Sorcerer's Luck Read Free

a paper napkin, and slid it over to me. “Eat,” she said. “I can’t possibly finish all this.”
    â€œNo, I’m fine.”
    â€œOh come on, Maya! We all admire how hard you work to stay in school. We know you’re not a freeloader. So, eat.”
    â€œYou push yourself too hard,” Brittany put in. “You really do. We all see it, your friends I mean.”
    â€œAh c’mon,” Cynthia said. “I honestly won’t be able to eat all of this.”
    â€œOkay, thanks.” I picked up the sandwich and tried not to drool. “I really appreciate it. But I can pay you back when I get paid. That’ll be next week.”
    â€œNo, don’t worry about it. Good grief! It’s only half a sandwich.”
    â€œHave some salad.” Brittany slid her plate closer to me and handed me a plastic fork. “This kind of lettuce is a particularly good source for vitamin A.”
    If my mouth hadn’t been full of ham sandwich, I would have cried in sheer gratitude. I swallowed the bite and said “Thanks, thank you both.”
    They just smiled for an answer. For a few minutes we ate in silence. Standing at an easel for four hours brings on your appetite. Eventually Brittany turned to me. “How’s your brother doing?”
    â€œSame as always,” I said. “Badly. He keeps hitting me up for money for drugs.”
    â€œWell, don’t give him any,” Cynthia put in. “It’ll only make things worse.”
    I didn’t trust my voice and just nodded to show I agreed. I looked away for distraction and noticed someone ambling down the sidewalk just outside. A man, tall, slender, sandy hair, he looked so familiar that I thought for a moment that I was seeing Torvald the runemaster. This man, however, appeared a lot older, in his fifties, I guessed. When he glanced my way, I saw that his eyes were blue, not brown, and gray streaked his hair.
    Not the runemaster, then. He caught me looking at him, stopped, and stared. I could have sworn he thought he recognized me, but I’d never seen him before. When he realized that I was returning the stare, he pretended to read the menu taped to the glass. He kept glancing my way with a surreptitious flick of his gaze as if he were considering making a pass at me. I concentrated on the sandwich. Cynthia noticed.
    â€œYou know that guy?” she said.
    â€œNo, and I don’t want him looking me over, either.”
    She turned in her chair to summon the waiter, a beefy muscle guy, not all that tall, but not short, either. When he strolled over, the man on the sidewalk walked off—fast.
    â€œNot good,” Cynthia said to me. To the waiter she said, “What’s for dessert today?”
    We lingered in the cafe for over an hour, just to give the older man a chance to get long gone. When we did leave, Cynthia and Brittany walked with me to my car.
    The incident made me think about Torvald Thorlaksson. Did he know this man who looked so much like him? On the one hand, I was afraid to call him and ask. On the other, I wanted to know. And of course, there was his offer of a job.
    That week I got more bad news in the mail, a letter from the landlord announcing that in September, he was raising the rent by the legal limit. The rent control law did allow for inflation. Two per cent may not sound like much of a raise, but on my budget, it meant disaster. I shed a few tears, then pulled myself together. I could try for more hours at the burger job, or I could downgrade my phone plan to a cheaper level. The phone plan was my one indulgence, but that’s what it was, an indulgence. I could live without it.
    I was tired of living without stuff. Especially when I had a chance at a second job.
    Still, it took me three more days to work up the nerve to say Torvald’s name aloud.
    I might not have done it even then if it wasn’t for the stink. On Friday I got the chance to fill in for