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“Sherlock Holmes,” my grandfather said approvingly. “The one which remains, in this case, is her alchemy and its lingering effects.”
Which meant the delusions, one way or the other, were Sorcha’s fault.
Ethan’s phone beeped again. He checked it, then looked at my grandfather with a worried expression that didn’t give me any comfort. “The Tribune interviewed the woman who was on the roof after the fact,” he said. “She said there were forty people watching the battle.”
“They couldn’t evacuate all the high-rises near the battle site,” my grandfather said. “There wasn’t enough time or manpower.”
“What about Winston?” I asked. “Do we know if he was near Towerline?”
“We don’t,” my grandfather said.
“We need to talk to him about that, and about what he’s hearing,” I said. “We need to figure out what’s happening before anyone else is hurt.”
Ethan nodded. “If physical proximity to Sorcha’s alchemy is the trigger for the delusions, we have a very big problem. We’ll see more delusions, more violence.”
Catcher took the last bite of dog, wiped his hands, rolled up his napkin. “We’ll cross our fingers that these people were more exposed or differently exposed.” He looked at my grandfather. “But we’ll have to tell the mayor it’s possible there will be more incidents. She’ll need to be prepared—and to have medics at the ready, law enforcement standing by.”
“I’m less than enthused about giving her those directions.”
Catcher chuckled. “That’s why they pay you the big bucks, Chuck.”
“And give you the title and the van,” I pointed out.
My grandfather huffed. “Those are hardly worth it.” He glanced at my meal appraisingly. “But a bite of that might be worth it. Is that a Funyun?”
“Damn right, it is,” I said with a grin, and slid the leftovers toward him. “Excellent taste is clearly genetic.”
“I question several things about that statement,” Ethan said. “But considering our circumstances, I’ll hold them back.”
My grandfather picked up his fork, blew snow off the picnic table before pulling my dinner the rest of the way, began to dig out a forkful of Garbage Dog.
“So,” I said, “to summarize, we think the delusions are some kind of latent effect of Sorcha’s work at Towerline. And the snow?”
“The wards sounded,” Catcher said. “And it’s still fifty degrees out here, and not falling from an actual cloud. So it’s active magic. Snow-adjacent magic.”
“‘Snow-adjacent’?” my grandfather asked.
“Too warm, no clouds,” I said. “It’s falling like snow, but it’s not created the same way.”
“Exactly,” Catcher said.
“So she’s not really manipulating the weather,” my grandfather said.
; “Your terms are acceptable,” I said with equal gravity.
Shaking his head but resigned to his fate, Ethan peeled off another bill, passed it through the window.
“You two are cute together,” the vendor said, passing a foam cup through the window. “You should get married.”
Ethan held up his hand, light glinting off his engraved band. “Already done.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
