The Glass Magician

Saltdean had once been known for smuggling, thanks to its high, salt-crusted cliffs and the hidden trenches that made unlicensed docking easy and discreet. Emery could taste the salt in the air, but not the sea. To him, it tasted too much like blood.

Off the coast and far into the English Channel, he saw a storm sweeping off France. He wondered if it would reach him today. He would need to be careful about where he laid his spells. Hughes had said the others wouldn’t arrive until the next day.

Suitcase still in hand, Emery took a stroll around Saltdean, examining its cliffs. He headed into the town, eyeing its sparse buildings and scattered homes. He needed to find somewhere large, but uninhabited. Such parameters shouldn’t be hard to come by in a town like this one. He wanted to stay away from the town’s north end, where the common people had begun to turn the land into something profitable.

He found a medium-sized factory, three floors, still intact and in decent condition, albeit weathered from storms. It smelled like it had been a shoe factory, but most of its interior had already been gutted. It would do.

Emery started the trek back to Rottingdean. He had a great deal of paper to buy.




Emery slept little, thanks to a friendly version of insomnia that often let him choose when he did and did not suffer from it. He spent most of the night carefully Folding papers large and small, both for his personal use and in preparation for the showdown at the factory. His calloused fingers worked four-pointed stars, links for a shield chain and a snaring chain, and anything else his mind could conjure. As for the factory . . . he could only hope Juliet managed to keep up her end of the plan and had successfully driven Saraj to Saltdean. If she didn’t, it would all be for naught.

In the morning Emery went to a back alley by a condemned tackle shop near the factory, the place he had designated as the rendezvous point. Two automobiles pulled in shortly after nine, carrying Mg. Cantrell and several police officers. Juliet, a Smelter, was roughly the same age as Emery and had joined Criminal Affairs two years ago after a successful—albeit short—career as a deputy inspector in Nottingham. A pretty woman and tall, she walked with a military-type stride and a chronic stiffness to her shoulders. Like Patrice, she wore her dark hair pulled into a tight bun, which emphasized her square jaw. Four policemen whose gait and posture implied a background in the military accompanied her.

“I’d say you’re looking well, Emery,” she said as she approached, hands clasped behind her back, “but I’m afraid you aren’t. Poor sleep? Perhaps it’s the lighting.”

She glanced up at the overcast sky.

Emery didn’t bother with small talk. He liked Juliet well enough, but it felt like a waste of breath. “Is he coming?”

“Everything seems to be on schedule,” she said, walking up the road. The policemen followed in their auto at a crawling pace. “We’ll need to set up quickly, be prepared. Saraj Prendi doesn’t run a tight ship.”

“I’ve made preparations. An old shoe factory, up this way.” Emery gestured. From within his coat—the sage-green one—he pulled free a shield chain and offered it to her.

Juliet shook her head and held up a hand; the automobile stopped behind them. “Thank you, but it’s unnecessary,” she said, circling back to the trunk of the auto. Emery followed her. She opened a latch and, from a thick cardboard box, pulled free a steel-cast chain, the links forming a wide band. “Wear this,” she said. “It won’t crumble if it gets wet.”

Emery didn’t complain, merely nodded and took the new shield chain from the Smelter. It weighed far more than its paper cousin, but Juliet was right—it was much more durable. Folding had its limits in defensive spells. Offensive, as well. But every material had its strengths and weaknesses. Emery had internalized that truth during his own apprenticeship, which he had completed nine years ago.

“The others are stationed in Brighton,” Juliet said, digging through a jacket pocket to find an address. “Send a bird to them, if you will. They’re the only warning we’ll get when Saraj arrives.”

Emery accepted the address, and Juliet pulled a lightweight, gray cardstock from the back of the automobile, perfect for camouflaging against the dreary sky. Emery Folded it carefully, forming a sturdy songbird with instructions to return upon its release, just as a true bird would.

“Juliet.”

“Hmm?”

Emery weighed the songbird in his palm. “Did they find the shed? Lira?”

The Smelter frowned. “Alfred says the local police found the sheds, even the broken mirror, but not her. Not yet.”

The words bothered him, but not the way he’d expected. He didn’t feel that familiar jab in his chest or the drip of anxiety. He felt a horsefly biting at him. He brushed it off—Lira was the least of his worries right now.

“Breathe,” Emery murmured to the songbird, and the small creature awoke in his hands. He whispered its mission, and the bird flew up from his hands, catching the wind westward toward Brighton.

Juliet sighed. “I hope it doesn’t rain.”