The Glass Magician

The shivers fled, and just like they always did when he was near, her cheeks and chest blushed at his closeness. After a moment she permitted herself to relax. Sitting against him, and without the indigo coat between them, it surprised Ceony how warm Emery felt, like a campfire crackled beneath his skin. Not feverishly warm, just . . . comfortable.

She laid her head against him as she had in the car, and his fingers curled around her shoulder. Her pulse raced, and she could hear his heart through his shoulder. It was beating steadily, but perhaps a bit more quickly than normal. After all, she knew Emery’s heartbeat almost as well as her own.

He smelled like soap and brown sugar. She glanced up at the stubble beginning to grow on his face, heavier close to his long sideburns and finer as it neared his lips. She studied his lips for a moment, their shape, their smoothness. She dropped her gaze before she could flush too deeply.

Her pulse gradually slowed as she let herself absorb the moment, the perfectness of it all, until her thoughts lulled her into warm, equally perfect dreams.




Ceony awoke the next morning to Fennel tugging on her messy braid. She stared at her surroundings—the desk, the ceiling, the window—in confusion for a moment before registering where she lay. The flat in the city: the living room. She lay on her side on the sofa, her legs curled up and her right foot asleep. A tan blanket was draped over her.

She bolted up, knocking Fennel to the floor. The dog yapped in protest, but shook his head and took to sniffing about the baseboards.

Ceony saw no sign of Emery, but there was a piece of paper bearing his beautiful script on the chair of the desk, which had been turned to face her.

Blinking sleep from her eyes, she read:


I’ve gone to Magician Hughes’s home in Lambeth (47 Wickham Street) to discuss some matters of importance. I’ve warded the flat, so I beg you to stay inside its confines until I return. I’ve left a Mimic spell as well, in case you need to contact me.

Ceony lowered the note and looked at the desk. Sure enough, there was a torn piece of paper with the word “Mimic” written across the top of it.


I should only be a couple of hours, and Patrice is close by in case of an emergency.

In the meantime, you’ll find some paper in the desk’s top drawer and instructions for making a shrinking chain (inanimate objects only, I’m afraid). I’d like to see twenty-one links completed when I return. Threats on your well-being are poor excuses for missing homework!

He drew a happy face after that—two dots and a curving line—and signed his name.

Ceony sighed and set the note down, then retrieved the instructions for the shrinking chain. While Emery had flawless penmanship and could form perfect Folds with his eyes closed, those were the extent of his artistic abilities. Ceony turned his sloppy diagrams of the steps for making the chain this way and that, trying to make sense of them. She had a fair idea how to make and connect the links, but she would have to fiddle with them herself to determine if she had interpreted the instructions correctly.

Locating a charcoal pencil, she wrote on the Mimic spell, And surely you don’t mind my practicing on your things, correct?

Avoid using my clothing, please, he replied.

She set the pencil down and adjourned to the kitchen for some oatmeal. She washed the dishes—what few they had—and changed into her now clean first set of clothing. She organized her things in the bedroom, folded the blanket on the couch, and folded a paper cube for Fennel to fetch before finally sitting down for her assignment.

It took her four tries to correctly Fold the first link of the shrinking chain, which frustrated her greatly, as Ceony was not used to doing something wrong more than once. Each link was made of two pieces of 4" by 5?" paper, which Folded together into a hook of sorts. Ceony had begun Folding the third link when she heard something tapping in the next room.

She glanced up. “Fennel?” she called.

But the paper dog sat licking his paws at the foot of the couch.

Ceony hesitated, a half-formed link in her hand, but she heard the tapping again, like a fingernail against a window: tap tap tap tap.

She stood from her chair, listening. It hadn’t come from the window.

Ceony wandered into the kitchen, and the noise rang out a third time, louder: tap tap tap tap. The vanity room.

She opened the door. The only light in the room came from a high window concealed by sheer curtains that made the air look blue. The space was fairly empty, save for a closet, a makeup stand and chair, and an antique full-length mirror in the far corner.

And in that mirror, Ceony saw the face of Grath Cobalt.

Gasping, she spun around, expecting the Excisioner to be standing behind her. No one was there.

“Looks like I got the right place,” he said from the mirror, his voice carrying a slight, ringing echo to it.

Ceony whirled back to the mirror, wide-eyed. Her ribs trembled with each beat of her very alert heart.