Only One Way

You have never seen Mrs. Ito frown before. This is a day full of surprises, isn’t it.

“What’s wrong, Omnimancer?” Your neighbor gives you a gentle tug, pulling you into her house rather than taking the medicinal you brewed for her. “You look rather unnerved.”

You make a sound that is not quite a laugh. You’re about to reply with something anodyne—just tired, that’s all—when she adds, with devastating sincerity, “Can I help?”

“I wish you could” is definitely not what you should say to that. But you have a piece of paper in your pocket that confirms everything Zara Zamora has ever said about the government (“of the wizards, by the wizards, for the wizards,” she shouted on one memorable occasion) and the plaintive words just tumble out.

Mrs. Ito pats your arm. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

You’re pretty certain that wouldn’t have worked on you if it were anyone else in town. (Well, anyone besides the bane/North Star of your existence, but that hardly needs pointing out.) Mrs. Ito made you soup when you were sick last winter and cold medicine wasn’t quite doing the trick, magic notwithstanding. She drags you out of the house for walks. She taught you how to knit.

She once said (with a smile, of course) that she sure appreciated what you did, even if she agreed with “that brilliant Miss Zamora” that wizards shouldn’t have more rights than everyone else.

You don’t remember what you said to that, except that it wasn’t nearly as honest as you’re being now, sitting on her light pink couch with your head in your hands.

“What do I do?” you ask finally, staring at her threadbare rug. “I know it’s true, but this note is hardly smoking-gun evidence. If I tell Miss Zamora, ten to one she wouldn’t believe me. And if she did, she’d have no real evidence to prove it to anyone else.”

Mrs. Ito hums, still frowning. “I think she’d believe you.”

You make the most skeptical of noises. “We have a history.”

Now her lips are twitching. “A history of pulling each other’s pigtails.”

You’ve never said a thing to her about Zara Zamora. What, you wonder, had Zara Zamora said to her about you?

“But think about the various things you could do about this,” she advises without waiting for a response, “and then you can sort out whether it’s better for her to know—or not.”  

You’re about to say something mildly impertinent about how a respected Women’s League for the Prohibition of Magic volunteer really shouldn’t be floating the idea of keeping intelligence from her chapter president. But then it hits you.

The thing you could do, the very dodgy thing that would require an or not approach.

The very dodgy thing that isn’t technically against the law—you think, anyway—but would certainly land you in hot water if it came out.

You’re going to have to look very carefully at your legal reference books to make sure this couldn’t end in criminal charges. And think about how best to keep it from Southgate, that villain. And figure out whether to tell Miss Zamora much later or simply never.

(You consider the possibility that telling her would bring an end to the sniping, elbowing, bantering, out of a misplaced sense of debt, and—no, no, no. You can’t risk that. You may only have metaphorical pigtails, but you want her to pull them with a desperation you would never admit to anyone, least of all her.)

“Thank you,” you say to your second-favorite person in town. “I’ll take your advice and think. May I come back in the morning to get your opinion on my plans?”

“I will be quite put out if you don’t,” Mrs. Ito says, and now she’s wearing one of her many smiles. This one seems appropriate for a conspiracy. Nobody expects eighty-year-old widows to collude against the government, but perhaps they should.

You hand her the medicinal in its smoky bottle as you both stand, and she surprises you again by giving you a hug. You put a careful arm around her. She always looks as if a stiff wind might blow her over, never mind that you’ve witnessed her walk upwards of three miles without tiring.

“If I’d ever had grandchildren—or children, for that matter—I’d want one like you,” she says, and it’s a good thing she can’t see anything but your chest at the moment because your expression is embarrassing. You rein in the prickle of tears, open your mouth to reply that you would very much appreciate an honorary abuelita, but then memories of your last honorary abuelita hit and—oh no.

She catches you wiping your eyes as she pulls away, but the soft look she gives you suggests your reaction is more meaningful than any words you could have wrangled up.

“Go think,” she says, making little shooing motions. “Let me know how I can help, when you’re ready. Oh, and Omnimancer?”

You’re at the door now. You turn back. “Santiago.”

The smile she smiles is her best one. “Santiago, then. Whatever you tell Zara about this, do tell her how you feel, won’t you?”

You feel giddy whenever you see her.

You feel a rush of adrenaline whenever she challenges you.

You feel increasingly certain that the only way to guarantee you don’t lose what you have with her—such that it is—is to maintain the status quo as if your life depends on it.

“I’ve no idea what you might mean,” you say primly and leave before she can winkle any admissions out of you.

And there—stepping onto Mrs. Ito’s doorstep like your thoughts conjured her up—is Zara Zamora. Those dark eyes that never miss anything are widening.

Por Dios. Could she have overheard anything through the door?

But her voice is perfectly calm as she says, “Third time. Are you anticipating where I’m going today just to annoy me, Omnimancer Díaz?”  

You smirk at her even as you internally heave a sigh of relief. She was just surprised to see you. The status quo is safe.

“Predicting the future is not one of my many skills,” you say. And yes, you emphasize the many just to annoy her. (A snort behind you is a reminder to finish closing the door to cut off Mrs. Ito’s access to this conversation.) “Perhaps I should ask if you’re tailing me today in the hopes of catching me doing something unbefitting of an upstanding wizard.”

“An upstanding wizard,” she says, raising a chin as sharp as her elbows, “is oxymoronic.”

You put a hand to your chest in mock offense. “You assert there’s not even one?”

“Certainly none I’m aware of.”

Your smile widens because that’s the attack you were counting on, and you have the perfect riposte: “Oh? Beatrix Blackwell might have something to say to that.”

She simply raises her eyebrows. “Before they fell in love, Peter Blackwell leaned on her employer to lay her off and then made her work for him. I’m not sure ‘upstanding’ is quite the word. ‘Atoning,’ perhaps. Or ‘reformed.’ Or ‘finally self-aware enough to attempt to be less of a cad.’”

“Mm.” You think of what Peter Blackwell did to help the League and feel something—anticipation or anxiety or some combination of the two—shiver down your spine. “But all League leaders, of course, are perfection itself.”

Zara Zamora’s cheeks go a dark pink when you annoy her in just the right way. It is your favorite thing. It’s happening now, and—well, you’re certainly not upstanding, whatever else you may be. You show her your worst tendencies. You suspect she shows you hers, parts of her no one else gets to see.

“Comparatively speaking, yes,” she bites out. “For one simple reason.”

“Oh? Enlighten me.”

“Power corrupts, and you have all of it.”

You know she means you in the collective sense. Wizards. But she’s wrong on both levels, even if she’s right about the yawning gap undermining every ideal the country is supposed to represent.

“I wouldn’t dismiss power if I were you, Miss Zamora,” you say, sweeping past her, making her turn, making her react. “I think you have more of it than you realize.”

You leave on that thought with the satisfaction of the final word. Only later, researching the consequences for what you intend to do tomorrow, does it occur to you that you may have revealed a little too much.