Page 68 of Up in Smoke

“A day or three, give or take depending on how his brainstorming goes.” I forced my ears to prick forward. “It was nice having space for about an hour before I faced facts; I actually like my husband and enjoy having him around. Of course, just because he likes the challenge, I’ll pretend like I couldn’t care less he’d wandered off for a few days, but that’s half the fun. Sandro needs some fun now and then, otherwise he gets to be a downright beast. And little is worse than having to keep company with a snarling beast when you’re on the road for weeks at a time.”

“There is something to be said about having independence.”

I had no idea if Mansfield was married, but I pitied his wife if he were; I doubted he understood how to be nurturing even if he wanted to, and he didn’t strike me as the kind to care about nurturing people unless they served his purpose. “Oh, yes. We can take care of ourselves, which is good. But having comfortable company? There’s definitely something to be said for quality companionship. So, he needed to go write some poems, and he wants me to rest and recuperate. I only lasted a few hours, but I did try. In my defense, we’ve been on the road for a while, and I’m still edgy from traveling. One can never be too careful while on the road.”

“Ah, yes. Sandro tells me he’s usually edgy after he’s been on the road for a while, too. Still, I feel rather foolish I hadn’t accounted for his need to write an appropriate poem for the work. You said he’ll be out for three days or so?”

“If things go well,” I replied. “He might need to go out again if he’s not done. The work he wants to do is complicated, and that means he needs a more complicated poem, I guess? And while he loves using poetry written by others, I guess he needs one custom for the work unless he can find the perfect poem. That seems to be what he meant when he was explaining it to me.” I shrugged. “Sandro wants to test if I’m a poet, too, so he’s working on some lessons. Some poets don’t crop up without training. On the other hand, a lot of hybrids are just gene carriers, but he doesn’t know, and him not knowing drives him batty.”

“Ah. You’ve never been tested for abilities in the Alley?”

“Not really. I’m not a scryer,” I lied. “I did have someone run me through those tests. They had heirlooms and other things and they asked me to touch them and concentrate on them. Beyond being really confused, nothing happened, and I don’t have dreams or whatever else scryers have. I hear dreams are common among scryers? Honestly, I don’t tend to dream much at all, and if I do dream, I don’t remember anything.”

“Yes, that’s right. A lot of scryers manifest their abilities in their dreams. Most scryers go mad, anyway, so it’s a blessing you’re not one. The storms,” Mansfield said, gesturing to the clouds in the west. “With the weather becoming even more erratic, scryers tend to succumb to some form of madness within a year or so of being identified. For Sandro’s sake, I am glad to hear you’ve been tested for being a scryer. It wouldn’t surprise me if you’re a missed poet, though. Poets tend to make excellent partners, and you get along well with Sandro. If there’s anything I can do to help with his poetry, do let me know.”

“Some extra paper or journals would be good if you have any; he has a good memory, but I’ve seen him scribble in the dirt with a stick when working on a poem, and I’d like to get him something a little better than a stick and some dirt.”

“Ah, now that is something I can help you with. I’ll come by your home this evening with some things for him he should like. An oversight on my part, so do tell him I’ll make sure he has more time to prepare for his workings. If he’s still writing his poetry in a few days, do feel free to come update me to spare him the stress. If he needs more time to work up an appropriate poem, I can adjust the schedule.”

I forced myself to smile. “I’ll do that.

Mansfield bored me to the brink of death explaining where I might find him, when I might find him, what to do if I couldn’t find him at his usual haunts, and eventually promising he’d swing by around dinner time to bring journals appropriate for a poet.

The storm to the west rumbled and growled, and the normal evening clouds began to brew to the south, too, which brought Mansfield’s lengthy discourse to a halt. “It’s best if you head back down to Asylum. Sandro would be rather displeased if he found out I didn’t send you on home well before the evening storms.”

No kidding. Sandro would lose his shit if he thought Mansfield had put me in danger on purpose.

If I kept forcing myself to smile, I’d hurt myself. “I’ll do that. Don’t tell Sandro this, but it is nice taking it easy for a few days. I’ll take advantage of the quiet and read a book, I think. Have yourself a good afternoon, and I’ll see you around dinner.”

“Accompany her to the entry,” Mansfield ordered one of the guards.

As I would rather keep company with a pissed off rattler, I hauled ass to the entry of Asylum, wished the guard well, and returned home to wait, debating how best to trick Mansfield into revealing his secrets.