The Glass Magician

Ceony frowned. “You make it sound so exciting. Can’t I just read a book about it and skip?”


“Ceony, Ceony,” he said. “You do not yet know the marvels that wood chips and pulp have in store for you. There will be a test. This visit is a requirement of the Board of Education for Folders—elective credit for anyone else. As I told you, Magician Aviosky specifically requested your presence.”

Ceony pulled her top hat down farther on her head. “There’s a special place in heaven for people like you.”

Emery laughed and clapped a hand on her shoulder.

“Ceony!” sang out a familiar voice.

Ceony looked toward the shuttle and spied Delilah, Mg. Aviosky’s apprentice, hurrying toward her. Emery quickly withdrew his hand from Ceony’s shoulder and stepped aside as the women greeted each other.

Delilah grabbed Ceony by the arms and kissed both her cheeks—French bisous—as she was wont to do. She was the perfect opposite of her buttoned-up mentor. While Mg. Aviosky had a rather uptight and proper demeanor, Delilah bubbled inside and out, and wore a smile that refused to ever leave her perfectly oval face. She had curled her sunny-blond hair, cut into a bob, and wore a sky-blue sundress beneath her apprentice’s apron. Ceony wasn’t tall, but Delilah stood a good two inches shorter.

“What are you doing here?” Ceony asked, watching from the corner of her eye as Mg. Aviosky approached Emery. “You’re studying glass!”

“Magician Aviosky says it’s proper to be well versed in all the materials,” Delilah said with a slight French lilt, her voice reminiscent of chiming bells. “She said you’d be coming. You don’t mind, do you?”

Ceony laughed. “Why would I mind? But it doesn’t look like it will be a very big group.”

Indeed, other than Magicians Aviosky and Thane and the bus driver, only three other apprentices—all male—had gathered by the bus, each wearing a long red vest instead of an apron. Ceony recognized two of them from her graduating class: George, a stocky man whose rimless glasses were propped on a short nose, and Dover, whose curly dark hair and tan skin had always won him the attention of Ceony’s female classmates in school. Ceony suspected their attention was why it had taken Dover the full three years to receive his diploma from Tagis Praff.

Delilah took Ceony by the hand and pulled her over to the bus. She greeted all three boys and introduced Ceony to the one that she hadn’t previously met. He was a tall, lanky fellow who reminded Ceony of Prit from Emery’s high school—the aspiring Folder whom Emery had bullied—except that he was a Pyre, a fire magician.

Delilah practically cooed Dover’s name, but he didn’t seem to mind. It surprised Ceony to learn that, like herself, both Dover and George had been assigned to paper, and George had obviously not come to terms with that fact.

“What a waste of time,” he grumbled, leaning back against the bus and folding his arms loosely over his chest. “Maybe if we all hold hands and stay quiet, someone will give us lollipops at the end of this nonsense.”

“A sour one for you,” Ceony quipped, then flushed upon hearing her own words. She had been spending far too much time around Emery. George’s ensuing scowl only punctuated that thought, though Dover turned away to hide a chuckle.

“It will be splendid,” Delilah said, hanging off Ceony’s right arm, “and great exercise, besides. I’ve always wondered how paper is made.”

“Deforestation,” George replied. Dover laughed, his perfect curls quivering with the effort. Clemson, the Pyre, merely scratched the back of his head.

Mg. Aviosky clapped her hands and said, “Everyone onto the shuttle. We are sending you without chaperone because you are adults; please remember that during your tour. The shuttle will meet you at the south entrance to the mill at noon. Don’t be tardy. Your participation in this event will be recorded for your permanent record.”

George cursed under his breath. Ceony met Emery’s eyes and shrugged, then allowed Delilah to lead her onto the bus.




To Ceony’s dismay, the Dartford Paper Mill really did smell awful—something like overcooked broccoli with a touch of morning breath. Three buildings, squished together, comprised the factory itself. Seven stories tall, they were built to look like an even mix between a dormitory and a prison. The first six floors were striped with rows of evenly spaced rectangular windows, and the first and third buildings boasted a huge smokestack each, which billowed white, broccoli-scented steam into the air, making it feel especially humid. Part of the large river Ceony had ridden across earlier flowed behind the factory, turning various wheels and powering generators.