The Master Magician (The Paper Magician Series Book 3) Page 5

  “Magician Thane is retired from that line of work,” Ceony said with a little too much push. Fortunately, Mg. Aviosky didn’t seem to notice. Or, at least, she did not respond.

  The Gaffer took in a deep breath, dropped her hand, and leaned forward in her chair, placing her elbows on her knees—a very casual position for a woman Ceony had never before associated with that word. “I’m not part of Criminal Affairs,” she said, meeting Ceony’s eyes. “I only know wisps, perhaps nothing more than what you know already.”

  It wasn’t an outright refusal; Ceony had been dealt enough of those in her life to know the difference. Mg. Aviosky had been more receptive to her ever since the incident with Grath. Perhaps that was why she’d stopped investigating Ceony’s relationship with Emery.

  “What I know would fit in a single telegram,” Ceony said, her voice growing quiet, despite the lack of eavesdropping ears. “Please tell me more. He threatened my family. He’s”—she swallowed—“he’s supposed to be dead.”

  “They did take their time, didn’t they?” Mg. Aviosky quipped, almost more to herself than to Ceony. “I wonder, once this is all over, if the need to dig information out of the man will have been worth it. I’d hate to think—”

  Her voice cut short. After clearing her throat, she finished with, “Of the people who he’ll hurt.”

  Ceony bit her lip. For a moment, the ghost of Delilah stood in the hallway outside the front room, laughing at some unheard joke. But she was gone, her laughter only heard in memory.

  Another sigh passed from Mg. Aviosky’s lips, as if the same thought had occurred to her. “He escaped en route to Portsmouth prison, where he was scheduled for execution.”

  “From Haslar.”

  “Mm,” Mg. Aviosky agreed. She shifted in her chair. “Somewhere near Gosport, I believe, between cities. I didn’t press Magician Hughes for details.”

  “But how?” Ceony pleaded. “I researched the imprisonment of Excisioners. Straitjackets, constant guard, solitary confinement. They even put bits in their mouth to keep them from drawing blood from their own tongue and cheeks!”

  Ceony felt her neck warm.

  “No need to school me, Miss Twill,” the Gaffer said. “I’m quite aware. I believe he head-butted his guard and blew out his sinuses hard enough to give himself a nosebleed. I’ve heard Excision spells cast using the magician’s own blood are far weaker, but it was enough. He managed to collapse the side of the carriage and get away.”

  Ceony thought of the spell Lira had once used to break down Emery’s front door. “No one pursued him?”

  “I don’t know,” Mg. Aviosky said with a tilt of her chin and the faintest air of exasperation. “I imagine there was a chase. No sane person would think to transport Saraj Prendi without a great number of guards, especially of the magician type. But it’s not under my jurisdiction. I simply don’t know.”

  But where? Would Saraj try to flee England, as Emery suspected? Portsmouth and Haslar were on the southern coast, weren’t they? An easy escape. Saraj would be a fool not to take it.

  Still, the contents of her stomach churned.

  Ceony kept the thoughts to herself, shoving them down deep enough in her brain that they tickled the back of her neck. She cleared her throat, trying not to react noticeably to the news, and asked, “What did Saraj do prior to the paper mill?”

  Mg. Aviosky tapped her chin, then readjusted her glasses once more. Instead of offering another excuse about how she wasn’t involved in Criminal Affairs, she managed to say, “I believe he was involved in some ordeal in Scotland, along with Grath Cobalt and Lira Hoppson. I’m not sure of the details. But Miss Twill,” she said, scooting forward on her chair, “you must believe that you and your kin will be safe. It’s not in Saraj Prendi’s criminal profile to pursue them any further.”

  The words offered little comfort. “I thought you weren’t part of Criminal Affairs,” Ceony said. “How would you know?”

  The Gaffer frowned. “Saraj Prendi has a reputation extending far beyond English law enforcement. That is a naïve question.”

  Ceony sighed. “You are right, of course.”

  She wrung her skirt in her hands but stopped short of wrinkling it. Her thoughts felt like muffin batter. Smoothing out her skirt, Ceony closed her eyes just long enough to gather her senses. Then she reached into her bag and grabbed a rectangular piece of gray paper. She tore it in half down the middle and instructed it, “Mimic.”

  Mg. Aviosky raised an eyebrow.

  Ceony handed half of the paper to her. “Think of it as mirror-to-mirror communication,” Ceony explained. Indeed, a mirror spell would be much more prudent than this Folder’s spell, but Mg. Aviosky didn’t know about Ceony’s exercises in bond breaking, and Ceony was not ready to share the information. Once a secret spread to too many minds and mouths, anyone could learn it—including an Excisioner.

  Ceony continued. “Anything you write on your half will appear on mine. Please, if you hear any more news, or if you need to contact me for whatever reason, use this. It’s quicker and more . . . private . . . than a telegram.”

  The glass magician glanced over the half sheet of paper. To Ceony’s relief, she nodded and folded it into quarters before slipping it inside her tailored jacket. “Very well,” she said. “I’ll keep it on hand.”

  Ceony’s shoulders relaxed, which was how she realized they had tensed. “Thank you for your help. I’m just trying to . . . ease some concerns.”

  Gosport, she thought. Haslar to Portsmouth. I need to know for certain that he fled, that he won’t come after us. I have to know there won’t be any more Delilahs, Anises.

  Ceony stood, holding her bag to her. Mg. Aviosky stood as well.

  “Would you like some tea?” she asked, lips twisting with what could have been worry. “Do you have a buggy waiting?”

  “No, thank you, and I’ll get home fine,” Ceony said, punctuating her reassurances with a smile. “And I should be getting home. I have more studying to do before my test.”

  Mg. Aviosky seemed pleased with that statement. “Agreed. Take care, Ceony.”

  The Gaffer showed Ceony to the door. Ceony took up her bike and walked it across the yard and down the walk, watching Mg. Aviosky’s front door through the corner of her eye.

  She turned the next corner and seated herself on the bike. She rode farther into the city, toward Parliament Square, where she heard Big Ben chime the second hour.

  This time she didn’t cut through the square to return to Emery’s cottage. She parked her bicycle outside St. Alban’s Salmon Bistro, which was, ironically, the place where she had lost the last one.

  Smoothing her skirt and fixing her hair, Ceony began to walk toward the Parliament building itself. It was more public than she would have liked given her purpose, but she knew the mirror was of good quality, ensuring a certain measure of safety. Besides, there wasn’t time to find anything better. The lavatory door locked, at least.

  As she neared the building, a familiar laugh caught her attention. Passing Fine Seams, a tailoring shop, Ceony peered around a corner and searched the various shoppers and pedestrians filling the narrow road leading away from the square. She spied her sister Zina leaning against the brick side of Fine Seams in a dress that was almost indecently short. She was with two men: one who was barely old enough to be called a man and another who looked to be Zina’s age. He held a cigar in one hand and leaned one elbow against the brick wall.

  “Zina!” Ceony called, jogging down the street. A surprise to see her sister here—her family had moved to Poplar, which was too far away for a comfortable journey to Parliament Square.

  Zina glanced over. She didn’t seem enthused by the chance meeting, which made Ceony slow down.

  Ceony nodded to the two men before asking, “What are you doing here? Mom and Dad . . . are they here, too?” Prancing around the heart of London, just waiting for a certain Excisioner to put them on the menu?

  Zina rolled her eyes. “I’m nine
teen, Ceony. I don’t need an escort.”

  “I didn’t say you did. I was just wondering—”

  “Can you ‘wonder’ over there?” Zina asked, gesturing down the road. “I’m a bit preoccupied.”

  Ceony glanced to the older man. “Excuse me, just a moment,” she said. He did not so much as step back. To Zina, she said, “What’s wrong? Why are you acting like this? I haven’t seen you in two months and suddenly I’m a pest?”

  Zina buzzed her lips to imitate a fly. The two men chuckled.

  Ceony swallowed a grumble and straightened her shoulders. Leaning toward Zina, she said, “Listen, you should probably go home. There are . . . things afoot right now, and I’m worried about the family. Would you—”

  “Ceony!” Zina snapped, “Are you deaf? You, of all people, have no right to tell me about propriety.”

  A few passersby glanced over at Zina’s outburst.

  “I’m not talking about propriety! I’m talking about your safety!” Ceony countered. Her mother had mentioned Zina’s new habits—the late nights and unruly friends—but had her sister really grown so hard?

  Zina pushed off of the brick wall and straightened, standing about an inch taller than Ceony did. “I know about you and Magician Thane, you know,” she said, a little too loudly for comfort.

  Ceony flushed. “What about me and Magician Thane?”

  “I heard our parents talking, that’s what,” she said. “Criminy, Ceony, it’s like shagging the principal. Isn’t he a divorcé, too?”

  Scalding heat permeated Ceony’s skin, reddening her like a tomato. Voices muttering What did she say? and That girl? echoed around her. She could feel time slowing, and the passersby slowed along with it, clearly eager to overhear more gossip.

  Zina folded her arms.

  Ceony’s pulse drummed in her ears. She felt sick in her chest. “I’m not,” she whispered, “doing that, Zina. With anyone.”

  She thought her ears would light with fire, her cheeks burn to ash, but the moment passed, as even the worst moments do.

  “Whatever you say, sis.” Zina waved a hand carelessly and walked away without a backward glance. The man with the cigar grinned at Ceony and even dared to waggle his eyebrows at her before following.

  Feeling stark naked and an inch tall, Ceony spun back for the main road, walking briskly on marionette legs. To her horror, she spied none other than Mrs. Holloway, who leaned toward an older companion as she stage-whispered, “I know him. Magician Thane, that is. The girl so young, and him without a wife. All alone . . . It’s a wonder what they get up to.”

  God save me, Ceony prayed, clutching her bag to her body. I’ve done nothing wrong.

  She continued walking, the exercise moving her blood away from her face, and with it any outward show of humiliation. Her mind whirled. True, she and her sister had grown apart in recent years, but they had been the best of friends before Ceony started secondary school. What’s wrong with you, Zina?

  The Parliament building loomed ahead. Ceony’s memory flashed back to her conversation with Mg. Aviosky, and she clung to it with all ten nails. Saraj. She needed to focus on Saraj, not on Zina. Not even on Emery.

  She let herself inside.

  Two guards glanced at her as she passed, but just about anyone was allowed to traverse the first floor of the building so long as they didn’t look suspicious. And a young woman of Ceony’s stature never looked suspicious. Not with her skin more or less returned to its normal hue.

  She walked with her eyes straight ahead, smiling at anyone who passed, nodding at a businessman who first nodded to her. When she reached the women’s lavatory on the left, she kept her pace and stepped inside, listening for the sounds of others before locking the door.

  She took a moment to gather her wits and catch her breath. Saraj. Focus on him.

  In the powdering space between the door and the toilets hung a large mirror against a wallpapered wall, just over a polished dresser beside a cushioned chair. Ceony remembered this mirror well; Delilah had used it to take her to and from her temporary flat.

  Ceony squared her shoulders and pulled the chair around to the front of the dresser so she could stand on it and reach the mirror. Ceony slipped her hand under the collar of her blouse, pulled free her charm necklace, and pinched the wood charm in her fingers, muttering the words that would break her bond to paper.

  She resealed herself to glass, then touched the edges of the mirror the way her friend had done so long ago.

  And she searched.

  She pushed her consciousness into the mirror, probing for an unknown signature, feeling her spirit pull like taffy as she explored farther and farther from the lavatory, past the mirrors in Parliament and its square, past the mirrors in London and Croydon and Farnborough. She stretched, her consciousness spinning into threads. It drained her—she had never tried this spell at so great a distance. But it would work. She had tried the spell before, in the confines of her bedroom, albeit with a much smaller mirror.

  There, she thought, this feels close enough.

  Holding on to her search spell, Ceony traced her hand around the mirror clockwise, counterclockwise, and clockwise again. She murmured, “Transport, pass through.”

  The mirror rippled into silvery liquid, waiting to swallow her.

  Holding her breath, Ceony stepped through it.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE LIQUID GLASS draped over Ceony like a curtain of ice water, seeping through clothes and skin without leaving a trace of wetness. Her mind flashed to the memory of her buggy hitting the surface of a dark river, cold water creeping up her body as Saraj watched from the bank. That very sensation was one of three reasons Ceony didn’t mirror-transport often; it reminded her of drowning.

  The second reason was the fear of getting caught.

  The third was the danger of getting stuck within a damaged mirror . . .

  Which was exactly what happened. Despite stepping into a clean mirror, Ceony found herself in a limbo filled with gray matter—sharp stalagmites and stalactites jutting below and above her, charcoal gems hanging midair, silvery webs floating like clouds or crawling as fog.

  She inched forward, scanning each obstacle, each danger. This mirror she had found had been treated poorly, dirtied, and split, resulting in the dangerous obstacle field ahead of her. Far to her left, the ground shifted down as it might in an earthquake—the manifestation of a crack.

  Chewing on her lip, Ceony slid one foot forward, then the other, searching for a clear path. If she found none, she’d go back—her small investigation wasn’t worth losing her life in this glassy prison. But it was worth a try.

  She stepped over a stalagmite, sidestepped until she could move around a web—the manifestation of a scratch—which was seemingly constructed of razor blades. It looped around itself like matted hair pulled from a hairbrush and reached to her midthigh. Ceony ducked under another web and got her skirt caught on a third. A quick tug freed it with minimal damage.

  The floor bowed slightly past the wiry clouds, but beyond that she saw the glimmering veil of her destination mirror: a rather large one. She treaded carefully over the ice-slick, concave floor until she reached it, bracing herself for another cold wash.

  When she emerged, she found herself in some sort of storage room, thankfully empty. The mirror she had stepped through hung frameless on the wall, about six feet high and four feet across, its surface marred with stains and scratches. Another, narrower mirror leaned against the opposite wall, supported on either side by bolts of unorganized fabrics.

  Ceony blinked a few times, adjusting to the dimness of the room—savoring the momentary solitude. Two bare dress mannequins, one in disrepair, greeted her, and beyond them rested an old wooden shelf filled with poorly folded scraps of fabric, everything from satin to cotton to flannel. A box full of bits and cuts of fabric, too small to be of use to anyone, blocked her way to the door. Ceony heaved it aside—moving slowly, so as not to stir up too much noise—and stepped thro
ugh the doorway into a cramped hall.

  A dress shop.

  Ceony spied down the hallway to a front area displaying premade gowns and coats, as well as fabric bolts propped on slim shelves against the wall for purchase by the yard. A large, middle-aged woman shuffled about the cash register, but she kept her back to Ceony. Ceony tiptoed in from the back and made it to the shelf of fabric bolts before the woman turned around.

  She gasped. “Oh, heavens! You startled me.” Her hazel eyes glanced to the door and the chime hanging against it. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Oh, sorry,” Ceony said, forcing a light laugh. “I wanted to see if you had something for . . . a polka dot pattern I saw in a magazine. This is close”—she gestured to a pale-orange fabric with peachy speckles—“but not quite what I’m looking for.”

  “Polka dot?” the woman repeated. She tapped her chin. “I do have a booklet you can look at if you’d like to special order something.”

  Ceony gripped the straps of her purse in her fingers. “Oh, I may. There’s one more place I’d like to look, but I think I’ll come back.”

  “Oh. All right, then. Take care.”

  Ceony nodded and headed toward the door, but before its chime could ring she asked, “I just came in from the train—what part of Portsmouth am I in?”

  The woman played with a lint brush on the counter beside her. “Portsmouth is eight miles south, dear. Not far. This is Waterlooville. Did you not see the sign?”

  “Thank you,” Ceony replied. She stepped outside and counted the pounds in her purse, wondering if she should hire a buggy or make another attempt at mirror travel.

  She pinched a few bills between thumb and forefinger. “A buggy would be safer,” she murmured to herself. The journey through the mirror in the dress shop had left her with a bit of a headache, besides.

  She called the next buggy that passed and offered some weak instructions concerning Gosport—could she be dropped off somewhere in the middle?—and rode silently in the backseat. She spied signs for Portchester Castle on the way, and the great behemoth of a fortress hulked in the distance beyond her window. She wondered if Emery would be interested in touring something like that. She’d have to ask, but carefully. She didn’t want him to wonder how she’d come up with the idea.