Amanda Lynn's Arc

Chapter 12 of 14

Amanda Lynn woke at first gray light. Her feet had held through the night. But a cold fact sat in her chest. B.A. Ware knew everything now. The route. The grit. The cleats from the shed. The green film on the iron. Her rival could copy every advantage she had built. Whatever edge she had, they could steal it before the horn. She pulled off one boot and stared at the green film on the heel. The grip that saved her on the slabs came from Anita Bathe's frog poison. B.A. Ware had watched her paint it on. They would visit the shed, take cleats, and want the same coating. But only one person made that liquid. Amanda Lynn understood her edge then. Not the film. The source. She walked the ridge road to where Anita Bathe kept her animals and jars. Anita stood at a low table, sorting vials of rich green fluid. A small frog watched from a dish, its back yellow and black, its legs blue and spotted. "I need the rest of your liquid," Amanda Lynn said. "All of it. Before B.A. Ware comes asking." Anita did not look up. "They already asked." Amanda Lynn's stomach dropped. "And?" "I told them no." "Why?" Anita capped a vial. "You came first." She turned one small bottle in her fingers. "There isn't much left. This frog gives slow." She nodded at the dish. "One batch. Then nothing for weeks." Amanda Lynn saw it plain. The film could not be copied overnight. It came from one creature and one maker, and both were hers this morning. B.A. Ware had the shed and the cleats. They did not have this. "Then B.A. Ware runs the wet slabs on bare iron," Amanda Lynn said. "Yes." Anita's mouth almost moved. "Slick." Amanda Lynn held out her hand. Anita set the last vial in it. The green fluid curled inside the glass, bright as the frog's back. Amanda Lynn tucked it into her wrap, beside the boots she trusted. "One warning," Anita said. She pointed at Amanda Lynn's cloth-bound feet. "Don't let it touch skin longer than it must." "I know." Amanda Lynn had the raw toes to prove it. She walked back toward the start with the vial against her ankle. The advantage was no longer a thing on her boots that anyone could see and match. It was a supply only she held. B.A. Ware could climb the same route and cross the same crack. But on the wet slabs, where a runner lived or fell, their iron would slide and hers would bite. The swifts lifted off the ridge and traced the race line. Amanda Lynn checked her wraps and faced the trail. She had the edge they could not copy. Now she had to run six miles fast enough to use it.