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  “It’s not that simple, Your Majesty,” Jacks said.

  “Did Albert tell you how to make new chantments?”

  “We have to send them away, Sahara. We can’t let them or the vitagua concentrate.”

  “Fine. Did he tell you how?”

  “She means it, Sahara. We can’t keep them.”

  “I’m not deaf.” Sahara picked at the potato curry. “Speaking of people with crappy hearing, I sent that life-skills evaluator of Mrs. Skye’s packing. She’s safe from the machinations of the niece, at least for a while.”

  “You’re going to use that thing on everyone you meet.”

  “I should’ve let him pack the old lady off to a home?”

  “How do you know she doesn’t need assistance?”

  “Jacks, there’s nothing wrong with her I can’t mend. She needed new batteries for her hearing aid and a ride to work every day.”

  “Mend her. She’s not a busted tap.”

  “She’s not a busted anything. Astrid, we’re gonna go over Saturday and clean up her house and garden, okay?”

  “Fine,” Astrid said, wondering if she and Albert had ever worked Mrs. Skye’s yard. “Thanks for looking out for her, Sahara. I was worried.”

  “You worry about everyone.”

  “You can count me out of your little rehab project—I’m going rock climbing with Saje and Kevin,” Jacks said.

  “I didn’t invite you, Eligible.”

  “How was Ev?” he asked pointedly.

  “Okay. She was playing amateur detective again, but I got her to focus on her shrink appointment. Whatever I did to her, it was wearing off. I don’t think I’m that good with our Siren yet.”

  “What about the jeweler?” Astrid said. “Doesn’t that mean he’ll spill the beans about the gold dust?”

  “I convinced him he needed me to build him a webpage. Nobody will wonder if I’m at his store a lot.” Sahara fiddled with the collar of her new dress. “I ran into Eineke Glassen on the way home. Gave her a hard time about skipping our party at the Mixmeander.”

  “How’d she take it?” Jacks said.

  “I never realized before that she hates me.”

  “She’s jealous,” Jacks said. “She has a thing for our girl.”

  “Doesn’t everyone?” Sahara leaned over the counter, her expression sly.

  “Don’t I wish,” Astrid said.

  “Ooh, you’re blushing. You date her, Astrid?”

  “I went out with her brother.”

  “They dated for eight weeks,” Jacks said, grinning.

  “And what was wrong with him?”

  “He was lovely,” Astrid said. “But he wanted to move to Florida.”

  Sahara laughed. “I guess the homebodies win. A rolling stone gathers no Astrid.” She and Jacks were still eye to eye, not quite glaring. “Home team advantage.”

  A quiet thump at the front door broke the staring contest: all three of them jumped.

  “Could be your dad,” Astrid said.

  Glancing at his magic watch, Jacks shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Chickenshit,” Sahara said.

  Jacks’s gray-green eyes narrowed just a little, glinting with anger. Astrid put a hand on his, intending it as support—and suddenly she sensed how deep the anger ran. Jacks was furious with his father.

  “Hey, Sahara,” he said. “Since you’re mending everyone else in the Springs, you want to take him on?”

  “No can do,” Sahara said. “Chief’s a force of nature.”

  “Ah. Still shying away from the tough jobs.”

  “You saying I’m lazy?”

  The thump at the door came again.

  “I’ll go,” Astrid said, crossing the still-vacant living room and tugging open the door. Nobody was there.

  She glanced down. Henna was stretched out on the porch, washing one bloody paw with slow licks of a crimson tongue. On the doorjamb at Astrid’s feet lay a dead rabbit. It was—thankfully—only minimally mangled.

  “What is it?” Sahara called.

  “The great fluffy hunter got…lucky.”

  “Oh gross, dead mouse. It’s my cat, I’ll clean it up.”

  “No, I got it.” Astrid knelt beside the furry corpse. Then she froze. Dark certainty flooded her, knowledge as familiar as her name or hair color. She would follow someone out onto this porch one day, into a glare of artificial brightness, light so blinding, it baked her skin.

  Lights—TV cameras? A haze of strangers’ voices would greet her. “Where’s Mrs. Skye?” they would shout. “Is anyone still in there?”

  Bile scorched the back of her throat. It’s the vitagua exposure, she thought. Dad said it can make you crazy.

  The panic ebbed, leaving her with the smug cat and rabbit corpse.

  “Head sick,” she murmured to Henna. Astrid thought of the splash of vitagua across Sahara’s face, the stain on her own hand. The cat was exposed too….

  Got to get it out of us, she thought. Fetching the shovel, she scooped up the rabbit quickly and took it out back to the garden. She quickly dug a hole.

  Voices floated through the open door: “Basically you’re hiking out to the middle of nowhere to climb rocks with the same guys you’ve been camping with ever since high school. Sounds exhilarating.”

  Jacks’s reply was frosty. “I could spice it up by seducing one of them, then running off to the other side of the country with someone else.”

  “And your shiny new day job is also hiking, am I right? Could you be more one-dimensional, Eligible?”

  “Why did you come back, Sahara?”

  “Am I interfering with some plan of yours?”

  Hastily Astrid pushed the corpse into the hole and kicked dirt over it, trotting loudly up the steps and silencing the argument. “What else did you buy today?”

  Cheeks pink, Sahara upended a bag on the table.

  House hold necessities tumbled out—boxes of pencils, a tape measure, a red towel, a picture frame, batteries, an icepick, plastic drinking glasses, a soapdish, a deck of cards, CD-ROMs, fruit-shaped fridge magnets, lightbulbs, a screwdriver, duct tape, shower curtain and hooks, scissors, a memo board, a cutting board, hard candy, a windup mouse for the cat, and an egg timer.

  Astrid poked through the pile, looking for Albert’s sparkle. There…“Want to see me make a chantment?”

  “Are you kidding?” The edge in Jacks’s voice softened into curiosity.

  “Nope.” She reached for the soapdish, a ladybug-shaped disc of rubber bristling with flexible nubs designed to keep the soap raised and dry. She gripped it in her left hand. The nubs pressed against her palm.

  “Assuming we can make chantments, who would we send them to?” Sahara asked.

  “We’ll work it out,” Astrid said. She scratched the point of the icepick across the back of her hand. Vitagua bubbled from the cut, spilling off her wrist and vanishing into the soapdish, which sucked it up thirstily.

  It was just as Albert had said—strength filled her, buoying up muscles tired from hours of digging, filling her with vitality she could barely contain. The headache spread across her right temple, but the surge of energy made it less significant, suddenly bearable despite the tears dribbling down her cheek.

  “You okay?” Jacks said.

  “Yes.” The scratch began to sting and blood came to the surface.

  Sahara leapt up, digging a box of bandages out of another shopping bag. “Can I learn to do that?”

  Astrid shook her head. Her awareness of the vitagua within her body—a diminished presence now—was keener. “It’s just me.”

  Jacks was staring at the soapdish. “This is a chantment now? What do you think it does?”

  Astrid already knew. She set it on the kitchen counter, squeezing the tiniest drop of liquid soap onto it. Bubbles foamed from between its nubs, a drift of soap that churned across the curry-splashed counter. Then it withdrew, leaving the tiled surface bright and clean.

  “Sorcerer’s ap
prentice.” Sahara clapped her hands, and Astrid chilled. She’s going to say we need to keep it, she thought, and I’ll have to change her mind. Are we going to fight now?

  But her friend scooped up the ladybug. “I know who to send this to.”

  “Who?”

  “One of my crisis junkies.”

  “Pardon?” Jacks said.

  “She means her fan club,” Astrid said.

  “Woman with three kids,” Sahara said. “Grubby apartment. No money, no time. She mentioned once she can’t keep up with cleaning their place.”

  “Couldn’t someone trace that?” Jacks objected. “We’re trying to be sneaky, and this is someone you know—”

  “That’s just it: I don’t know her. She posted her address in a newsgroup so one of the others could mail her something…astrological charts for her kids, I think. I’ll scoop it out of the archives. We write some basic instructions in an anonymous note, wrap up the package, ship it—”

  “We can’t mail it from town,” Astrid said. “Ma.”

  “With luck, Ev won’t be opening people’s mail for much longer,” Sahara said.

  “I can’t take the chance.” She cradled her throbbing head in her hands, feeling hunted. “I’m going the same route as Albert. I’m never going to have a normal life.”

  Jacks rubbed her shoulders. “You can do Albert’s job, if you want to call it that, without making his sacrifices.”

  “Job,” she said, easing into the massage. “It was his job, wasn’t it? All those years.”

  “Some job. No thanks, no money, no benefits,” Sahara said. “Astrid, you are not going to turn into your father. There are three of us, we’ll use the gold dust to get money when we need it and we’ll spread out the labor.”

  “Share the load,” Jacks agreed. “You won’t be alone with it the way Albert was.”

  “Lord, when you think of it!” Sahara’s voice was reverent. “All that secrecy, all that trouble—for his entire life. It’s…heroic.”

  Tears pricked Astrid’s eyes. She felt lighter, knowing things hadn’t been Dad’s fault. Sad too—that she hadn’t thought well enough of him to see through his charade.

  But I did know, once. And then forgot. Why?

  “With the three of us on the job, it’ll be more discreet. Does this thing do floors?” Tossing the ladybug onto the linoleum, Sahara squirted out dish soap.

  “Not too much,” Astrid cautioned, but it was too late. Suds boiled outward like a swarm of ants. Before any of them could move, it was knee deep and rising.

  Sahara stepped toward the back door.

  “No,” Astrid said urgently. “We can’t let anyone see the foam.”

  “What did someone say about discretion?” Jacks lunged at the kitchen window, losing his balance and then catching himself on the counter. Pulling himself upright, he shut the curtains with a clatter.

  “You okay, Monet?”

  “Yeah.” The soap bubbles were as high as his hips. “Floor’s slick, that’s all. Let’s retreat.”

  “Hold hands,” Astrid said, reaching out. Sahara’s hand—small, dry, and warm—folded into her right. Jacks took the left. The soapy tide had risen to her chest. Below its surface, a million small scrub brushes scraped her exposed skin. Her shoes squeaked over the ice-slippery surface of the kitchen floor.

  Hand in hand, they inched toward the living room.

  Sahara said, “Did I say I’m sorry yet?”

  “Do you ever?” Jacks replied.

  “Peace,” Astrid warned. She lifted her chin, prepared to gulp air like a swimmer going underwater. But before the soap could rise over her neck, the suds sucked back into the ladybug with an echoing slurp. The three of them were left at the edge of the gleaming kitchen.

  “Whew,” Sahara said, wobbling. “Sorry, Astrid.”

  “Forget it.”

  Sahara collapsed on the rug in the empty living room, dragging first Astrid and then Jacks down beside her. As one, they flopped onto their backs.

  “I feel about how I would if I’d really just scrubbed the kitchen from floor to ceiling,” Sahara announced.

  “Those guys on the discussion group weren’t kidding about chantments draining your energy,” Astrid agreed.

  “It’s too bad,” Jacks said. “We could’ve tried cleaning in here.”

  “Why?” Sahara asked.

  “Because if magic is a huge secret, maybe we shouldn’t have a big blue stain on the ceiling.”

  “If it won’t scrub off, I’ll paint it,” Sahara said.

  “Okay, I’ll get paint,” Jacks said. “I’m buying for the mural anyway.”

  “Thanks, guys,” Astrid said.

  “See?” Sahara squeezed her. “We’re a team!”

  “I’ll mail the ladybug from Wallowa,” Jacks said. “The rafting group I’m leading tomorrow meets there.”

  “Will the Chief hear about that?” Sahara asked. “We don’t want anyone thinking you’re turning into Albert, either.”

  “We’ll have to rely on my sense of timing—” He raised the hand wearing the watch; they were still holding hands, and he shook Astrid’s arm like a noodle. “This’ll keep me from running into any of the county busybodies.”

  “I guess you’re the obvious choice,” Astrid said.

  “Don’t worry.” He blew a hair from her forehead. “It’ll be fine.”

  “I know.” It was at once scary and a relief to hand off the responsibility.

  “Please. He’s offering to mail a package, not defuse a nuclear warhead.”

  “We have to take this seriously, Sahara,” Jacks said.

  “What makes you think I don’t?”

  Astrid giggled. “You don’t take anything seriously.”

  “I’ll be good as gold dust, I promise. Know why? Because once a secret like this gets loose, there’s no reeling it in. You lose control, and I love these things.”

  “I do believe that,” Jacks said.

  “That doesn’t mean I’m convinced there’s a magic Geiger counter out there that’s gonna lead a bunch of would-be thieves to our door.”

  “Albert said we disperse the things, we disperse them,” Jacks said. “Especially until we know more.”

  “I’m not saying we keep everything. Did I say that?”

  “Stop fishing for wiggle room. Once Astrid learns more, we’ll know if it’s safe to hang on to a few things. A few, Sahara.”

  “Albert kept stuff.”

  “Things that were too dangerous to give away,” he said. “The knife, for example. It would certainly be easy to misuse the mermaid, wouldn’t it?”

  She flushed at his pointed tone. “Do you honestly think there’s some bogeyman out there looking for us?”

  Astrid remembered her moment of terror out on the front porch. The certainty of it—the media at her door—was unshakeable. But now as she lay on the rug with Sahara on one side, Jacks on the other, their bodies warm against hers and her heart singing with joy at discovering that Albert hadn’t been a deadbeat—it was easy to discount the fear, to chalk it up to vitagua-induced paranoia. “Probably not,” she said. “But let’s do it Dad’s way until we know it’s safe to do something different.”

  • Chapter Twelve •

  The next time she was alone in the house, Astrid climbed up to the attic. Remembering the flash of memory that struck when she’d been there earlier, she paced from corner to corner, fingers trailing the walls.

  Lost memories tickled her like stray hairs, but nothing came through. Finally she knelt near the hatch, laying her hands flat where she’d touched the floor before.

  Albert had initiated her here when she was eight years old.

  They had slipped away from Ma that day, as they so often did, supposedly to pick up shoes for school. She’d felt guilty about that, Astrid remembered now—the secrecy. Each lie made it worse. She had even asked Dad: What if I didn’t become the chanter? What if you picked someone else?

  It was about to be too late.
/>   “Ready, Bundle?” Albert said, and young Astrid had nodded. Astrid herself, caught up in reliving the experience—it seemed at once like new information and a very old part of herself—remembered fear and reluctance, mixed with a need to please.

  “Okay,” said her father, taking a bundle of cloth from his shirt pocket. Inside was a scarred glass bead.

  “Is that a chantment?” Astrid had asked.

  “It’s sea-glass. It’ll show me if you’ve ever been contaminated with vitagua.”

  “How?”

  “Just take it, Bundle.”

  She picked it up. It was warm and dry.

  “Does it sting at all?” Albert asked.

  “It’s supposed to sting?”

  “Only if you’re contaminated.”

  She rolled the bead on her palm. “No stings. Don’t feel anything.”

  “Okay, that means you’re clean.” Albert caught the bead in the piece of fabric again. Next he produced a golden bowl, and an eyedropper full of vitagua. Astrid tipped her face up, and he put one tiny drop of liquid magic into each of her eyes.

  Pain jolted her. She pitched forward, and Dad caught her, drawing her hands away from her face as her eyes welled up. A sobless cascade of vitagua-laced tears had fallen into the gold bowl.

  “Ow,” Astrid had complained. “This hurts!”

  “Half-over,” Albert crooned. “It’s okay, Bundle, you’re very brave and we’re half-done.”

  “No, stop!”

  “We can’t,” he said, and Astrid remembered the pain on her father’s face. Like an animal in a trap, she thought now—back then she had been too young and scared to understand. “We stop here, you’re cursed.”

  “I don’t care,” Astrid whispered, then and now.

  “You would care,” Dad said grimly, and as the flow of tears stopped he sat her up. Dipping a comb into the bowl, he ran it through her hair. Her curls snagged in the comb, even though he had trimmed her hair the week before.

  “Ow,” Astrid said again, but this time it was subdued, a protest almost for form’s sake.

  “You know, initiation is the most dangerous moment of life as a spring-tapper,” he said. Astrid, who had been about to yank loose, stilled. “Usually you do only one initiation, see, when you pick your apprentice. And the first time you do anything with magic, with vitagua, that’s when you’re most like to mess it up.”