnancy in the family and she had to pick herself up off the floor.

Was she jealous of Daria? That her sister had a husband and soon would have a baby?

Nah, she knew how love worked among practitioners—especially the soul-mate-phenomenon part. She’d seen it happen with both Daria and Clay, seen them find their mates as all practitioners did, with a little help from the imperative, of course. She didn’t expect to be interested in a man until the right one, her soul mate, came along. In fact, after the experiences of her siblings, she’d wondered off and on when she’d meet him. According to Mother Lulabelle Higgins, who’d predicted the event for all of them, it would be soon. Who would he be?

What about her reception of the baby idea? She’d never thought much about having kids before, had taken for granted she would, naturally, but she had to find the prospective father first, and there was certainly no suitable man on the horizon. Was she yearning for a child? She’d never “yearned” before.

Maybe it was simply spring, and her hormones were rising like sap in the trees. Maybe her response was simply her biological clock’s alarm buzzing. She was twenty-nine, after all.

She slowed and stopped when she reached the T in the road where it branched to different sections of the farm. Her curly tail wagging, Delilah snuffled around the fence posts and investigated a small hole, probably the home of a burrowing animal. Gloriana took a firmer grip on the leash. Basenjis were sight and scent hunters, and she didn’t want the dog to flush a nocturnal creature and take off in pursuit.

She breathed deeply and looked up at the blanket of stars above her. Whatever the answers to her questions were, she wouldn’t find them there. It was time she took herself to bed. “Come on, Delilah. Race you home.”

Four weeks later

“Let’s take this show on the road, whatta ya say?”

Gloriana stared at Ed Hearst sitting at the end of the table in a HeatherRidge conference room in Austin on Thursday afternoon. The
W
²
editor was as rumpled as ever but also jubilant.

Then she glanced across the gleaming mahogany at the man on the other side. Convinced her expression showed her negative reaction to Ed’s outrageous proposal, she wished she could read Marcus Forscher. His face was set in stern lines that betrayed none of his thoughts. It didn’t help that he hadn’t even looked in her direction since they sat down.

His brown eyes gleaming behind his glasses, Ed rubbed his hands together and kept talking. “Since the journal came out on the first of April, we’ve received piles of mail. We have pros and cons and every shade in between. The Horners are bellowing, the mathematicians are calculating, and everybody, and I do mean
everybody
, is clamoring for more. You two have really struck a nerve among members of the community.” He leaned back and gazed at her and Forscher as though he’d found the spell to make the journal double in circulation.

And … perhaps he had.

His enthusiasm didn’t mean, however, that she had to go along with his scheme.

Ed pushed a stack of printed-out e-mails and regular correspondence across the table. “Look at these. I’ve had invites and requests from High Council members, teaching masters, people grouped together by talents, high-levels, low-levels, you name it. They all want to take part in the debate over spell-casting methods and magic education. We can hold meetings all over the country. Under the journal’s auspices, we’ll offer practitioners an opportunity to hear the latest research and talk about their own ideas. Those who can’t attend the meetings will be able to read the transcripts. We’re even thinking of Webcasting the sessions on the main practitioner Web site.”

“Ed …” Forscher said.

“Ed …” she said at the same time. She noticed out of the corner of her eye the mathematician hadn’t even glanced at the letters, and she, too, ignored the papers.

“I know, I know,” Ed interrupted. “Both of you are busy, the school year is still in full swing, and you have obligations and commitments. But I’ve figured out a way we can satisfy our audience and still allow you your academic pursuits. You both told me earlier you weren’t traveling during the summer, right?”

He didn’t give either a chance to answer because he forged ahead. “So, what if we arrange meetings every other Saturday in a different city? Or maybe every Saturday for six or eight weeks and get it over with? You could travel there in the morning and come back the next day. Or even that night if there’s a flight. It’s not like you have to prepare a new talk for every place. Simply state the sides of the debate, answer questions, and I’ll keep order.”

At Ed’s last statement, she heard Forscher make a sound very much like a snort. She managed to hold her reaction to a sigh.

“Okay, okay,” Ed continued with a touch of chagrin in his tone, and he held up his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll admit I lost it at the last one. However! At these meetings, not only will we be ready and will I maintain a civil decorum, we’re also going to have sergeants-at-arms. I’ve covered all the bases. You have to say yes.”

For the first time since she arrived, Gloriana looked straight at Forscher—right into his icy-blue gaze. When their eyes met, his expression grew even grimmer, sharper, more disdainful. She fought the ridiculous urge to smile; the situation certainly didn’t call for an attempt on her part to soothe his feelings, or make the discussion more “pleasant,” or give any indication of female “weakness.” Instead, she simply shook her head.

He followed suit with a slow negative movement of his.

“If it’s money you’re worried about, travel expenses, an honorarium, the journal is picking up the tab,” Ed said. “You’ll be amply rewarded.”

“No,” Forscher said in a low voice, but he didn’t take his eyes from hers.

“No,” she agreed as she watched his pupils expand until only a faint rim of blue remained.

“I think you’d better take a look at these.” Ed pushed a couple of papers into their line of sight.

Gloriana was the first to break eye contact with Forscher to see what Ed had. She picked up the page nearest her while her opponent took the other. She gave it a brief glance before returning her gaze to Forscher. She’d let him go first.

Forscher frowned at his letter. “The banner at the top says “The Future of Magic,’ and across the bottom are the names of Bryan Pritchart, Michael Brubaker, and others. The text reads, ‘As practitioners vitally interested in developing new spells and new methods of casting, we are banding together to alert our fellow warlocks and witches of a dire situation. The danger posed by those whose mind-sets are locked in the past is great and immediate. These people will destroy the ability of all practitioners to thrive in the twenty-first century. Join
The Future of Magic
and help us fight the reactionary, regressive doomsayers who would leave us and our children unable to practice magic in the world of today and tomorrow. Help us go where no practitioner has gone before.’“

He tossed it onto the table and leaned back in his chair. “Is yours similar?” he asked.

“The letterhead calls the group the
Traditional Heritage Association,”
she answered. “Down the left side is a list of names with Calvin and Loretta Horner’s at the top. The body of the letter says, ‘Join us in our efforts to stop those who would ruin our precious practitioner way of life and destroy our traditions. These ‘futurists,’ as they call themselves, want nothing more than to leave us with no art, no warmth, no emotion in our practice of magic. They would reduce casting to meaningless numbers and lifeless symbols. They see no value in historical or individual casting methods. They would cram down our throats a regimented, complicated, difficult regime that will destroy our life, liberty, and pursuit of magic.’“

“That’s what’s going on while we’re sitting here,” Ed said, waving his hand at the letters. “Both sides are gathering their troops to do battle over an issue that should be thoroughly and calmly investigated and discussed. Marcus, nobody’s really studying your equation or trying out its capabilities. Pritchart’s trying to act like Captain Kirk on
Star Trek
, make off with your ideas, and put himself forward as the savior of the planet.”

He turned toward her. “Gloriana, Horner and his cohorts are distorting your message. Neither of these groups is interested in a middle road, a large picture, or, to use the political term, a big tent that covers all. And if Pritchart is Kirk, Horner wants to sound like Thomas Jefferson.”

Ed looked back and forth between the two of them and spread out his hands. “I ask you, do you want these people to hijack your ideas and theories? Do you want these people to speak for you, to split the practitioner community into fragments? When you can do something about it, make sure both sides are heard, give voice to a rational, deliberate way of looking at magic and its practice? Because I can tell you, that’s what will happen unless we step in and bring some rational discussion to these charges.”

Gloriana shut her eyes and took a long, slow breath in and out. When she opened them, she was staring directly at Forscher, who returned her gaze with a stone-cold expression. She was somehow surprised that a man so gorgeous could look so forbidding and severe. Even his blazer—a light blue one that matched his eyes—looked grim. At least today he wore a button-down, dark blue shirt with no tie. But still, next to his perfection, she felt like a field hand in her smudged khakis and a moss green polo shirt.

“Ed’s right,” he said to her. “It looks like we have no choice. Or I don’t. I won’t have Prick Pritchart stealing my equation or corrupting the studies for its use.” His implacable tone could have chipped ice.

“I don’t, either,” Gloriana agreed. “Horner and his bunch will throw us back to the Middle Ages and will certainly alienate everyone who uses numbers and calculations in their spells—including my own father and brother.”

“We need some ground rules,” Forscher stated. “Ed, you must keep order.”

“No problem there,” the editor said with a big grin on his face. “Our sergeants-at-arms will be Swords.”

“Swords?” Gloriana asked. “The Swords from the Defenders who destroy evil magic items? The guys who can throw fireballs? Isn’t that a little extreme?”