by Ann Macela
“Oh, yeah?” Pritchart sneered, his lip curling as he watched the couple walk by.
“Yes, you, you … hippie!” Mrs. Shortbottom poked Pritchart in the belly with her cane and stormed off in the opposite direction while he doubled over.
That exchange brought half the audience to their feet, most of them with their arms raised and yelling for attention. Those seated started talking to their neighbors, some clearly arguing and waving the handout in the air. Several participants surged into the middle aisle in the wake of the Horners.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Ed shouted and stood. “Take your seats and come to order.” He pounded on the table for emphasis.
His attempt to restore order went unheeded. If anything, the tumult increased.
Gloriana searched for her family and saw them making their way to the side of the room rather than into the center aisle. That space had filled with people. The cattle rancher was yelling into Pritchart’s face, the soccer mom was fussing at Brubaker, and Mrs. Shortbottom was swinging her cane, taking no prisoners on either side.
“Practitioners! Come to order!” Ed called again into the mike.
Gloriana slid her chair back and looked at Forscher, who had a bemused smile on his face. As if he could feel her gaze, he faced her and said something.
When she shook her head and pointed to her ears to signify she couldn’t hear him, he rose, came to her, and bent over to say in her ear, “See what you caused?”
“Me?” She pulled back enough to see his face. When she took her next breath, she inhaled his scent, a woodsy-and-pure-male concoction she felt fill her nostrils and muddle her brain. She shook her head to clear it and said, “The formula was your idea.”
“Yes, but I said nothing about ‘forcing’ it.”
She couldn’t tell if he was angry or laughing at her. Either way, she was not going to take the blame for the debacle before them. “I simply brought out the ramifications you neglected to mention. You can’t make enormous changes without looking at the entirety of your project.”
Before he or she could make another statement, Ed turned around and leaned down so they could hear him. “I think we’ve lost our audience. They’re more interested in talking to each other than listening to us. I, for one, am not going to get in the middle. Security’s here and will make sure nobody starts more than a verbal argument. Let’s go out into the side hall.”
Gloriana stood up and led the way to the entrance where her family was waiting. Everyone went into the hall and, when the door closed behind them, she gave a sigh of relief at the quiet. She introduced Ed and Forscher to her family.
“That went well,” Ed said, a big grin on his face, after shaking hands all around.
“How can you say that?” Gloriana asked. “We almost had a riot.” She flicked a glance at Forscher, who was also frowning.
“Nonsense,” Ed replied. “A vigorous argument, that’s all. We wanted to start a discussion. I’ll say we did it.”
“We did not really discuss the equation,” Forscher interjected, sounding more than a little peeved. “Or its merits. The ‘discussion’ deteriorated from an explanation into an emotional, unreasonable brawl.”
“What did you expect, that people would accept such a radical change in casting without question or protest?” Gloriana asked, her arms folded in front of her. She had been surprised at some of the reactions, but no way was she going to admit that to him.
Both Ed and Forscher opened their mouths to comment. Before they could speak, another chimed in.
“Hearst! I want to talk to you.” Horner and his wife hurried down the hall toward them, followed by several other audience members, including Mrs. Shortbottom and her cane.
“Damn,” Ed muttered. “You all get out of here. I’ll take care of him.” He walked away to intercept the couple.
“Fine,” Forscher said and faced the Morgans. “It was nice meeting you. Dr. Morgan, we’ll have to continue our discussion another time.” He bowed slightly and, pulling open the ballroom door, walked back into the still-arguing crowd.
Gloriana watched the door close and took a deep breath. At least the debacle was over. “Come on,” she said, rubbing the itch at the end of her breastbone. “Let’s go home.”
CHAPTER
TWO
Marcus shouldered his way through the crowd, stopping only to say a few words when he knew the person. He avoided the group around Pritchart and Brubaker. Outside the ballroom he took the direct line to the escalators.
“Marcus!”
The voice sounded familiar. He glanced around, stopped, turned, and walked back to the caller. As he shook the hand of the man he considered to be his mentor, he said, “George, I’m glad to see you. I didn’t know you were here.”
George Frederick Bernhard laughed. “Wouldn’t have missed it. What a circus! Come on, walk me to my car. I don’t want to get dragged into one of these arguments any more than you do.”
“I always said you could read my mind,” Marcus agreed and let the older man precede him on the escalator. Absurdly pleased George had come, he looked his friend over during the silent ride down. The mathematician certainly didn’t appear to be in his sixties. His sandy brown hair displayed little gray, his brown eyes were sharp, and his wiry frame moved energetically.
Once in the lobby, they walked together to the parking garage elevators. “What did you think of that so-called debate?” Marcus asked.
George snorted. “Some debate. Nobody really addressed your theory or its merits—”
“I agree.”
“—but nobody talked coherently about the larger issues Morgan brought up, either.”
“Everybody had their own agenda,” Marcus said, pushing the elevator button. “Prick certainly did.”
“Prick? Oh, yes, I’d forgotten Pritchart’s nickname. He’s still jealous of you, isn’t he?”
“I have no idea what his problem is,” Marcus said. “He’s been an asshole ever since we were undergrads at MIT.”
“From what I heard in that room, he wants the accolades for your work. He’s trying to take over your formula and lead the charge into the future of mathematical casting.”
“He’s welcome to it if every discussion in public ends up like this disaster.”
The elevator came and they rode up after determining the location of their cars, fortuitously on the same floor.
“What’s with the Horners?” Marcus asked while they walked into the parking garage. “They came out of nowhere. I don’t remember that name in the letters Ed received, and he did show me all of them.”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” George answered. “Their conservatism and opposition to new methods in all fields is well established. They’ve always pushed for a return to ‘basic teaching’—whatever that is—in both magic and non-magic subjects. Here’s my car.” He pushed the button on his key ring, and the locks disengaged with a beep.
Marcus slapped the portfolio holding his speech notes against his leg—the sole expression of frustration he would allow himself even if he did feel like punching the wall. “What I really don’t understand is why Morgan changed the focus of the debate the way she did. I hadn’t mentioned the ‘art’ of casting, or ‘emotions,’ and I certainly did not mention ‘forcing’ someone to use the formula. She never used those terms in her articles.”
“She was probably trying to broaden the scope of the discussion, make it into a conversation everybody could understand. Personally, I think she was right to do that.”
Marcus blinked at that statement. George was on her side? He kept his tone level. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve seen how non-math people react to one of our discussions, especially when we’re tossing around terms like Pritchart and Brubaker were doing?”
“Yeah. Total incomprehension or boredom or both.”
“Exactly. We need to talk in words everyone can understand. Not let them dismiss your equation out of hand as incomprehensible. What will make
or break acceptance of your idea is how it fits into the rest of magic theory and practice. People have to be able to use it consistently and correctly. I think you’ve done good work here. To incorporate it into the fabric of practitioner life won’t be easy, however, with flame throwers like Pritchart antagonizing people on one side and hidebound reactionaries like Horner dragging us back to the Middle Ages on the other.”
“I’ve been saying all along, and tried to make the point tonight, that the equation and its use need study. I never envisioned complete acceptance or complete denial without tests.”
“I didn’t, either,” George acknowledged. “Maybe Ed can restore some calm to the discussion in the next W2 article. Talk to Morgan. She didn’t look happy about tonight’s outcome, either. You might be able to come up with a united front.”
“I’ll think about it,” Marcus said.
They parted with the promise to get together soon for racquetball or chess, or maybe both. As he climbed into his silver BMW, Marcus thought of their last games. In both, they were well matched, but he had the edge on the court. The chessboard was another matter, however. George was the only person besides his father who could defeat him regularly.
He pulled out of the HeatherRidge and headed for his home in the western hills. He’d take Samson on a run before bed. He needed to work off the tension he felt in the back of his neck and shoulders. That so-called discussion had not left him in his usual calm state.
Neither had the sight and sound of his opponent. And if that weren’t bad enough? When he’d leaned over her to tease her about causing the near riot and her spicy floral scent had enveloped him, he had to stop himself from burying his nose in her hair and licking her neck to see if she tasted as good as she smelled.
What in hell was the matter with him? No woman had ever affected him that way, almost made him lose control. He wasn’t going to let it happen again. He wouldn’t take George’s suggestion about talking to her, not on the phone or in person. Communicating by letters and articles was as close as he wanted to get to the woman from this point forward. With a little luck he’d never have to see her again.
A sharp little pain hit him in the middle of his chest. The whole mess was giving him heartburn. He rubbed the small ache before turning up the volume on his latest jazz CD. Yes, a run would definitely do him some good.
Gloriana looked at her family seated around her mother’s kitchen table at their herb and plant farm outside Austin between Smithville and LaGrange. Family gatherings had been infrequent since the holidays, and it did feel good to be back together. She didn’t get over to Houston for a visit with Daria and Bent or Clay and Francie nearly often enough.
She had to admit, her family was a good-looking one. Her father and brother both tall, with black hair and those gray eyes—and the slightly hooked Morgan nose. Thank goodness she and her sister took after their mother. They really looked alike; in fact the only things separating her and Daria were her sister’s short cap of curls and three fewer inches of height.
At least both Daria and Clay had married wonderful mates. Although a non-practitioner, Bent had fit right into the family, and Gloriana thought he was perfect for her sister. His reddish hair contrasted nicely with Daria’s dark chocolate, too. Francie, whose practitioner capabilities had not manifested themselves until her mating with Clay, had been a surprise for them all. Also, Clay certainly had a beautiful mate—all six feet, thick blond hair, and centerfold figure of her.
Everyone was happily eating strawberry shortcake and rehashing the evening’s entertainment, but Gloriana was getting tired of the discussion. She was looking forward to heading for her own house on the other side of the farm.
“I haven’t seen Cal Horner in a long time,” her father said. “He’s as feisty as ever. Have you heard any news about him, Antonia?”
“He’s been pretty quiet, Alaric,” her mother answered. “I think he’s been putting his efforts into non-practitioner matters.”
“Who were those two young guys, the mathematicians?” Bent asked.
“A couple of hotshots with overinflated egos,” Clay muttered. “I remember Pritchart from undergrad days at MIT. His nickname was ‘Prick’ and he lived up to it. Looks like nothing’s changed.”
“Mrs. Shortbottom certainly ‘pricked’ him,” Bent said, and everybody groaned. Daria punched her husband in the arm. Bent grinned.
“Bernice Shortbottom’s been a thorn in everybody’s side except the Horners for years,” her mother observed. “She thinks Cal and Loretta are the saviors of us all.”
“I hate to admit it in the face of family solidarity behind Glori,” Clay said, “but Forscher, Prick, and the rest of the mathematicians may have something with his equation. It may truly become the method of casting.”
Gloriana could only stare at him while she made herself swallow the strawberry in her mouth. Whose side was he on?
Daria, who had nothing in her mouth, took up the gauntlet. “What are you saying? Who was talking the other day about the ‘art’ of casting a computer spell? It certainly wasn’t me or your wife.”
“Yes, who was telling me that I had to develop ‘my own’ casting process, not let myself be swayed by what others do?” Francie asked, waggling her fork at him.
Gloriana smiled to herself. Clay had always been the nemesis of his two sisters. It was nice to see Francie didn’t let him get away with anything, either.
“I think there’s room for both views,” her father said. “If I heard Forscher correctly, what was lost in the yelling was his call for experimentation and study of the equation and its uses. He recognizes the need and said so. Glori, you said, also rightly, if one good spell comes out of the formula, that’s great. I’ll admit, and my attitude may be where Clay is coming from, the equation appeals to the math in me. It may help streamline some of my auditing spells for a company’s books.”
“And my computer spells,” Clay agreed.
“That’s good,” Gloriana said, “as long as we look at the larger picture, too. Which is what I was trying to do, if you heard me correctly. Don’t sweep out the proven and traditional simply for the novelty of Forscher’s formula. People learn differently and cast differently. How many times are we told when we’re first learning to ‘protect our process’? And speaking of process, how are you coming on learning magic, Francie?”
Francie grinned. “Fine. Casting a spell still puts me in a state of awe when I think about what I’m doing, but it’s great fun. It looks like my talents lie with computers, too, only more on the business applications side than the operating programs. Thank goodness. I have no desire to delve into systems architecture like Clay does.”
“Have the genealogists traced your lineage for practitioner blood?” Alaric asked.
“Yes, they’ve found one source, a multi-great-grandmother, and they’re having problems going back farther than her. Moreover, her children aren’t in the registry at all. It’s a tangled family tree.”
“They often are, dear,” Antonia said.
“She lived in a time and place of intense fear of black magic, and her family and descendants may have suppressed or denied their abilities. The consensus of opinion is that, since the talents were dormant in my line for such a long time, I might never have manifested mine without the mating.”
“There’s still much we don’t know about our abilities,” Antonia said with a shake of her head. “Have the teaching masters decided on your potentially highest level yet?”
“Show them your lightball,” Clay encouraged.
“Okay, here goes.” Francie shut her eyes for a moment, opened them, and held out her hand. A glowing green-and-blue streaked ball of light appeared, sitting on her palm. “That’s as high as I’ve been able to push it.”
“The colors put you between levels eight and nine. That’s excellent news,” Alaric said.
“Speaking of news, we have some also,” Daria said. She smiled at Bent, who took her hand and kissed her fingers. “We�
�re going to have a baby!”
“Great!” Clay exclaimed.
“That’s awesome.” Francie clapped.
“Stupendous.” Alaric reached over to shake Bent’s hand.
“Honey, that’s wonderful.” Antonia stood up and came around to give Daria and Bent a big hug. After she sat back down, she stared at Alaric. “Oh, my goodness! You realize that means we’re going to be grandparents!”
The look on her face caused everybody to laugh—except Gloriana.
“I’m going to be an aunt,” she said softly, almost to herself. The news hit her like a tree branch had fallen on her. What was wrong with her? She should be, and was, very happy for them. Why was she so stunned? Almost sad? Even panicked? She picked up her iced tea and swallowed some, partly to wet her dry throat, but mostly to hide behind the glass while she thought over her peculiar reaction.
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.
