Stepping back into the office I had to unpop my collar and straighten the lapels of my long coat, both of which had been dishabituated by the sudden coming of spring winds. Nobody tells you when you're dressing in the morning that you're gonna walk out and slam straight right into the spring. Even a newshuman like me is caught out of the loop.
Anyway, I have my own area of concentration. I walk over to the city desk and stare down at Bob's bald head.
"Hi Bob."
"Yeah. Yeah. Cop pesticides. Got it. Don't worry, I don't even remember. Catch you later."
"Bob."
"Oh! Aren't you supposed to be out in the killing fields?"
"Just gotta drop off my coat."
"The news don't wait for no one forever. Especially not how you do it."
He was right. I could hear the stories crackling their tinder-digits. I had to get out there. I hurriedly conducted my desk business, dumped my stuff, and made moxy for the exit.
"Just remember!" Bob yelled as I dashed back out the door. "Don't dig too deep! There's roots what you don't wanna meet."
Out on the beat, everything feels white-hot. There's barely enough time to move, let alone think how one piece meets another. A million stories, teeming, squirming, hardening, breaking off, getting stuck in the branches, rattling on windy, ghost-filled nights, falling to the ground, being picked up and re-purposed into swords and magic wands.
And only me between them and the world.
Time to call the Stick Witch.
Stick Witch was sitting down on a warm, flat stone on a grassy hill overlooking Briar's Park.
"How's my twiggy?" she began in that kind of nutty, bird-y chortle. Twig oracles don't come cheap, no matter what anyone tells you.
"Fine, fine."
"Are you getting...enough...to eat" she asked. Her twig-stalk eyes were bloodshot.
"You know why I'm here. I'm on a deadline."
"Everyone is."
I close my eyes for a second, and take a deep breath. Yes. Okay. "You know what I need to know. Where is the twig market moving? What's the exchange gonna bottom at?"
"If you knew the pleasure of the twig-arts, you wouldn't need to ask me these questions."
(If I knew the pleasure of the twig-arts, I wouldn't need to be a reporter)