The Master Magician (The Paper Magician Series Book 3) Page 14

  The lock clicked and Ceony yanked the drawer open. Inside was an assortment of skewed papers in various colors, once Folded, now just crinkled. They were covered in handwriting, both hers and Emery’s.

  She jerked out a violet sheet and smoothed it out in her hands.

  I imagine you’re swamped with preparations for your exam. Don’t overexert yourself. You’re bright; you’ll win. Don’t forget to relax once in a while; hopefully this will help, if this bat can even carry it that far!

  Let me know how you’re doing. I tend to worry, love.

  Ceony’s lips parted. She turned the paper over, then over again, noticing a smear of brown at its bottom. She smelled it. Chocolate. What had Emery sent her? And how long ago?

  She smoothed out a teal paper.

  I think I’m going to reorganize the library shelves by book thickness. What do you think? All the quick reads in one place, all the heavy tomes (your favorite) in another.

  An orange paper that had once been a crane read, in her handwriting, I’m worried about you. Why haven’t you written? Has something come up? Do you need help?

  A gray paper that had been wadded into a ball read, in Emery’s penmanship, I hope I’m not bothering you, or that you’ve moved rooms. Remember to think outside the box. I believe in you, Ceony. Also, I’m either suddenly allergic to walnuts or whatever wool the grocery lad had on today.

  Another bat, white, reading, Alfred confirmed Saraj’s sighting. He has officers watching your family, and one who comes by the cottage a couple times a day. I’ll keep you posted—

  “What are you doing?” Mg. Bailey’s sharp voice cut from the doorway, jerking Ceony to her feet. His pale skin flushed, and his shoulders grew rigid. He stomped toward her, reaching for the note in her hand. “This is trespassing—”

  “And this is stealing!” Ceony shouted back, loud enough that her voice echoed off the walls. She pulled her hand back, keeping the notes from Mg. Bailey’s reach.

  “Stealing!” the Folder repeated. “On my property? Perhaps you should have tried harder to hide your little secrets. You’re lucky I haven’t reported you, Ceony Twill!”

  “Go ahead!” she said. “Report me! Read the rule book, Prit. I’ve done nothing wrong, and neither has he. Why do you think he’d send me here? Why do you think I’d tolerate being under the same roof with a man as intolerable and insufferable as you? It’s in the interest of fairness! Not that you could understand that concept!”

  She stooped and snatched up the remaining stolen letters. Again Mg. Bailey tried to grab for them, but she back-stepped before he could get a grip.

  “It’s not his fault, you know,” she said, seething. “It’s neither Magician Thane’s fault nor mine that you’re so depressed and angry all the time. You feed off your own sourness. You grow it like a vineyard!”

  The Folder’s eyes widened.

  “You wonder why no one likes you,” she spat, stepping around the desk. She charged for the door, escaped into the hallway. Mg. Bailey didn’t follow.

  She reached the staircase out of breath, fumbling with her mess of notes. At the top of the stairs she saw Bennet, searching the well with worry on his face. What had he heard? No details from such a distance, but certainly the shouting.

  Ceony met his gaze. It bore into her like a cold spike. She glanced away, glanced back. Took a deep breath. Collecting the letters, she shoved them into her skirt pocket and returned to the office.

  Mg. Bailey sat facing the window. His glasses rested on top of his head, and one hand massaged his right temple.

  When Ceony spoke, he startled.

  “I suppose . . . that was a bit harsh,” she said, stiff-backed in her efforts to stay cool. “I apologize for that, though I in no way condone any of . . . this.” She waved her hand before the desk.

  Mg. Bailey merely eyed her, his expression unreadable. She wasn’t sure he could even see her clearly without his glasses.

  “You’re smart, Magician Bailey,” she said, “and obviously very successful. Bennet speaks well of you, and he’s never given me reason to disbelieve him.”

  “Is there a point to this, Miss Twill?” Mg. Bailey asked.

  “What I mean to say is that you have good traits. I just wish you’d use them for good. You can’t be content meddling with other people’s lives like this.”

  Mg. Bailey snorted.

  “You think I’ve misjudged you,” she said, folding her arms, “but you’ve misjudged me. You sized me up before you ever met me, Pritwin Bailey. I have no doubt about that. I can only hope we’ll find a right foot somewhere on this bumpy road.”

  She turned to leave but hesitated. Glancing back, she added, “And if any of your personal feelings toward me alter the outcome of my magician’s test, I’ll know, and I will report you to the Cabinet.”

  She waited an extra second for a response, but when none came, she excused herself and tromped back to the stairs in a much slower, calmer fashion. She slipped a hand into her letter-filled pocket. She couldn’t send a bird from the mansion, not with that hawk scouting the grounds. Instead she spied into the cottage lavatory with her makeup compact. No towels hung on the wall; no sounds pierced the lavatory walls.

  “Cease,” Ceony said, shutting her compact. She could send a bird after she left the estate. She had an Excisioner to find, and this time neither of them would leave the confrontation running.

  CHAPTER 14

  CEONY HAD NO giant paper gliders at her disposal and didn’t want to involve Bennet any further in her dark-rooted hobby, so she set to work on getting to Aylesbury herself—work that would let her get out of Aylesbury quickly, without needing to find an untarnished mirror.

  She recalled the spell being in The Apprentice’s Reference Guide to Siping, a book that was now long overdue at the Maughan Library. Though this trip to Mg. Bailey’s estate had been focused on Folding, Ceony had not possessed the heart to leave behind all her references and supplies for the other materials magics. In fact, she’d brought about two-thirds of them with her, all crammed into the bottom of her suitcase.

  After scrolling through the table of contents, Ceony flipped to page 84, the header of which read “Speedy Footwork,” under the chapter title “Travel.”

  She reviewed the spell carefully; she had never performed it before, and if she botched it, she’d have to travel through mirrors, assuming she could find a good one in Aylesbury, which would take time.

  She counted out her round rubber buttons and came up two short for her shoe size, which meant she had to borrow two from Fennel’s paws. Using a Siping lancet—the only Siping tool she owned—Ceony carved the buttons with a meticulous hand: a half circle here, a slit there. Mistakes forced her to borrow two more of Fennel’s rubber paw pads. Finally, she laid the buttons out on the floor in the specific, zigzag pattern shown in the book, five for each shoe. Then she placed her most comfortable shoes over them and commanded them, “Merge.”

  The rubber made a sucking noise as it adhered to the soles of her shoes. Crossing her fingers, Ceony slipped the shoes on and said, “Quicken, times two.”

  She took one step, then another, a normal walking pace. However, she found herself on the other side of the room twice as quickly. She smiled, relieved. “Cease,” she commanded the shoes, and she prepared the rest of her spells, stowing them away in her purse alongside her pistol. She had only one round left; if only she had access to a forge. Smelters had spells for making a bullet hit its intended target, but such spells had to be crafted from molten metal, and there was no time for her to achieve such a feat. Not today.

  She slipped the rest of her materials and spells into her bag and took the servants’ stairs down to the main floor, where she took the back exit out of the mansion. Enchanting her shoes to increase her speed tenfold, Ceony ran to the Central London Railway station in less than ten minutes, startling far more than ten passersby on her way.

  Ceony stood outside a locked room in Aylesbury’s council building, ear presse
d to the door. The officer’s words came through as only mumbles; no one was angry enough to shout bits of useful information to her. The clock on the wall across from her read 4:36.

  She had sought out the council building second, after the sheriff’s office, and had seen several police officers exiting an automobile across the street—more than she would consider necessary for a town of Aylesbury’s size. The London police department patch on one man’s uniform had tipped her off: these were Mg. Hughes’s men, and now they sat behind this door discussing something important with an older man who Ceony could only assume was with Criminal Affairs.

  She fished through her bag, pulling out a tiny, square mirror about twice the size of her thumbnail. Ensuring she had no witnesses, Ceony pinched her necklace, murmured her incantations, and became a Gaffer. She then slid the mirror under the door near the jamb, out of sight of those gathered in the room, and walked away.

  Ceony didn’t go far, just to the end of the hallway and around, where she found two chairs and a fern perched outside an office door paned with frosted glass. She sat and pulled out her ledger, trying her best to get some studying accomplished while the men in the room discussed affairs relating to her.

  She noticed a newspaper, still rolled, nestled against the door beside her. Read “Education Board” on the front in large, blocked letters.

  She eyed the door. There were no electric lights on inside, just the gleam of the sun from an open window. An office of some sort, perhaps.

  Leaning over the armrest of the chair, Ceony grabbed the newspaper and unfolded it. The article in question read, “Mg. Cabinet Education Board Rules Against Opposite-Sex Apprenticeships.” The subtitle: “Board estimates the disbanding of over 100 magician apprenticeships. New ruling to take effect 14 September.”

  Ceony blanched as she began to read the article. Oh God, they’ve listed names.

  She skimmed first, searching the four-column article for any mention of “Thane” or “Twill,” but she found none. Releasing only half a breath, she read the brief summary of a Mg. Blair Peters, a Gaffer, whose relationship with her apprentice had caused nationwide scandal in Scotland last year—

  “Her apprentice?” Ceony whispered. She wondered at their ages, but the article didn’t say, nor did it give the name of the apprentice. At least the newspaper had decided to only publicly humiliate one of the two.

  The writer also mentioned a Mg. Jumaane Ibori, a Smelter, who had been accused of extramarital relations with his apprentice, though solid evidence had yet to be collected.

  Were these two scandals what caused the change, or have there been others? She thought again about Emery, Zina.

  She read the article in its entirety; the new rule was being put into effect in time for the new school year at Tagis Praff, which would allow most apprentices to transfer at or near a year mark, and would supposedly make their transitions easier.

  September 14. Only three months away. If Ceony didn’t pass her magician’s test, she’d certainly be transferred. Only for a short time, but the thought didn’t comfort her.

  Shaking herself, Ceony rolled up the newspaper and dropped it in front of the door. She wondered if Emery had read today’s paper yet. What he thought about the article.

  Two minutes short of an hour later, she heard the door down the hall open. Rising from her seat, Ceony peeked around the corner and watched six policemen and the older gentleman exit the room and head toward the front of the building. None of them spoke, save for a whispered exchange between two of the London officers.

  Ceony watched them go, counted to twenty, and then walked back down the hall. Checking for bystanders and finding none, she slipped into the room and found her mirror tile resting against the edge of a very old rug. She scooped it up and hurried outside, passing one of the officers on her way out, receiving nothing more than a glance. After all, there was more than one administrative office in the council building, and she could have come from any of them.

  Ceony hurried to a church down the street and staked out a quiet spot on an outdoor bench before enchanting the mirror in her hands. “Reflect, past,” she said. While the mirror’s silvery surface showed her only the white ceiling, the officers’ voices rang with adequate clarity.

  She listened as one man recounted the demise of Mg. Cantrell—a story that made Ceony wince. She held on to every detail. She couldn’t afford to miss anything.

  Another voice spoke of an Indian man arrested in Aylesbury two days ago, who’d turned out to be a businessman with a mere resemblance to the infamous Excisioner. Then they brought up the story of a Mr. Cliff Prestonson, whose body had been found drained of blood in the passenger seat of his own automobile.

  “His wallet and briefcase were missing,” a bass voice explained. “As far as we can tell, none of the banknotes have been used in Aylesbury.”

  A tenor added, “But the witness claims the attacker—matching Prendi’s description—abandoned Prestonson’s vehicle and tried two more before starting the engine of a Ford Model A. I assume Prendi couldn’t find Prestonson’s keys on his person.”

  “Wait, a witness?” asked another tenor.

  “It’s in my report, sir,” replied the man. “She asked not to have her name disclosed, but she saw an Indian man follow Prestonson out to his vehicle and then grab him by the back of the neck. Prestonson reacted as though he’d been stabbed, though the witness saw no knife. The attacker pulled Prestonson into the passenger seat of the car, then emerged about a quarter of an hour later. He proceeded to steal the Ford—it belongs to an Ernest Hutchings, whose statement I have here—and take the highway toward Brackley.”

  Brackley, Ceony thought with a shiver. Brackley sat northwest of London and Aylesbury.

  “When?” asked the second tenor.

  The bass replied, “Four o’clock this last night, sir.”

  Ceony palmed the mirror and rose from the bench. Changing her allegiance to rubber, she enchanted her shoes and took off for Brackley. At the pace the Siping spell carried her, she imagined she’d reach the town before the officers did.

  Whether or not that was a good thing, she wasn’t sure.

  The spell was exhilarating.

  Ceony’s enchanted shoes turned the world into mosaics of color and sound as she whipped through it, taking the long way around towns to avoid running into anything substantial, though she did trip over a gopher hole near Stratton Audley. Each step made her skin pull tight and her skirt fly behind her; Ceony held it down with either fist for the sake of modesty.

  Ceony wondered if such spells were the reason Mg. Hughes had become a Siper.

  She arrived in good time. Brackley, northwest of Aylesbury, was a small town. As soon as Ceony arrived at the edge of a groomed park near a tree swing, she removed the spell from her shoes.

  The sun, though it hadn’t set yet, had grown orange with age, and made the town look more orange in turn. Beyond the park, Ceony passed a shop for bobbin lace and another for fabrics. A small grocery store and an inn sat on Bridge Street, where a few men in suspenders loaded some kind of animal feed onto a horse-drawn wagon.

  She continued past Market Place, passing houses bricked in red and blue, an almshouse, and the Woodard Anglican School. Only one student graced its grounds at this hour. He sat on a bench reading a mathematics textbook.

  Ceony asked him if he’d seen any Indian men, especially one driving a Model A, but he hadn’t.

  The sun drooped, encouraging Ceony to stick to the shadows. She wished she had brought a hat with her to hide her hair—surely its vibrant color would give her away to Saraj, though he wouldn’t expect to see her in Brackley. The element of surprise was still hers.

  Her hands danced over the charms of her necklace as she skirted by a small hospital. Scaffolding on its east side spoke of renovation. She peered down the next intersection, eyeing a row of apartments and a tall parish church the color of sandstone. A Ford Model A was parked across the street from it.

  Ceony st
iffened and stepped beneath a brick alcove overhanging the door of a single-story library. Could this be Saraj’s vehicle? The policemen hadn’t mentioned the automobile’s number. Perhaps she should check again in the glass.

  The sound of an engine caught her attention as a second Model A came around the corner—or perhaps a Model C. The driver wore a top hat and an auburn mustache. His passenger, a woman in a frilly pink dress, laughed at some joke as they passed.

  Some clue you have, Ceony, she thought. Half the people in this town probably own a Ford!

  She lingered in the alcove a moment longer, watching the first automobile, until a young man exited the library with two books under his arm. He tipped his hat at her as he went, and Ceony stepped into the library.

  Passing a well-dressed gentleman reading the day’s paper, she approached the librarian behind the desk and said, “Excuse me, I’m looking for someone. An Indian man, perhaps forty years old? Thin, tall—he dropped his wallet outside the hospital and I didn’t see which way he went.”

  The librarian—an older woman with gray hair worn in Mg. Aviosky’s favored tight bun—shook her head. “I think I’d remember . . . Sure he wasn’t Spanish?”

  “Spanish?”

  “Mario lives on Bridge Street,” she explained. “He’s from Madrid, been here four years with his wife and little girl.”

  “I . . . Perhaps it was him,” Ceony said, and tried to graciously accept the address the woman scribbled down on a scrap of paper. She tucked it under her collar and into her brassiere; her skirt pockets were full with spells.

  As she walked through the streets of Brackley, Ceony’s hand counted the spells in her bag and occasionally caressed the handle of her pistol. By the time she came full circle to the park, it was getting dark and her legs hurt. She chose a different route this time, one that took her by an old-looking spike. She saw some of the workhouse employees through lit windows, though none of them looked remotely like Saraj.