Page 41 of Magic for Nothing

“You’re a mouse-trainer?” asked Sam, after a momentary silence. “I didn’t know mice could be trained.”

“Hush, Sam,” said the woman. She looked at me, taking a step closer. “Do you know what you have there, girl?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I’m sorry they left the backpack. They must have felt safe here. They’re used to carnival folk.”

“Oh,” said the woman, in a small voice.

The mice said nothing. Technically, Aeslin mice can’t lie: that’s part of what makes them valuable as a living record. Anything they see or hear, they repeat without modification. Mindy, however, had been training for years to be part of my priesthood, which involved a lot of sharing hotel rooms with the rest of my roller derby team, and thus a lot of keeping her little rodent mouth shut. Mork didn’t share her training, but he’d been surviving in the walls of a Covenant residence without anyone knowing he or his family were there. Both of them knew when to stay quiet. If I was lucky, this woman would take their silence for shyness.

“What are they?” asked Sam.

“Aeslin mice,” I said, meeting his eyes with what I hoped look like a cool lack of concern. “They’re as smart as you or me. Well, as smart as me, anyway. The jury’s out on you.”

His cheeks reddened.

“Please don’t bait my grandson,” said the woman, eyes still on the mice. “He doesn’t do well with being teased.”

“Can we start over, ma’am?” I switched my attention to her. “I really didn’t mean to make any trouble. I just need a place to be, one that’s not out there. I need a carnival.”

“So you do,” she said, and smiled hesitantly. “My name is Emery Spenser. This is my show, as much as it’s anyone’s. You’ve met my grandson, Sam. I can’t offer a place under the big tent without seeing what you can do, but anyone the mice trust is someone we can trust, at least on a trial basis. I . . . I never thought to see their like again. Welcome to the carnival, Miss Brown.”

I smiled as bright as I could. “Thank you for having me,” I said, and the mice cheered while Sam scowled, and everything seemed right in the world.

Twelve

“A full stomach heals most ills. Except for the ills that leave you without internal organs. Those are harder to heal.”

—Evelyn Baker

The Spenser and Smith Family Carnival mess tent, a little after ten

AS WITH MOST SHOWS, the mess tent was both part of the bone yard and apart from it, tucked to one side where the messy business of living wouldn’t interfere with the equally messy business of feeding the whole shebang. Emery led the way across the deserted midway to the mess, chattering the whole time about where they’d acquired this game or when they’d last repaired that ride. She talked like a dotty aunt trying to introduce her entire swarm of semiferal cats, and I adored her for it. Sam trailed behind us, back in his sweatshirt but still barefoot, with a seemingly permanent scowl on his face. It appeared he didn’t trust me.

It was almost a pity I couldn’t tell him how good his instincts were. They’d serve him well, assuming the show survived my time with it—and its potential future encounter with the Covenant of St. George.

There were people up and moving around when we reached the mess. Two were peeling potatoes; a third was setting up a row of coffee urns that wouldn’t have looked out of place at a Starbucks. From the smell of it, they were all dispensing the same brew: black, hot, and strong enough to strip paint. The urge to get a cup was strong. Jet lag might have gotten me out of bed, but it couldn’t keep me there, and a wave of exhaustion was teetering over me, threatening to bring me crashing to the ground.

“Have you eaten?” asked Emery. She took a seat at one of the long collapsible plastic picnic tables. Sensing that the interview was about to begin, I sat across from her. The mice ran down my arm and sat, primly, in front of me.

“No, ma’am,” I said. “I got off the bus and came pretty much straight here.”

“You allergic to anything? Gluten free, non-dairy, any of the usual restrictions?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Glad to hear it. We respect dietary needs—we have to, if we don’t want to kill people by mistake—but we’re not set up for anything catastrophic. Sam, get the lady a plate and a cup of coffee.”

“Okay, Grandma,” said Sam, and skulked off, pausing only to shoot a glare at me.

“You’ll have to forgive my grandson; he doesn’t like strangers,” said Emery.

“Huh,” I said. “Well, I don’t much like strangers either, so I guess I can’t blame him. You’re his grandmother?”

“Yes. His mother, my daughter, left us a long time ago. Don’t look so distressed—she didn’t die, she left. She couldn’t deal with certain realities of her life as a mother, and she felt I was better equipped. Her loss, as I always tell Sam.” Emery fixed me with a steely gaze. The pleasantries were over. “How about you, Miss . . . Timpani, wasn’t it? Do you have any family?”

“None to speak of at the moment, ma’am,” I said. “I’ve been on my own for a while now.”

She glanced at the mice, clearly checking to see if they were upset by what I was saying. Using Aeslin mice as a living polygraph was clever. Unfortunately for her, nothing I was saying was technically a lie. The mice wouldn’t have reacted even if they’d been less well-trained than mine were. That’s the beauty of being the gray child. I knew how to color outside the lines.