S.T. was used to compensating for people who didn't know how to move with a boat. Getting Scott in without dumping them all in was way easier than tilting pretty reporters into his arms and making it look like their fault. Not that he'd ever done that. He was willing to suspect they'd both had the same idea, that time, but asking would ruin the magic. Also, if she printed anything along those lines, Debbie would make faces at him over dinner for weeks. Possibly months. Or possibly not ever again.

He went to reach a hand down to trail in the water, and then thought better of it. Sure, the water didn't smell like anything on S.T.'s short list of poisonous aromatic compounds, now that he could smell it, but there was always magic. Like the talking skeleton driving this rig.

"Any hints on what we've bought here?" Anything he said would probably be more vague Landel-style mystic shit, but turning it upside-down might shake a few true things loose.