For reasons you can probably guess, I’ve grown accustomed to sleeping lightly while out on the road.

  There are plenty of good reasons to do so, far too many to list, but the downside is I have trouble sleeping anywhere unfamiliar until staying put for a few days. Case in point, I still ain’t all that used to sleeping over at Josie’s, which is how I know she cries in her sleep some nights while clutching me tightly. Noora’s another restless sleeper, and I don’t need to guess at why, but even she don’t wake as quickly as I do when faced with unexpected noises.

  And there are plenty of those in the Mueller household this fine early morning, with the orange-red sun barely peeking out from over the horizon. My guestroom don’t got a window overlooking the lake, but the people of Mueller’s Quay cleared out a whole swathe of forest to make room for their ranches out back. Makes for a right lovely landscape in the early morning light, with honey skies and white grass that almost glows with a reddish tint all framed in with neat fences and a row of tall trees along the village perimeter. Ain’t the view I’m concerned with though, as there’s movement a foot in the house. Lots of it, as the heavyset Mueller’s ain’t ones to step lightly, stomping on down the hardwood hallways like a herd of muskari across the steppes. Early risers considering the sun is only halfway over the horizon, which seems odd given their lacking work ethic.

  Then again, given the size of their meals, I suppose cooking is a full-time job. Not that I’m complaining. A few weeks of work here and maybe folks will stop mentioning how bone thin I am every time we meet…

  There’s a mantle clock in the guestroom that reads just after 6 am, which is far too early for me, so I lay back down in bed and try to go back to sleep. It’s a right comfortable mattress, stuffed with duck down if I ain’t mistaken. The blanket is the same, a set of soft cotton sheets the likes of which I’ve never seen, and the pillow is just the right height and firmness for my tastes. All of which goes to show how the Mueller’s are truly thriving, seeing how most in New Hope don’t got half these luxuries. Your typical house only has the one clock, or no clocks at all, and most would much rather use their precious, breathable cotton for their church clothes rather than their bedsheets. As for the duck down, that’s a real bourgeois twist, as ain’t no one figured out how to domesticate them mean, ornery waterbirds who supposedly make Métis geese seem downright friendly in comparison.

  Seriously though. Even Ron didn’t have it half this nice, and the man must’ve been raking in money hand over fist if Mr. Mueller knew about Vanguard National.

  Try as I might to go back to sleep, there’s no turning back once the bubble of lethargy has been popped. Doesn’t help that it ain’t just one or two people sneaking about, but rather the whole household heading downstairs and out the door to do Lord knows what at this most unholy of hours. Plus I need to bleed the lizard, so once all the hubbub dies down and there ain’t no more stomping about, I sneak out to the bathroom and do my business while idly wondering why they’d be up so early. They got some farmland, but nothing so pressing that would require the whole family to get up and about, nor did I see them head out back to tend to the cattle and hoggidillas. They don’t strike me as the hunting or trapping type neither, and I doubt they’re going fishing, not with the moratorium on boats out in the lake. Luckily for me, the bathroom got a window that faces out towards the lake, so once I’m done with my business, I peek out to see if there’s anything worth noting.

  Turns out, it ain’t just the Mueller’s who are early risers, but the whole dang village too, all dressed in tans and beiges as they filter out in small groups and head on over to the quay. A fine piece of stonework, the titular quay of the village, a massive platform that stretches out into the water for a good fifteen metres before branching out to both sides and continuing on for another fifty metres running parallel to the shore. Lets large, heavy ships dock without scraping their hulls on the floor, showing how Uncle Teddy had this all planned out some 15 odd years ago. Never knew that my daddy helped build this, and seeing it brings a rush of pride and a burning sense of shame when I compare it to the piddly dock I done built for Carter. My daddy done built this about fifteen years back, and even after so much time has passed, I still ain’t a match for him.

  Seems crazy to think on how much they accomplished in so little time. I got no earthly idea how them settlers managed in the first few years after the Advent, before they had massive commercial farms and textile factories to keep folks fed and clothed. The worst of times, which I never really experienced firsthand since everyone worked hard to keep me sheltered from most of it. Wasn’t until after I started riding out with my daddy did I see how things really were out there on the Frontier, and I ain’t been able to look away since.

  As for the people of this here village, they all gathering up on the quay for a little morning meet and greet, one filled with too much hugging, smiling, and idle talk for my tastes. Dangerous too considering everything we got going on at the moment, what with the Mindspire and increased Abby activity in the region. Would make me think twice about heading out onto the quay, especially having seen how quickly them froggies can pop out of the water and bite a man in twain. Doubly so if I wasn’t armed, like so very many of the villagers here, but you can’t argue against those gorgeous lakeside views, not with the rising red sun casting a deep purplish tint over the waters as if Last Chance Lake was infused with ambient Aether and aglow with magics unknown.

  Seems like its some sort of daily meeting they’re having there, a little prayer group almost everyone attends. Hard to tell what it is exactly from so far away, and I watch as they all line up with their backs to the lake along the horizontal portion of the quay and listen to Mr. Mueller give a little speech, sermon, or pep talk. Can’t really tell which, as they too far for me to hear despite the tranquil morning calm of the scenic, out of the way village and their massive herds of silent cattle and hoggidillas. There’s no obvious sign of what they on about, not until Luisa takes over from Mr. Mueller and most of the audience folds their hands and bows their heads in what looks to be prayer. Aside from a few standouts of course, as there a handful of folks who stand with arms outstretched and heads raised high towards the sky. Still more seem utterly distracted, mostly the young’uns who’re trying to carry out conversations without getting shushed by their elders. Don’t take Luisa long to finish her prayer though, and it shows as the whole crowd turns west to the greet the lake and rising sun with a bow, and that’s all she wrote.

  Most trickle out back into the village proper, while a scant few stick around for more than the view. Instead, they work in pairs to haul up what looks like a dozen or so crab traps, only they got no crabs in them, not as far as I can tell. Don’t rightly know why folks like eating sea bugs for so much, because even though they don’t taste too terrible given their appearance, it’s a whole lot of work for only a morsel of meat that costs far too much for the weight. I’ll stick to my hoggi chops and muskari steaks thank you very much, though I gotta say, beef is working its way up there on the list after tasting that delicious stew of Donna’s yesterday. Didn’t know we had a cattle ranch so close to New Hope, as I never seen no cheap cuts of beef at Hamish’s, so I guess the folks here don’t do much selling, or maybe they get a better price sending their cattle due West.

  Yeah, they got a nice cushy life up here, though I gotta wonder about the downsides. So far, I ain’t seen nothing nefarious yet, but they been real lucky to avoid any Abby attacks, especially considering the wealth of biomass they got in their herds, farms, and themselves. One Mr. Mueller is worth two men in Carter’s compound, and there a whole lot more like Mr. Mueller round these parts, and not a lot of guns to go around. They got a smattering of Aetherarms sure, but only carried by a select few, while the rest walk around unarmed save for the big smiles stretched across their faces and maybe a belt knife or something. Which brings me to my next point, as these folks here are tempting targets for more than just Abby. They’re a cash cow for the likes of Michael and the Pugly-Annies behind him, and if Carter’s paying $1200 a year for his ‘dock fees’, I can’t imagine what they’re asking for from Mr. Mueller.

  Especially since they probably know that he makes a fair chuck of change in dock fees. Bribes too, payment to look the other way while folks load illicit goods onto their boats, and I can’t fault him for it. Refusing would only set him up for a world of hurt, and seeing how neither the Sherrif’s office nor the Rangers see fit to station anyone up here, then Mr. Mueller can hardly be blamed for not wanting to start nothing. He ain’t no lawman, so why should he risk his neck enforcing the Federal Government’s laws?

  Ones which even the Government don’t care to enforce all that often, seeing how everyone knew about Wayne’s wife’s addiction and looked the other way. Even Marcus, which I think was a mistake, and not just because Wayne’s solely responsible for getting me into the mess where I lost my hand. Go after the dealers and suppliers sure, but why let the users skate free too? They create the demand, one that keeps the dealers and suppliers flush with cash. I get it, addiction is terrible and they’re sorta victims too, but that sort of leniency is why we got an epidemic in the first place. People see illegal drugs as no different from tax-free alcohol and indulge without a care for the consequences, but you don’t get many smokers or alcoholics knocking over banks to feed their habit, now do you? Throw a few druggies to the wulves and hang a few more to show everyone what happens when you break the law and see how many of them druggie customers come calling the next time their dealer gets a restock from their supplier.

  Because why should the rest of us have to deal with the consequences of their addiction? Poor Darren wasn’t shot by no dealers, but by a strung-out junkie who thought he and his buddies could rob a Federal Bank that shares office space with the Rangers. Seems disingenuous to put all the blame on the one who sold that junkie his drugs when he the one who done the crime, so whether you lock up or string up them druggies, the result is only a net positive for the rest of us. It’s not like they was making any contribution to society to begin with, so we ain’t losing nothing of value. Fact is, all them junkies do is make things harder for the rest of us, and my sympathy is starting to wear thin.

  Ain’t neither here nor there of course, but I got strong feelings when it comes to the subject, when before I was more of a live and let live sort of guy. Not anymore though, so I head back to bed and stew in my anger once my curiosity is sated. I stay there too, until I hear Mr. Mueller and his family make their way back inside to get a jump start on their day. Least this means I’ll get more hours to work, assuming Mr. Mueller don’t cut the day short again, so I throw on my oversized work clothes and lament the utter dearth of colour before slinging my daily suite of Spells and heading down to join my hosts. Today, I added a Detect Magic Ritual into the mix too, on account of what Lynn and Kevin said about being able to see how powerful a Spellslinger is with nothing more than a glance.

  Me, I can’t do that. Detect Magic ain’t a Spell I use all that often, even though it was a staple in my daddy’s prepped Spell list. I’d much prefer another Spell in it’s place, especially since it can be cast as a Ritual. Still, it’s handy for finding hidden Artifacts, magical traps, or tracking folks with Spell buffs on them. That’s why I used it up in Pleasant Dunes, to see if I could find the trigger that opened up the door to Ron’s office escape tunnel. Didn’t happen, as I imagine the trigger was 100% mechanical, but the Spell did alert me to that clock covered in Aetheric flows which gave it away as the target of a Clairvoyance Spell.

  And here in the Mueller’s household, everything glows in shifting textures to indicate the flows of Aether all about me. The lights, the central air, the bevy of appliances, even the people are aglow in some sort of Spell which I can’t identify with a glance. The Aether is so thick I can even track where the whole family has been, with no trails leading out the front door but four leading right on in. Gets me thinking that maybe that morning meeting is some sort of Ritual, one that might keep them safe in some way. The thing about Rituals is that while there are some that replicate the effects of proper Spells, there are also Rituals that do so much more. Some are for plant growth, or promoting good health, while others can read the weather, ensure high fertility for your livestock, and so much more. All Rituals that’ve been proven effective, so maybe the Mueller’s got a protection Ritual of their own that the whole town partakes in. Which is easier said than done considering the strict requirement for faith, as that don’t come easy outside of organized religion, and I ain’t seen nothing about no one around these parts that says they’re firm believers in anything I recognize.

  Not a crucifix, Star of David, Shahada Calligraphy, Trishula, Lotus Flower, Celtic knot, or Ankh in sight, which covers most of the popular religions as far as I know. Nor does anyone say grace before meals, and I ain’t seen a church just yet, all of which makes their ability to cast a group Ritual that much more impressive. While most Rituals are done solo, a group Ritual can be far more effective, like the group prayers in Church we use to turn barrels of plain water into Holy Water. Or Aetheric Water, to be more accurate, as there ain’t nothing holy about it, seeing how almost every religion got some variation of the same Ritual which they use to raise funds.

  Not everyone involved in the group Ritual has gotta be a believer, but judging by the evident results, there were enough present on the quay to pull off some powerful magic. My first thought is to ask them outright, but I think better of it as the Mueller’s greet me with warm smiles and good cheer. Religion is a touchy subject, and seeing how they didn’t invite me to join them, I’m guessing it’s a personal matter they don’t much want to talk about. Everyone is entitled to their privacy after all, so even though I’m bursting with curiosity regarding what sort of magic they slinging, I act like I didn’t see what I saw out on the quay, and they all pretend like they been here the whole time.

  I bet it’s a sex or fertility thing, something related to the four folks I spotted heading out to the barn in the dead of night. Could be they was the ones standing with arms wide open, and the Ritual was to bless them with a child or make sure they don’t pick up no nasty diseases. Then again, why would they bring their kids out with them to the quay if that’s the case? Maybe it’s some sort of magical religion then, one which worships the Aether itself. Heard some call it the Weave, a grand web of magic we all tap into which explains why our Spells are all the same, or the Nexus from which all Aether comes from. The Codex, the Conflux, the Tapestry, and the Wheel, there are plenty of religions that’ve cropped up in the last few hundred years that try to mystify the mathematical system which Sir Issac Newton helped develop, which seems all sorts of backwards to me. It’d be like someone worshipping the lever and the pulley because of what it does for humanity, but if the people of Mueller’s Quay want to say a prayer to the Immaterium to start their day, then who am I to deny them that?

  Especially with how delicious their coffee is, though I could do without the generous dollop of molasses Mr. Mueller adds to the kettle. To boil out the bitter aftertaste, or so he says, as he talks me through his process. They do so love to talk about food, and I’m always happy to learn new ways to make things taste better. The trick is almost always more butter or more salt though, which to be fair, makes a world of difference in everything I’ve eaten here so far. Mrs. Mueller makes the fluffiest pancakes I done ever tasted and ladens it with all sorts of local fruits, as well as maple syrup they tapped themselves from the trees surrounding their village. I could honestly get used to eating like this, though I probably shouldn’t. Got nothing against being overweight, but I said it before and I’ll say it again, you gotta work hard at not working to put on so many pounds and keep them there.

  At least the people here seem to have earned the right to their largess, as they a fairly self-sufficient community. Not entirely, as there are some things they still need to buy instead of producing themselves, like the cotton in their sheets or the books and newspapers they read. “Can’t hardly wait until shipping starts up again,” Mr. Mueller says as he opens up last Tuesday’s paper, since he got the whole week’s edition over the weekend and is only now catching up. “Miss reading up on current events while they were still somewhat current.”

  “Well, with a little luck, it shouldn’t be too much longer now,” I say, before remembering that it ain’t common knowledge that the Proggie’s been found. “The Rangers been hunting for a good long while and have probably narrowed down all the best hiding places,” I continue, pretending like I don’t see Mr. Mueller’s inquisitive gaze as I use my last bit of pancake to mop up all the syrup still left on my plate. “So I’m sure they’ll uproot the Proggie and Mindspire both soon enough.” Good save, though I think Mr. Mueller still suspects I know more than I’m letting on. Don’t press me about it though, just nods and goes back to his paper while I head over to help Mrs. Mueller with the dishes. She tries to shoo me off and tell me I’m a guest, but I gently insist and go on about how I gotta do something to repay them for the wonderful hospitality they’ve shown me. Earns me a good number of points from the sweet lady, but she got some steel in her for sure, because she sends me out on my way after declaring the kitchen her kingdom and me an interloper trying to get in her way.

  All in good humour as it were, so I head off to see what Kevin and Hailey are up to. The latter is getting ready for classes and packing away all her books, while the former is sat at his desk poring over what looks like a Spellbook. Since he don’t got no paper and pencil out and ain’t counting on his fingers like an abacus, I figure he’s just reading rather than doing any actual Spell preparation, so I give his open door a light knock to get his attention. “Oh hey Howie,” he says, after jumping just a bit in surprise. “Didn’t hear you come up the stairs.”

  “Yeah, I’m a sneaky son of a gun,” I say with a smile, while still standing outside the door. “Mind if I come in?”

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  “Sure.” Kevin lights up and makes some room on his bed, which is still messy from last night’s sleep. I ain’t here to judge, but the big guy here would have a real hard time in Basic if he can’t even do that much. Me, I personally think Basic should be mandatory for everyone, maybe tacked on as an extra year after kids graduate from school at 16. That’d be grade 10 by old world conventions, which is apparently 2 years less than what is standard and free in the U.F.A and Métis Nation, while the rest of the world varies quite a bit. Can’t imagine having to go to school and be treated like a child at 18, or worse, well into my mid 20’s and still working towards a degree. Seems strange is all, because most of what kids learn up to grade 10 don’t seem all that useful, while a year in Basic would teach them everything they need to survive out on the Frontier.

  Maybe not thrive, but if that’s what they’re looking for, then they should’ve started learning how to survive much earlier. Folks always get that look about them when they hear I started riding with my daddy when I was 8, but they don’t seem to understand that it takes hard work and dedicated practice to become as good as I am. Nah, they’re always asking how I got so good, like chubby Lynn the other day, thinking I must have some trick, trade secret, or ancient Qin training method when the truth is much less interesting. I started earlier than most and worked myself to the bone. That’s the big secret of how I got ahead of the pack, but two months on the sidelines and I can already feel myself falling far behind.

  Well, maybe not too far. Was a nice show of shooting, gunning down those four mafiosos in the Sherrif’s Office, mighty fine tradecraft as it were, and I doubt there’s more than a handful of people close to my age who could’ve done the same. Feeling mighty pleased with myself, I take a seat at the foot of Kevin’s bed and gesture at his Spellbook. “Review or research?” I ask, wanting to know if he practicing something old or working on something new.

  “Review,” he says, showing that he got more magical education than most. “Was looking to see if I could modernize the formula in the Mould Earth Cantrip which might make it easier to use.”

  “Uh huh,” I say, nodding sagely even though he’s lost me. “And did you?”

  “Nah,” Kevin replies with a sheepish shake of his head. “Mould Earth looks pretty recent, like post 1850s after the Laurent expansion theorem was published, so there wasn’t much I could really change.”

  I know that one. It’s a means to represent complect functions as an infinite series while allowing for negative powers of the variable. Used often in Aetheric Dynamics to determine flows in Spell Structures, among many other real life uses like signal processing and circuit analysis. Still beyond my paygrade, and I have no idea how modernizing a Spell Formula can make it easier use, but I ain’t too proud to admit ignorance. So I do, then and there, asking what he meant by all that, and Kevin looks like a deer in the headlights as he tries to figure out why I’d ask.

  “I ain’t as smart as you think, Kevin,” I say with a chuckle, because no matter how many times I admit it out loud, no one ever seems to believe me. “Most times the magic just comes naturally to me, which means I got a lot of gaps in my education.” Ones I’m doing my best to patch up with help from Uncle Teddy, but it’s slow going when I only get a single 2-hour lesson each week. Not that I’m complaining. He’s a busy man, and lectures on Aetheric principles tend to put me to sleep, but I still enjoy the time spent together.

  “Oh,” Kevin says, still doubtful of my claims and wondering if I’m playing some sort of joke, but he goes ahead and explains it all the same. Does a good job of it too, as I don’t need too much clarification to pick up what he’s putting down. The long and short of it is that the Spell Formulas we have were derived without adhering to any sort of universal notation or golden rules. Like how you’re supposed to always solve to the lowest common denominator in math, because that makes it easier to do subsequent calculation, or how you’re supposed to combine like terms and balance the equation before moving on. The rules are different for magic of course, but they weren’t around during the renaissance of magical discovery back in Sir Issac Newton’s heyday, so a lot of those earlier Spell Formulas are kind of a mess to work with.

  Hence why recently, in the last fifty years or so, the arcanist community banded together to reform Spell Formulas so they’d all fit into a certain set of rules. The idea was that by adhering to these guidelines, that’ll make it easier to compare and contrast different Spells through the math alone. This ain’t just a push to simplify the Formulas, it’s a push to remake some from scratch to follow different principles and arrive at the same answer so that the math is more uniform and easier to parse once you pick up the knack. Sounds great and all, but that means redoing 450 plus years of development, because deriving a Spell Formula in a different manner is easier said than done. The math is difficult enough, and then you gotta remember that the math is only part of what makes the Spell Formula useful, since you lose out all those centuries of experience with the Spell Formula and knowing how to shape the Structure whilst you embed it into memory.

  It'd be like me learning Fireball all over again, without any guidance whatsoever and no choice but to brute force the process by trying each and every possibility until it worked. Took me the better part of six months, whereas I picked up Mental Fortress in less than two weeks with help from Uncle Teddy.

  “That is some fascinating stuff,” I say, and I even mean it, because now Kevin’s got me thinking about Mage Hand, Conjure Weapon, Spiritual Weapon, and Wildshape. I’m pretty sure there ain’t a single Spell on there that’s been modernized, though I’m only guessing with the last one since I don’t know it. “You got a book that lays out the rules to adhere to?”

  “Yeah,” Kevin says, handing me a thick textbook he got sitting off to the side labelled, ‘Mordenkainen Conjectures’. “It’s all in there, and I have the books it references too if you’re interested.” Seeing my interest, he explains, “Da was an arcana technician back in the old world, helped design stuff for the army like better radio packs, minesweepers, networked communications and other stuff I don’t really understand.”

  “All he told me was that he was a soldier,” I say, grinning from ear to ear to see it. Kevin’s right proud of his Da, and he should be, because this here is some real egghead stuff. I flip through a few pages of the textbook and realize there’s no way for me to memorize even a tenth of it, which means I need to either buy my own copy or manually take Photos of every page and write it all out for myself. So after getting permission to borrow the textbook later tonight, I pick Kevin’s brain about what I’m trying to do with the Mage Hand Cantrip, namely improve it through familiarity to a point where they’re as fast and durable as real hands, or create a brand-new Spell from scratch using a combination of various Conjuration Spells. I even show him my model hand, which gets him talking about a Transmutation Spell called Animate Object, one I know tangentially and ruled out for my purposes because it’s a bit of a finicky Spell.

  And because it’s Fifth Order, which means waiting Lord knows how long before I can use it, and several more years after the fact until I can use it more than two or three times a day. Not to mention how the Spell only lasts a minute at base duration, so stretching that to cover even 12 out of 24 hours is asking for too much.

  All in all, Kevin is one sharp cookie, on the same level as Danny which is really saying something. Granted, Kevin don’t much like tinkering with Artifacts and is more about circuits and diagrams and something called a computer, which is supposedly a massive machine that’s the size of a room which can do complex mathematics in the blink of an eye. That’s the sort of stuff his da was working on for the military back in the Old World, and Kevin claims computers are the way of the future, that we’ll all have one to work with and maybe even connect them all together for instant long-distance communications. I don’t know about that, seeing how it’d probably be prohibitively expensive to own a contraption like that, but that’s always been the way of things when it comes to new tech.

  The best part is how Kevin really opens up once we get to talking on the subject, and we spend the morning chatting about our shared interests even after we head off to work. He’s a pleasant enough sort, though he complains a lot, mostly about how he wished we had this tech or that to help dig for him. “An excavator would have this done in half a day,” he says, which I gotta imagine is some sort of mechanical digging machine. “100 cubic metres in an hour easy, and even faster if you got an industrial sized one.”

  “I’m pretty sure I can dig faster,” I retort, before stopping to actually do the math. I can move 1 cubic foot per second, which does math out to less than an hour for 100 cubic metres, and I even show Kevin my work to prove it.

  “That’s the rate you move loose soil.” Gesturing at the hard packed clay we’re currently hip deep in and our slow progress thus far, Kevin rolls his eyes and says, “An excavator can maintain that speed in anything short of solid stone, with minimal physical and mental effort at that.”

  “Fair enough.” Any additional arguments I might’ve made get washed away as I catch a glimmer of light out over the lake and see a very naked Noora and Josie getting intimate out there while they wait for me to join them. Which is ridiculous, since Noora is deathly afraid of water despite her deep fascination of it, while Josie ain’t in no mood to be swimming and most certainly ain’t a strong enough swimmer to make it all the way out here. Still takes me a second to shake off the Enchantment, another Second Order Glowing Coin like I experienced the first day after the Mindspire went up. At least this time I was drawn in by two pretty girlies instead of the prospect of my own death, so there’s that.

  Glancing around to see if anyone needs saving, I realize none of them have even noticed the Mindspire’s attempt to lure them to their deaths. Which is odd, because that glimmer out there ain’t something easily missed. Though the Spell requires you gaze upon the glow in question, a portion of its effect is there to draw the eye towards it. I should’ve had my head down in the dirt while I dug out this foundation, but instead I was inexplicably and inexorably drawn to look out at the glimmer. Meanwhile, Kevin, Mr. Mueller, and the various other diggers working alongside me are just going about their business like they utterly unaffected by the Mindspire’s Spell at all.

  “You guys don’t see that?” I ask, pointing out at the glimmer just to make sure I’m not crazy. Most look up, but then Mr. Mueller makes a sound and everyone looks away. None are entranced by the Spell though, not even Kevin who’s a beat slower than everyone else as he lets his gaze linger on the glimmer a second longer.

  “We got our ways of countering the Mindspire,” Mr. Mueller says, and I can’t help but think back to the Ritual they had this morning. “Think of it as something similar to a Church’s consecration, only cast daily on ourselves rather than on a location.” Which means it’s a matter of faith, and there’s no point asking them to share their method with the masses, not if it includes their little pow-wow on the quay this morning. Annoying that, but it tells me their little morning Ritual is a fairly powerful one. Bestowing an effect on a static position is simple enough, because then the magical effect is motionless and anchored to a specific physical location. When a Spell is anchored to a person however, then it needs to withstand the multitude of metaphysical changes it’ll go through as the person’s location in the physical world moves out and about. It’s the difference between putting up a tent in calm weather and in the middle of a hurricane, with the former being much easier than the latter.

  I don’t ask about it though, and Mr. Mueller changes the subject as he calls for a quick lunch break. Rather than go back to the Mueller’s though, they send me over to Becca’s, the village’s best fisherman and another man with a woman’s name. A warm and welcoming soul though, who somehow still smells of fresh fish, but I ain’t about to hold that against him. Not when his wife Brittney makes such a wonderful fish and chips, though I dunno why they call them chips when they clearly fries. Names don’t matter much when it comes to the golden-brown batter of the deep-fried fish, one Becca reeled in himself earlier this morning with rod and tackle. Man don’t look like much, being a mousey, dumpy, five-foot nothing of a fella who looks even smaller dressed in beige, but he got nerves of steel fishing in these troubled times what with Abby running about. I say as much, though I leave out the first bit, and he just waves off my concerns with a smile and a wink like to say he got it all covered.

  Suppose he knows his business best, so I don’t press the issue, especially given how fresh and delicious the fried and battered fish tastes, and it’s even better with the creamy tartar sauce Brittany heaps onto my plate, though I could do without the vinegar on the very generous serving of fries that comes with. Gotta say, I love the food here, and it quickly becomes the highlight of my week. Dinner is arepas and sancocho with Luisa, and the next morning, after I’m done peeking at their Ritual again, Mrs. Mueller whips up some French toast, bacon, hash browns, and duck eggs, which is a real delicacy given how mean them big birds be. Even the gryphikins tread lightly around them ducks, only attacking when they spot a lone one swimming about and getting gone right quick with their catch. No idea why a bunch of filter feeding birds need teeth in their bills, but they’ll make short work of anything they don’t like the look of, which makes egg gathering a real risk that even I wouldn’t undertake.

  Makes me feel like I’m taking advantage of the Mueller’s hospitality, but they wave away my concerns and go hard with the cooking. Well, not really, because judging by Kevin and Hailey’s reactions, this is what they normally eat all the time, and all those fancy foods and delicious desserts are just business as usual for the most part. What’s more, the Muellers ain’t sending me to other households to eat lunch and dinner to save on costs, but because everyone wants to have me over at least once and Mr. Mueller had to work out a schedule. It’s a little odd how enthusiastic these people are to have a stranger as a guest at their table, but I do appreciate it and eat more than my fair share as the day’s go by. Authentic American barbeque ribs, brisket, and steaks, grilled cubanos with the richest cheese I done ever tasted, dirty rice with stewed ox tail and pearl beans, the list goes on and on, and that’s without even touching on desserts. Cobblers, pies, milkshakes, and beignets are only the tip of the iceberg as I make my way down the list of households here in the quay, and everyone is so kind and welcoming it ain’t hardly a chore making small talk and conversation with so very many strangers.

  Well, maybe not hardly a chore, but one well worth the effort in exchange for such good eats and generous portions. Aunty Ray cooks like a pro, but she got a grudge against butter that I ain’t ever noticed, or maybe the people of Mueller’s Quay just love it too much. Either way, I dine like a king for the next few days, which makes the lacklustre work efforts much easier to stomach. Difficult to give hard labour your all when you full as a tick and ready to nod off for a few hours after each and every meal, or build up any momentum when you stop every hour on the hour.

  One thing that strikes me odd however is how there ain’t ever any leftovers. Everyone cooks here, for every meal too, and as I walk through the village to wherever I’m going, I can always pick up some new scents in the air. Thing is, come morning, there ain’t nothing in the Freeze-box to heat up for a snack, not that I’ve got the stomach for eating more than what they feed me. Crazy is what that is, because it means not only are they eating huge portions for every meal, most of their womenfolk are cooking round the clock too, with the rest of their time spent baking, churning butter, or some other sort of busywork related to eating. Explains their massive herds of cattle and hoggis then, and why they never sell them, because they need this many beasts just to maintain their own rate of consumption. Fascinating is what that is, and a little excessive if I’m being honest, but I ain’t complaining so long as the food keeps coming, and boy does it keep coming.

  By the time Friday afternoon rolls around and it comes quitting time, I’m almost unwilling to leave, because I can smell someone roasting a hog with plenty of allium root for that savoury bit of crunch. Makes your breath smell something awful, but it’s so delicious it’s well worth the trade off so long as I ain’t the one to suffer. Luisa comes to the rescue though, bringing me a hearty helping of empanadas wrapped in leaves and a jar of spicy chimichurri that is to die for, as well as a loaf of light, puffy bread that’s been cut in half so both sides could be slathered in arequipe, a sort of caramelized milk that’s got the same consistency as nut butter. “Too skinny,” she mutters, while eyeing the saddlebags I got slung over my shoulders which are stuffed with wheels of cheese and blocks of butter gifted to me by various households, but she wants to try and cram even more food inside. “A growing boy must eat.”

  “You’ve done all that you can,” I reply, grinning from ear to ear as I give her a warm hug farewell. “More than anyone could ask really, but alas, my belly can only hold so much at a time. A good thing too, else you’d be stuck with me sitting in your kitchen all day eating anything and everything you feed me.” Minus the time spent in the bathroom of course, of which there has been plenty. Sir Issac Newton discovered that what goes up must come down, whereas I’m now learning what goes in will eventually come out.

  In reply, Luisa just smiles and pats my cheeks, as if she’d like nothing more than to make that a reality. She’s aglow with the magic too, as is everyone else in the village who’ve turned out to see me off. Which involves far more hugging than any reasonable person can be expected to bear with, but I tolerate it best I can while keeping up appearances. Those who’ve I’ve broken bread with reminisce on the meal we had together, while those who I haven’t dined with secure a promise from me to come back next week and dine with them then. Kevin is far friendlier now after a week of talking shop and Spells, and while Hailey ain’t quite taken a shine to me just yet, she shyly waves goodbye from behind her mama and I smile and wave back.

  Takes a full 30 minutes just to get through all the farewells and be on my way, which is exhausting to say the least, and the worst part is I can’t really walk and eat. While the people of Mueller’s Quay seem completely at ease with the Mindspire and Aberration threats, I’ve never been one to let my guard down while out and about. Safe travels come from sharp senses after all, because half the danger out here comes from the surprise. What’s more, I’m moving around on foot without Cowie to watch my back or Old Tux to bring me away in a pinch should I get in over my head, which is a new and unpleasant experience to say the least.

  Luckily I ain’t left to wander for long, as soon enough, Elodie greets me from atop Old Tux while waving with both hands, and baby Cowie skips over in sheer delight now that we’re reunited again. Forgetting that he’s the reason we separated in the first place mind you, because he wanted to stay with Elodie instead of going into town with me. Which turned out to be a good thing, because I ate way more beef than I should’ve, and Cowie would not have approved. “Bonjour Howie,” Elodie says, while Carter stands off to the side with miss Amelie beside him. “Mama and Papa are bring me into town to visit you and Chrissy and Tina and Mademoiselle Rachel for the weekend.”

  “Oh ain’t that great,” I say, and I even mean it too. “I’m sure Chrissy and Tina will be thrilled to have you around.”

  “I am so excited,” she exclaims, bouncing atop Old Tux who greets me with a chomp when I reach out to pat his nose, but it ain’t nothing but a love bite. “Mama says we cannot share a bed though, you and I. Perhaps you can convince her otherwise?”

  “Your mama knows best,” I say without missing a beat, because the last thing I need is an angry, Wildshaping woman ready to rip my face off. “Empanada?”

  Elodie happily accepts, as do Carter and miss Amelie, though all three of them pass on the chimichurri after giving it a sniff. Their loss then, because the sauce is what elevates the empanadas to a solid 12 out of 10, and there ain’t no telling me different. While we’re all sampling Luisa’s cooking on the go, I share a bit of my experiences at the quay which is mostly highlights of all the meals I ate. “A friendly bunch, if a little strange,” I conclude, carrying on my one-sided conversation since Carter and miss Amelie are lost in their own silent exchange while Elodie is too busy stuffing her face with the last empanada and eyeing my sweetbread to get a word in edgewise. Breaking off a quarter of the loaf for her to nibble on, I offer some to her parents too who thankfully decline, because after a week of gorging until I couldn’t eat no more, a meal of 8 empanadas and a quarter loaf of sweet bread doesn’t seem to cut it anymore. Even half might not be enough, but I graciously resolve to offer Elodie another quarter of the loaf once she’s done scarfing down what I already gave her.

  I think there’s a loaf of bread, a wheel of cheese, and a side of ham stuffed into my saddlebags somewhere. Add in the rest of my chimichurri and I got the makings of a mighty fine sandwich…

  “How are they strange?” Elodie asks, nibbling away at the sweet treat and savouring every bite. “They must be very odd if you say they are so.”

  Her delivery is so innocent and innocuous, I can’t even get angry, though I suppose everyone seems strange from her unique perspective. “I dunno,” I say, after thinking about it for a moment. “They all just a little… off. Like they’re too enthusiastic and cheery. I don’t just mean when they see me, but like, all the time. They’ll be walking down the street and just smiling at nothing, then smile even harder when they see you. Or they’ll keep smiling even though they shouldn’t, like when Mr. Mueller brought up that article about Abby attacks on the western shore, or when a pregnant cow stepped on Dwight’s foot and broke his toe. They just smiled through the news even though there wasn’t nothing to smile about. Strange is all.”

  Not to mention how I can’t hardly imagine how anyone can be so cheerful all the time, especially to people they see each and every day.

  Elodie doesn’t answer, and I glance over to see her eyeing my sweetbread, so I give her another quarter of the loaf. While keeping quiet to hurry up and finish what I got left before she asks for more. Yeah, the people of Mueller’s Quay are a little off, and they live by their own rules as they strive to thrive and indulge in whatever they can, but if that makes them happy, then have at them. They also fairly free with the drink and tobacco, and while I ain’t seen no druggies around, they do love their games of cards and dice. Ain’t nothing wrong with none of that, and while clandestine orgies ain’t exactly proper behaviour, I don’t got a leg to stand on in that regard.

  Honestly, my only issue is how I’m still a little conflicted over getting the full 50 hours of the week despite only really working for about half that, I can’t say I didn’t enjoy my time in Mueller’s Quay. Got a week’s worth of gourmet meals and a Photo copy of a textbook that might be the answer to all my questions, or at least provide me with a direction to go in instead of floundering about in the dark. Not a bad week if I’m being honest, so maybe I ought to be a little less judgemental and figure out how I’m going to adapt and thrive moving forward.

  For now? I’ll start by fixing me up that sandwich, because damn it if I ain’t still hungry.