by Ann Macela
“It doesn’t matter. I have approval and support from the heads of the High and Defender Councils. Our shared goal is to have as many different people as possible take part or at least attend. Nobody wants to listen to Horner or Pritchart for five weeks in a row.”
“They’ll manage to infiltrate somehow, I think,” Gloriana said, “and my e-mail indicates they have followers all over the country.”
“Mine, also,” Forscher added.
“Believe me, we know,” Ed answered with a groan. “They’re inundating us with mail and phone calls.”
“We have some questions to ask the audience that might lead to our gathering real data and good suggestions,” Forscher said.
“Yes,” Gloriana interjected. “We thought if we could focus on the discussion, we might be able to stop some of the speeches.”
“Sounds good,” Ed remarked.
“We also thought we might give both sides only three minutes at the beginning of the first meeting to say whatever they wanted to say,” she said.
“I like your ideas,” Ed replied. “Let me make a suggestion. Rehearse your statements, questions, and answers. Practice with each other. You need to be focused and clear. You’re both used to public speaking, so that’s not a problem, but I’ve seen a message lost when the messenger was too wordy or too obtuse or too long-winded.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” Forscher replied. “I’d like to be ready for various contingencies.”
Gloriana didn’t agree. They both knew what they wanted to say, she had too much work to do to waste time, and the main problem would be keeping order. Ed was the one who needed rehearsing. She couldn’t get out of it, however, without appearing to be an obstructionist. After all, she did have to work with both of them over the weeks to come.
If she was stuck, she knew she didn’t want to rehearse with Forscher alone in a room—too much proximity for comfort—so she said, “We’d do best with an audience to critique us and do some role-playing. I’m sure my parents would agree. Is there somebody you can ask? Say, meet out at the farm?”
“Yes, I have a colleague and his wife who might be willing to help out.”
“Great,” Ed said. “I’ll take a look at your questions and see what I can add. You two rehearse, and I’ll send the details for the trips.”
“I’ll call my parents as soon as we end here,” Gloriana said. “How about next Saturday or Sunday?”
Forscher agreed, and they all promised to send e-mails when they had more information.
Gloriana hung up the phone and took a deep breath. Her parents and his friends should make enough of a buffer between them to keep the soul-mate business from rearing its head.
She called her mother, who was happy to help and who, of course, told her to invite everyone for lunch with rehearsal to follow. They chose Sunday, and Gloriana was to find out the names of the friends for her mother. Austin had grown fast in recent years, and the Morgans could no longer say they were acquainted with most of the practitioners in the area.
Gloriana dutifully promised to report all and hung up before her mother could say a word about … that awful term. What had she and Daria called it when they were erroneously deciding it didn’t exist? Oh, yes. “X.”
“X” could wait. She had work to do.
“You’ve done what? Who’s coming?” Gloriana stared at her mother on Friday morning. She’d driven out to the farm intending to spend as much time as possible in the greenhouses. She had reports to write on the progress of her research, and she wanted to see how her mother was coming along on a variety of the parsley-like gotu kola they’d recently imported from India. She’d found Antonia puttering around with the plants in her greenhouse for experimental herbs.
“Your sister and brother and their spouses will be here tomorrow. Daria called to ask about a recipe, and I told her what we’re doing. It seemed to me that the more in the audience, the better. Clay will make a good representative for the math people and that Pritchart fellow. Daria and I can hold up the Horners’ side.” She indicated the plant before her. “Isn’t it coming along nicely?”
Gloriana ignored the dark green leaves. “Forscher’s bringing his fellow math prof, whose wife is an elementary teacher, so we’ll have more than enough …” Her voice trailed off when she realized her protests were in vain. The Houston four were coming, period. “Okay, fine. We’ll have our own town hall meeting. I told you I think a rehearsal is a big waste of everybody’s time. I do have one serious request. Please don’t say one word about that soul-mate ‘thing.’“
“Of course not, dear, that’s your business.”
Her matter-of-fact tone should have reassured Gloriana, but the look on her mother’s face was a little too innocent. She gave her a squinty-eyed glare. “You haven’t told them already, have you? Or Daddy hasn’t told them, has he?”
“I did not mention the words soul mate. Neither did your father.”
“Good.” She knew Daria wouldn’t break her promise to keep quiet. Maybe her secret was still safe. In fact, the extra guests might be a benefit, placing more of a buffer between her and Forscher. She wouldn’t have to do more than participate in the rehearsal and let the others keep him busy. The thought cheered her up, and she could turn her attention to her mother’s new project with enthusiasm.
CHAPTER
TEN
“Get in the car, Delilah,” Gloriana said to the hound on Sunday morning after she arranged the blankets on the front seat of her Mercedes convertible. “We’re driving today in case I have to come looking for you and Samson later.”
Delilah grunted and jumped into the bucket seat.
Gloriana shut the door, came around the car, and slid behind the wheel. She pulled the blanket tighter between the seat and the middle console before starting the engine. “Looks like we need one of those doggy covers like Forscher had,” she said. “Maybe one of the harnesses, too. You wouldn’t be able to jump out when I have the top down.”
Delilah only whined as if to say, “Let’s go.”
“I hope I’m presentable—for his friends, I mean,” Gloriana muttered as she approached the first turn. She had on her new pair of khaki chinos—no dirt smudges—and a dark green, short-sleeved, summer cotton sweater. She’d even put on jewelry, silver drop earrings inlaid with malachite and a necklace with a matching pendant.
She simply wanted the day over with. To have to face Forscher, his friends, and her family while thinking—or trying not to think—about the whole situation was almost too much to bear. Nobody had said a word last night about the dreaded “X,” but a certain tension simmered under the conversation. She knew they all knew, no matter what her mother had or hadn’t told them. They’d all be scrutinizing her and Forscher. Her brother especially would be watching for some tiny tidbit, some minute fact or statement or blunder with which to tease her.
She’d warned her father about her lack of enthusiasm and his need as “Ed” to keep order, even firmly stated that she’d walk out if the rehearsal degenerated into a debacle. He’d scoffed at her fears, said they all had her best interests at heart, and promised to watch out for Clay. All she could do was hope for the best.
One conclusion cheered her as she pulled up in front of the big house: her supposed “X” had no idea they might be in the clutches of the SMI—or she hoped not. In fact, they might truly not be “that thing” to each other, no matter what her parents claimed. He certainly wasn’t calling her, asking her out, pursuing her the way Bent and Clay had with Daria and Francie. Therefore, they weren’t, and she had nothing to worry about. She wasn’t about to be shackled forever to someone who was her direct opposite.
Thinking optimistically, if everybody behaved themselves today and concentrated on getting through this idiotic rehearsal, she could be back in the greenhouses by late afternoon. Free, at least for a while.
She and Delilah had barely climbed out of the car when the dog came to attention and looked toward the road to the highway. Glo
riana quickly grabbed her collar and gazed in the same direction. Two cars, one of them Forscher’s silver sedan, appeared, and Delilah began to yodel and tried to lunge at the vehicles.
“Hold still, girl.” Gloriana dug her heels in and held on with both hands. “Sometimes I think I should enter you in the tractor pull at the county rodeo.”
Forscher parked and got out. “Hey,” was all he said as he opened his back door and reached in to Samson, whom Gloriana could hear whining. Within seconds, the hound was free, and Gloriana let Delilah go.
The dogs yodeled and nuzzled hello to each other, but didn’t run off. Instead, they stood still as if politely waiting for the other guests.
Not perceptively looking any happier than she felt, Forscher came to stand by her while the other car parked. Of course, he was still Mr. Perfect, today in a crisp dusty-red button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and black casual pants with a sharp crease. The sun caught the almost silver highlights in his blond hair, and she had to shut off the trite comparisons to gods and surfers her mind conjured up. He wore sunglasses, so she couldn’t see his eyes. She could, however, feel his gaze, that strange mix of ice and fire.
She suppressed a shiver. Just nerves, she told herself.
The older couple exited their car and, when Forscher didn’t move, Gloriana went to greet them. At least she had been taught to be polite. “Hi, I’m Gloriana Morgan. Welcome to our farm.”
She shook hands with George and Evelyn, who said to call them by their first names. Delilah and Samson trotted up to say hello. George said, “You must be Delilah!” and he leaned down to let her sniff his hand before petting her.
“Hello, Marcus,” Evelyn said and gave the man a hug when he finally came to them.
Forscher took off his sunglasses and did his chameleon bit, but Gloriana could tell he wasn’t faking the affection he felt for these people. Neither were they pretending. Her family came out on the porch and the next few minutes were full of introductions. She stepped to the rear and followed everyone into the house.
During the buffet lunch, Gloriana snagged a chair at the extended dining room table between Daria and her father before her mother could make seating assignments. Forscher was across the table and down. Good. She didn’t have to try to make conversation with him.
After the usual first minutes of tasting and complimenting the chefs—her mother and sister had done most of the cooking—talk became general. Gloriana concentrated on her fajita salad and the others’ conversations. Daria discussed education with Evelyn and their father. George and her mother had their heads together, and she was pointing to a dish, so they were probably talking about cooking. Forscher and Clay reminisced about MIT and the infamous “Prick,” while Bent and Francie listened.
Good. All was serene. Or was it?
The mathematician was clearly in “charming” mode again. Francie shot an eyebrows-raised glance between him and Gloriana and back again. She waved her hand at her face in a fanning motion and mouthed, “Wow.” Gloriana rolled her eyes at her sister-in-law and shook her head. Some women were pushovers for a pretty face, she fumed behind her iced tea glass.
When Daria whispered in her ear, “Yum,” and nodded at the man, Gloriana seriously considered pouring her tea into her sister’s lap. She refused to even glance at Clay; she knew he was grinning.
“All right,” her father said when it looked like everyone had finished eating, “I’m going to suggest we have dessert after our debate while we’re discussing the results. Let’s get our rehearsal under way.”
Everyone adjourned to the living room. Her father, Clay, and Bent had the room already set up, with chairs arranged auditorium-style and a table and chairs for her, Forscher, and Alaric. Daria and Antonia, representing the THA, sat to her right; Clay and George, the FOM on the left; and Bent, Francie, and Evelyn in the undecided middle.
While the audience settled, Gloriana pulled her father close and whispered, “Let’s concentrate and get through this, Daddy. Clay has that look like he’s planning something. We don’t need another circus.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll watch out for Clay. We’ll have a nice, decorous rehearsal. You’ll see, it won’t have been a waste of time.”
Alaric explained the rules: opening statements by Gloriana and Forscher, three minutes each for the THA and FOM, questions from the speakers, order to be preserved at all times. Did everybody agree? Everybody nodded.
Forscher began with a short statement explaining his equation and both the need for its study and the future benefits likely from its use. He did not repeat his “cauldron-stirring” comment from the past, but he did call for looking forward, reducing emotion, and developing a scientific casting method.
When he finished, he did not look at Gloriana at all. No smirk. No icy glance. Thank goodness.
In basically a shortened version of her previous remarks, Gloriana discussed spell-casting in terms of art, joy, and tradition, agreed new professions required new wizardry, and asked all practitioners to keep open minds. She urged them to synthesize all methods into the one that worked the best for themselves as individuals.
Alaric called on Daria for the THA side, and Clay interrupted. “Why should they go first?” he asked, rising with a scowl on his face and his fists on his hips. “Who decided that?”
Gloriana was happy Clay was only acting, because when her truly angry brother stood up to his full six feet five, he was a formidable force. She glanced over at Forscher who, to his credit, didn’t appear intimidated. In fact, he didn’t even blink. He did, however, frown and say, “We didn’t think of that reaction.”
“Objection noted. We’ll tell Ed to have them flip a coin first,” Alaric said, writing a few words on his legal pad. He looked at his watch and pointed. “You’re on, Daria.”
Clay sat down and Daria stood, looking thoroughly prepared with notes in hand. “I am here today to speak for all those who treasure our historical, traditional methods of casting spells,” she said and proceeded to lay out a coherent and organized argument for the THA side. At two minutes thirty seconds precisely as reported by the moderator, she sat down to applause from Antonia and the three in the middle. A couple of low growls came from Clay and George.
Gloriana suppressed a smile. Her sister should have been a lawyer instead of a management consultant. If only the Horners and their people would be succinct and reasonable.
“Now for the FOM,” Alaric said.
Clay rose with that smart-alecky, here-comes-trouble expression she remembered well from childhood. “We at the Future of Magic are greatly concerned about the backward-looking activities of our more tradition-minded practitioners,” he began with a pompous tone. Then he proceeded to make an emotional argument about unemotional spell-casting, combining the traditionalist’s fear of the new with the joys of scientific efficiency and regularization.
Gloriana couldn’t resist smiling at Clay’s antics. His so-called arguments sounded good, but had little real reasoning behind them. More invective than substance—probably what they could expect from the FOM.
Alaric said, “Time,” at the end of three minutes. Clay kept talking.
“Your time is over, sir. Sit down,” Alaric said again, and he rapped his pen on the table.
Clay stopped talking, grinned like an evil demon older brother, and sat down. He and George high-fived each other.
“Next we’re going to try questions and proposals from our panelists. If you audience members wish to comment, raise your hand, and I’ll call on you. You’ll be limited to two minutes each.” Alaric wrote something on his paper, and muttered, “Stopwatch for Ed. You go first, Glori.”
“I’d like to start at the most basic, a bedrock principle. Casting is an individual art. How can we help the individual practitioner discover the best way for him or her to cast with the most effect?” she asked.
Alaric recognized Evelyn who said, “I’d call for the teaching masters to study how each practitioner learned casting and to
apply that knowledge in a curriculum tailored to the individual.”
Good idea, Gloriana thought. As she’d looked into the matter, she’d been astounded how little even teaching masters knew about harnessing the energy within to cast that very important first spell. Once he or she had cast one spell, the rest seemed to follow, or that’s what had happened with Francie. She herself couldn’t remember not being able to cast.
George spoke next. “We futurists believe full development of the Forscher Formula will make casting considerably simpler and more straightforward. The traditionalists, with all their talk about emotion and art, are only confusing both the issue and many practitioners.” He went on to extol the virtues of a single method for casting—without all the unscientific talk about art and emotion—until Alaric called time.
Gloriana could hear the implied approval for the FOM supporters and the disparaging sneer for Horner’s group, and she struggled not to laugh. George was certainly getting into the spirit of the occasion. She felt her mouth tighten when she realized he hadn’t really addressed her question. On the other hand, his response was probably what they could expect.
Francie held up her hand, and Alaric nodded. “Speaking as one who came late to magic practice, I have to say, it’s hard to cast a spell. I had to try several methods before I found one I could use. I’m definitely a novice, and I don’t think I could use the formula, or even its terms. On the other hand, seeing that flame appear right on top of a candlewick is absolutely exhilarating and totally emotional.”
“Are you being a traitor to your husband’s cause, woman?” Clay thumped his hand on his chest as if from a mortal wound.
Francie stuck out her tongue at him, and Bent laughed.
“Order,” Alaric said and tapped his pen on the table. “Let’s go on to the next topic. Ask your question, Marcus.”
“My question concerns the equation itself,” Forscher said. “A number of you believe it has value. How can we specifically study its application to determine its best use?”