And she was off, and suddenly it was all as easy and calm as it had been in Mehrnaz’s home, except that there were a lot more people than Dairine being impressed. She’s got this, Dairine thought. She was made for this. The nerves were a blip . . .
She stood there watching Mehrnaz speak for a minute or so more, in the groove now, concise, confident, smiling, having fun. She doesn’t need me, Dairine said silently to Spot.
No, Spot said from somewhere down the long hall.
Fine. I’m gonna wander.
She quietly made her way off around and behind Mehrnaz and around the side of the crowd. Then, some yards down the corridor on that side of the huge hall, Dairine threw a look over her shoulder at Mehrnaz to see if she’d registered Dairine’s having left the immediate area. If she had noticed, it didn’t show; she was talking animatedly to the people who were watching her, gesturing at the spell that lay before them and already pointing out the most intriguing aspects.
Excellent, Dairine thought. Let’s go see what Neets’s guy’s doing.
There was another of the big directories hanging off to one side about halfway down the corridor. Dairine paused in front of it long enough to see that Penn was over on the other side almost directly opposite her. I could cut across . . . But why not see some more interesting stuff first?
So Dairine started out the long way, taking her time. But as she passed the tenth or twelfth or twentieth project where she wanted to stop and stare at some fabulous idea she’d never thought of and really should have, she found herself starting to speed up. And it was annoyance that was making her do it. If only they held this thing more than once every eleven years, Dairine thought. I could have been in something like this. I’d have blown them away—
“Excuse me,” someone said from behind her in a rich, deep Caribbean accent.
She turned in surprise to see a very tall, dark, skinny young guy wearing a polo shirt and, unbelievably, Bermuda shorts. He was clutching what appeared to be a thick, beat-up paperback book as he looked down at her. “Ah, excuse me, cousin, but is it possible that you are, ah, Dairine Callahan?”
“Uh, yeah,” she said.
“Could you, I mean, would you, if you have a minute it would be lovely if you would, um, maybe just sign—”
He cracked open the paperback and held it out to her, laid open at what was revealed to be a blank manual page. It took Dairine a moment to realize that she was being asked for her autograph.
She blinked. “Sure,” Dairine said, “sure, of course—” It struck her as she took the manual that this was exactly what she’d predicted would be happening to Nita sometime during the Invitational. It hadn’t occurred to her that she might be a victim too.
Dairine scribbled her signature with one finger; light trailed after it and burnt her name into the manual interface, glowing there softly when she finished. “So listen, cousin,” she said, tilting her face up to look at the guy, “how come you’re so interested in—”
But the guy snatched the manual out of her hands, his face set in an expression of terrified admiration. “Uh, thank you, thank you very much,” he said, and then he turned, fled, and became lost in the crowd a few seconds later.
Dairine stood with her mouth hanging open. What was that about? she thought, completely confused.
. . . And why is it always the tall ones? The ones who’re going to give me neck strain?
She stood there for a moment more, waiting to see if maybe Panic-Stricken Bermudian Guy was going to come back. But he didn’t, and finally Dairine turned and walked on, trying to work out what had just happened. Okay, I did some pretty cool and dangerous stuff out on Ordeal, and later, but why would anybody be scared of me? I’m nothing to be scared of . . .
She kept trying to find her balance again, and found it, and then someone else stopped her—a tanned, nearly white-haired, beach-babe-looking girl who might have been Carmela’s age or older. She was sporting a bright print sundress and a broad Aussie accent, and this time it was some kind of tablet that was held out for Dairine to sign. And the girl talked at her politely for about five minutes and never met Dairine’s eyes once.
Finally Dairine extricated herself and hurried away as a horrible idea hit her. It’s not me these guys are talking to. It’s my power rating. Or what it was. How is it they can’t see past that? Because I’m not that person anymore. I was only that person for about six months. Not that that didn’t piss her off to a greater or lesser degree most days. It was simply extra annoying that no one seemed to be looking past the history, past the stuff in the manual, to perceive who Dairine was now.
She frowned at herself. Great. Jumping the gun a little here? From a sample of two? Anyway, look, no one else cares, they’re all staring at the projects. This isn’t about me.
And she scowled harder as she made her way along the display spaces full of eager and excited kids . . . But it could have been. It could have been about something I had some control over, something smart I made or did, instead of something that was an accident, the luck of the draw, just the way things went when I was under pressure and thought we were all going to die. Dammit—
Dairine’s mood, which had been wobbly in response to Mehrnaz’s nervousness, now started to veer toward the foul end of the spectrum. Blood sugar? she wondered. Ought to do something about that.
But she didn’t. Instead she headed straight toward Nita’s guy. And sure enough, just past a project about covert parasitic wizardly use of the “waste” wind power between city skyscrapers, there he was, with his solar management wizardry rotating flashily in and out of the floor as a big bright glowing globe.
She came quietly up behind the crowd that was watching him. Which is the problem, Dairine thought. It’s the spell they should be looking at . . . not that he’s making it as easy as it should be. Penn was extravagantly kitted out in dark skinny jeans and a blindingly bright orange and green urban-camo shirt under a tuxedo jacket that was about a size too small for him, and . . . Is that a top hat? He looks like a clown. Who dresses like that when they’re doing a serious presentation? Dairine thought. Come on. It’s gonna take you five minutes to stop analyzing his dress sense and pay any attention to the spell he’s laid out.
And the thing that was the most distracting after his clothes was his presentation—which was as slick as that of a late-night talk show host trying to sell you some kind of slice ’n’ dice gadget—and the way he played constantly to the crowd. They should be looking at the spell, Dairine thought, not so much at him. It’s like no one paid attention to him when he was little and he’s making up for it now . . .
But for the moment that was fine, as Penn was so preoccupied with the responsiveness of the people in front of him that he never noticed Dairine slipping quietly around the side and behind him to take a closer look at the wizardry proper. It was tidier than it had been, which was certainly Nita’s work: she’d told the guy at least part of what needed doing, and he’d done it. So he’s at least that smart. But it’s a shame his delivery doesn’t at all match the style of the spell. There’s this . . . disconnect somehow . . .