Page 69 of Up in Smoke

Waiting for news might drive me mad.

Sunday, June 28, 2043.

Tulsa, Oklahoma.

The Alley.

While I would never matchSandro in the kitchen, I’d learned a trick or two from my time working at McCoy’s Bar & Grill. I also remembered some of what my mother had taught me as a child. Aware Mansfield would be paying me a visit around time for dinner to be served, I decided to prepare a meal for two and have the leftovers for in the morning if he didn’t show up when I expected. If the power went out, I’d plunder the meal from the refrigerator before it went bad and end up with two dinners, which served my purposes well.

If Mansfield decided to eat with me, I’d be ready for him, and I wouldn’t bring shame to the Moretti name. I wouldn’t bring shame to the Tamrin name, either, but after having sold me out to line their pockets, my parents could go choke on horse shit for all I cared.

Sandro might miss the meat, but cooking chicken breasts was something I could handle with grace. With some olive oil, some of the spices I’d scavenged, and potatoes, I’d hold my own. And if I ate enough for two, I’d blame my need to heal for my act of gluttony. Then again, by the time Mansfield came and went, I’d likely eat enough for two due to my growing anxiety over the whole matter.

Even understanding Sandro controlled the storm to the west to search for survivors in the crater, I worried.

I could only hope Mansfield couldn’t tell who was making a mess of the area around Shady Grove—and that he lacked any scryers capable of identifying Sandro. Then again, for all I knew, Sandro had a way of disguising himself from scryers with his magic.

Only time would tell.

Waiting for news might drive me mad.

Cooking dinner did a decent enough job of distracting me, and I suspected someone listened in and reported to Mansfield on my activities, as he managed to time his arrival right after I finished but before I had a chance to sit down and eat. His knocking made me want to fling something across the kitchen, but rather than indulge, I made certain the stove was off before going to greet my unwanted visitor.

Mansfield had come alone, and he carried a box with him. “Mrs. Moretti,” he greeted.

“Mr. Mansfield,” I replied, opening the door for him, wondering if I should have put Frankie’s boxes in the storage room rather than leave them neatly packed in the living room. “I just finished dinner. It turns out I’m bad at making meals for one, so there’s plenty if you’d like to join me.”

“Actually, yes, if you don’t mind.”

I claimed the box from him, wondering if he’d made the journals out of lead, and set it on the coffee table alongside some of the other packages, some of which were still wrapped. “Do come on in. Please don’t mind the mess. A close friend passed recently, and she had me in her will, and it seems she had acquired birthday and Christmas presents before her passing. I haven’t quite been able to bring myself to open them yet.” I shrugged, flicking an ear back. “I’m sure you know how that goes. The kitchen’s this way.”

Playing hostess left a foul taste in my mouth, and I contemplated digging Sandro’s salsa out of the fridge to purge it. I resisted the urge, as I might have to share with Mansfield, and he didn’t deserve even a sniff of my prized salsa. While I had no idea how the rich and famous handled dinner, I treated him like the Morettis had treated me, sitting him down and serving him, getting him a glass of water as there was no way in hell I would sacrifice any of the tea Sandro had gotten his hands on. Once I’d taken care of my unwanted guest, I served myself, pleased I’d gotten the amount for two just right, and I sat. “Thank you for bringing the writing supplies. I’m sure Sandro will appreciate it once he finishes that poem he’s working on.”

Mansfield smiled, and the man reminded me of a hungry shark. “It isn’t like me to make a blatant oversight like that. Unfortunately, most poets use the works of others to perform their magic, and while I know Sandro is advanced for a poet, it hadn’t occurred to me he would need to actually write poetry for the structural improvements.”

“The more complicated the working, the more specific the poem needs to be, or so he’s led me to believe. He has a bunch of little poems for everything.” I’d gotten a legitimate demonstration of how he could change a poem for a working for a different effect even though his intent remained the same. I pointed at the cabinets he’d polished with his magic to show me one of his tricks after he’d cleared the place of bugs. “See how the far cabinet is glossier than its neighbor?”

Mansfield twisted around to check, and then he nodded. “I do.”

“He has a poem to help him care for the wood; it’s precious here, so he wants it in the best condition, so he has a poem that he uses for that task. He showed me how just changing a small part of the poem can make a big difference. The glossier cabinet was done with the altered poem. He said it would wear off in time, and he’d polish them to be uniform next time. He wants to explain the principles of poetry before he tries to find out if I am a poet, too. After that, he’s going to test me for other types of magic.”

“Do you have the genetics for it?” Mansfield asked, raising a brow.

“I have the genetics to potentially develop all types of magic,” I announced, forcing myself to act like I cared I was a good gene carrier. “It’s part of why the Moretti family wanted to secure our marriage.” As the truth could serve as an excellent weapon, I added, “His mother investigated upon learning of our conditional contract here, and when she checked my lineage, she was determined to convince me to put up with him. Fortunately for her, we’ve been developing a good friendship. As such, we both signed the appropriate documentation and decided we’d make the most of our situation.” As I had zero idea what the protocol was for having dinner with an egotistical idiot, I started with my mashed potatoes, pleased I hadn’t lost my ability to handle basic cooking tasks without adult supervision. “Sandro’s a better cook than I am, but I can get by, so he hasn’t required cooking lessons. Yet. I’m sure that’s coming. Good enough isn’t good enough for him. If I’m not equal to him, he wants me to become equal to him. The reverse also applies.”

Mansfield followed my lead with eating, which seemed ridiculous to me. Once Sandro wandered back to Asylum, I’d have to ask him about the man’s behavior.

“And you are all right with that?”

His question startled me enough I lifted my head, blinked, and asked, “Why wouldn’t I be all right with that? I’m not domestic. He certainly wouldn’t have married a fox if he wanted someone domestic. He wants a partner and a companion, someone who can do things he can’t while we’re traveling. He loves to roam, and while we’ll have duties to our family, he plans to travel a lot before his parents retire. Even after they retire, the Morettis travel a lot. A sedentary wife would go mad within a year. She’d see him maybe once a year, and that’s just not good for a relationship. I’ll have to do some schooling, but I have the base qualities needed to help run the household once his parents retire.”

“Oh?”

I allowed myself a smile, raised a finger and said, “I am good with finances. I’m so used to working with small budgets to do impossible tasks that I have a good eye for large-scale finances, too. I have a solid understanding of how to make money work. Sandro is better at business finances, but I’m better at identifying what important expenditures are, how much should be budgeted for them, and so on.” I lifted a second finger. “I open doors for them with other hybrids. Because I’m a hybrid, I understand the challenges hybrids face, and I come from a moderate family and have scavenged. As such, I am easier for hybrids to accept compared to someone wealthy like Sandro, who has no relevant experience with the challenges faced by the poor.” I lifted a third finger. “Sandro’s mother is sentimental, and she realized we like each other. His mother? She’ll burn down the entire planet if it means she can make her family happy. However unusual our meeting was, it turns out we just fit well with each other.”

For a rare change, I gave my fox credit; she’d had the right instinct when it came to Sandro. Of course, she also liked most men to cross her path, although the furry pervert had been more determined to catch the hot ass bounty hunter than normal for her. With him secured, she had no use for any other men, which appealed to my nature.

I appreciated I wouldn’t need to fight her for the entirety of my life.