She's the most intensely detail-minded person I know, and she needs to be. An error in a grimoire on flying carpets might end you up in Boston, Oregon, instead of Boston, Mass. An error in a military magic manual might leave you dead, or worse.

She said, "So what's up?"

"Feel like going out to dinner with me tonight?" I asked.

"I ran into something interesting today, and I wouldn't mind hearing what you think of it." Knowing someone who can see not only forest and trees but also count leaves is wonderful.

Being in love with her is even better.

"Sure," she said. "Meet at your place after work? I ought to be able to get there before six."

"You'll probably beat me there, then, the way traffic on St James' has been lately," I told her.

"Sounds good."

There's a new Hanese place a few blocks away that I want to try."

"Sounds good to me, too. You know how much I like Hanese food."

"See you tonight, then. Now I'll let you get back to what you were doing. 'Bye."

I went back to work, too, although my mind wasn't really on the main project that currently infested my desk. A couple of days before, a big carpet carrying fumigants had overturned in an accident, spilling finely ground linseed, psellium seed, violet and wild parsley root, aloes, mace, and storax. Because they're materials used in conjurations, I had to draft the environmental impact statement.

I could have just written no impact and let it go at that: the fumigants were harmless in and of themselves, and required combustion and ritual to become magically significant A two-word report, however, would not have made my boss happy, and might have given people outside the EPA the idea that we didn't take seriously the job we were doing.

So, instead, I wasted taxpayers' time and parchment writing five leaves that ended up saying no impact but did it in a bureaucratically acceptable way. I do sometimes wonder why governmental agencies have to act like that, but it seems as universal as the law of contagion.