The Master Magician

THE ELECTRIC LIGHTS came on, burning spots into Ceony’s vision, temporarily blotting out the name Prendi in her hands.

The candle flickered. The door hinges creaked.

“Ceony?” Emery asked, punctuating her name with a yawn. “What are you . . . Telegram?”

Ceony didn’t answer. Her thoughts danced around her family’s home and down into the river that had swallowed a buggy and its driver whole, almost claiming Emery and Ceony, too. They zoomed east to Dartford, to the paper mill’s newly rebuilt walls.

Emery’s hand touched her shoulder. Handing him the telegram, she turned and walked away, the distance from the telegraph to her bedroom passing beneath her without notice. She flipped on the light. Fennel stirred. She crossed the room to her desk and pulled out a square sheet of white paper and a pencil. She wrote furiously, her words unaligned. She had just started her second sentence when Emery’s soft voice asked, “What are you doing?”

“Warning my family.”

“He doesn’t know where they live now, Ceony,” he said, gentle as a summer breeze. He entered the room slowly, his footsteps like a deer’s on the forest floor. “And Alfred will make them a priority. He probably already has.”

Ceony shook her head.

The paper magician’s hand found her shoulder again, the fingers curling gently around her. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

Ceony slammed the pencil onto the desktop, breaking off its point. She turned to Emery and felt tears sting the corners of her eyes. “Why haven’t they executed him yet?” she asked, the question burning her tongue. “They’ve had two years. All the people he’s hurt . . .”

Emery cupped either side of her face, wiped a thumb under one of her eyes to catch a tear. “They lost Grath and Lira. Saraj was the only means of obtaining information for the underground.”

“It doesn’t matter!”

“I’m not disagreeing with you,” he said, voice faint. He pressed his forehead to hers.

Ceony dropped her eyes and pulled from his touch, but then leaned forward into his shoulder. His arms encircled her, his warmth providing some amount of comfort. “What if he’s still after them . . . us?” she whispered.

“He won’t get far. We’ll leave it to the Cabinet. They’ll take care of it.”

“If we left everything to the Cabinet, we’d both be dead.”

He stroked her hair. “Regardless, Saraj’s primary concern will be to escape. He has no reason to chase you anymore, and I doubt he cares to torment me. He’ll be heading for the coast in the hopes of crossing the channel. If Alfred has time to send word to us, we can assume it’s because he already has men on Saraj’s tail.”

Ceony let out a long breath, trying to wrap Emery’s reassurances around her like a warm blanket. She calmed a little, relaxed, but a ping of worry still warped her pulse. Nothing Saraj did was ever direct or predictable. What if her family still lay in his sights?

Grath’s voice licked her thoughts as she heard him repeat her mother’s and father’s names. She shuddered.

At least Emery wouldn’t be involved in this mess. He hadn’t worked with Criminal Affairs since Saraj’s arrest. With his ex-wife out of the picture for good, Emery no longer had a reason to deal with Excisioners, and the Cabinet had accepted that.

She stayed in Emery’s arms a moment longer before pulling back. Emery kissed her softly.

“I can try to find out more in the morning if it will help,” he offered. “The best thing we can do now is rest.”

“And ward the house—”

“The house is warded.” He managed a faint smile. “You are safe, Ceony, and so are they. I promise.”

She nodded. Emery lingered a moment, then pressed his lips to her forehead and excused himself without words. She could stay with him again tonight. To hell with propriety. Still, she decided against asking. She trusted Emery, of course, and she didn’t want him to think otherwise. But how could he really know where Saraj Prendi would go, what he would do?

Fennel lifted his head and offered a papery bark. Sighing, Ceony picked up her half-finished message and crumpled it in her hands, then tossed it into the dustbin with the command, “Shred.”

She shut off the lights and climbed into bed, beckoning the paper dog to lie by her head. Yes, the best thing she could do now was sleep.

She didn’t sleep well.