The Glass Magician

LANGSTON ASKED CEONY SIMPLE questions as they drove, just as he had after rescuing her from the city after the incident at the bistro. But Ceony only stared out the window, watching buildings as they passed, unable to find a drop of conversation in her. After a few blocks, Langston started chatting about the weather and the university library, which had recently accumulated a large collection of American newspapers, which he claimed to be “more honest” than the British ones.

Ceony pressed up against the window as the automobile passed the street she would have turned onto to get to the Mill Squats in Whitechapel, where her family lived. Her father would be at work right now, her mother preparing dinner, her sister Zina out with friends, trying to use up as much free time as possible before the school year began. Marshall would likely be curled up on the couch with a book, and Margo would be outside playing in the dirt, searching for worms or building castles.

Outside, where anyone could see her. Ceony had to warn them.

“Could you take me to the Mill Squats, please?” Ceony pleaded as Langston stopped for a woman crossing the street.

“I’m sorry,” Langston replied, and he really did look sorry. He also looked like he wanted to put a padlock on the passenger-side door. “Magician Thane asked me to take you straight home. Are you worried about your family?”

Ceony sank into the seat. “Yes.”

“They’ll be safe,” Langston said, guiding the automobile forward. “Magician Thane is thorough, and if Criminal Affairs is involved, they’re probably already at the house, getting things in order.”

Ceony nodded, but the young Folder’s words could only comfort her so much. They were a threadbare blanket against a winter storm. No matter how tightly Ceony wrapped it around herself, she could do nothing about the holes.

Langston drove down a street not too far from the Parliament building, one lined with town houses on one side and vanity stores on the other. The town houses—tan, white, gray, even salmon pink—all stood five stories tall, and all pressed up one against another so that not even an ant could wriggle its way between them. Langston parked in front of a coffee-brown town house trimmed with black and came around the automobile to let Ceony out. He offered his elbow, but she shook her head and followed him inside on her own.

Langston lived on the second floor, and the interior of his home surprised Ceony, though she couldn’t explain why. He had a large living room that bled into a small dining room, all with a wooden floor coated in a shiny, walnut polish. Electric lights hung from the ceiling in single-tiered chandeliers, and wide windows framed by cream-colored curtains added more brightness. The living room had a fainting couch, a wicker chair, and an upright pianoforte. A simple, half-filled bookshelf occupied the wall where the dining room started, and the dining room was equipped with a well-crafted wooden table and six chairs. Around the corner one way was a small kitchen, and around the corner the other way stretched a winding set of stairs to the second floor.

It all looked very clean, very tidy . . . and, compared to Emery’s crowded cottage, somewhat sparse. That had to be it, then. Ceony had grown so accustomed to Emery, who used every last inch of space in his home for knickknacks and pointless décor, that Langston’s town house felt empty. It felt temporary. And for her, it was, or so she hoped.

Langston showed her upstairs to the guest bedroom, which measured twice the size of her room at the cottage. It had a large square window with a wide sill on the far wall, a closet cut into the closest wall, a short nightstand painted with purple lilies around the edges, and a bed wide enough for three people.

“There’s a lavatory down the hall, and there are some clothes in the closet,” he said, gesturing to it. “My sister stayed with me a few weeks ago and left some things behind. She’s about your size, maybe a little bigger. You’re welcome to try them on.”

“Thank you,” Ceony managed. She tugged uneasily at her right index finger, receiving a quiet pop in return.

Langston searched for something else to say, but seemed at a loss for words.

“Could I at least get my dog?” Ceony asked. “I left him at the flat—”

“I really am sorry,” Langston said, “but you need to stay here. It won’t be for long, I promise.”

Ceony nodded, and Langston stepped out of the room.

As soon as she was alone, Ceony walked over to the window, but despite the warmth of the room, she didn’t open it. She looked out onto the city, from the small trees planted along the road to the women in posh hats and men chatting over cigars. They all seemed so happy. So oblivious.

Sighing, she slumped to her knees, resting her elbows and chin on the windowsill. Emery still harbored hard feelings toward her, and he had every right. Delilah did, too. And Mg. Aviosky. Only Mg. Hughes had commended her for her stupidity, and his compliments only rubbed salt into burns. Her mind spun, trying to sort out how to make amends, but she found no answers. Nothing better than apologies, which had done her no good so far.