I watched it for a few minutes before clearing my throat and trying again. “Is there a reason you’re doing that the hard way?”
“Yes! I forgot the matches!”
“And you need them because?”
“Because I don’t have magic right now, as you know perfectly well!”
“But you have that.” I nodded at the man purse he’d been dragging around, along with me, an overstuffed backpack, and an attitude from, well, you know.
“That is for emergencies!”
“And this isn’t one?”
“No.” He threw the sticks down, panting. “A little cold won’t kill you—”
“Neither would some heat.”
“—but other things might!”
He paused to stick his head in the massive backpack and root around. And I decided to see how propping myself up on one elbow went. It wasn’t comfortable—Rosier had dumped me on the hard bit near the trees while keeping the nice soft grassy stuff for himself. But I didn’t pass out again, so okay.
“Such as?” I asked as he emerged with a canteen.
“Such as that damned madwoman from Amsterdam,” he grumbled, after taking a long swig.
And oh, shit. I suddenly remembered that I was supposed to ask Rhea how Cherries had found us. I’d forgotten, what with Jonas and the acolytes and the forty-seven other things I’d had to do.
“Oh, don’t look so guilty,” Rosier told me sardonically. “While you were lying around the suite, I took care of it.”
I was about to respond to that the way it deserved, but then he passed the canteen over. And I drained half of it before I came up for air, then pulled it back protectively when he tried to snatch it again. Oh God, that was good.
“Took care of it how?” I gasped, after another drink.
“By knowing who to ask!” Rosier snatched it back, frowning at the weight. “Did you have to drink the whole thing?”
“I didn’t, and took care of it how?”
This time I got an answer, maybe because it allowed him to show off.
“I discovered that witches—of whom the Pythia is one, despite current appearances—are drawn to magic,” he told me, starting to saw away with the sticks again. “Any magic. And the more power that is expended, the brighter the signal.”
“And the Pythian power—”
“Is about as bright as it gets. That’s what tripped us up in London, and again in Amsterdam: we stayed too close to the entry point. We put a big spotlight on ourselves, and then stood right by it. No wonder they found us!”
“So this time, you hauled me away.”
He nodded. “Far away. It seems that the Pythias are especially sensitive to the use of their own magic, as you might expect, although anything might be enough to put them on the scent—”
“Them?”
“—and the last thing we need is a posse of pissed-off Pythias—how’s that for alliteration—”
“Posse? What posse?”
“—on our trail. But thanks to me, they now have to find us the old-fashioned way, don’t they? And they may find that a bit more of a trick,” he finished, looking amazingly smug.
Smug and clueless.