The Master Magician

Zina folded her arms.

Ceony’s pulse drummed in her ears. She felt sick in her chest. “I’m not,” she whispered, “doing that, Zina. With anyone.”

She thought her ears would light with fire, her cheeks burn to ash, but the moment passed, as even the worst moments do.

“Whatever you say, sis.” Zina waved a hand carelessly and walked away without a backward glance. The man with the cigar grinned at Ceony and even dared to waggle his eyebrows at her before following.

Feeling stark naked and an inch tall, Ceony spun back for the main road, walking briskly on marionette legs. To her horror, she spied none other than Mrs. Holloway, who leaned toward an older companion as she stage-whispered, “I know him. Magician Thane, that is. The girl so young, and him without a wife. All alone . . . It’s a wonder what they get up to.”

God save me, Ceony prayed, clutching her bag to her body. I’ve done nothing wrong.

She continued walking, the exercise moving her blood away from her face, and with it any outward show of humiliation. Her mind whirled. True, she and her sister had grown apart in recent years, but they had been the best of friends before Ceony started secondary school. What’s wrong with you, Zina?

The Parliament building loomed ahead. Ceony’s memory flashed back to her conversation with Mg. Aviosky, and she clung to it with all ten nails. Saraj. She needed to focus on Saraj, not on Zina. Not even on Emery.

She let herself inside.

Two guards glanced at her as she passed, but just about anyone was allowed to traverse the first floor of the building so long as they didn’t look suspicious. And a young woman of Ceony’s stature never looked suspicious. Not with her skin more or less returned to its normal hue.

She walked with her eyes straight ahead, smiling at anyone who passed, nodding at a businessman who first nodded to her. When she reached the women’s lavatory on the left, she kept her pace and stepped inside, listening for the sounds of others before locking the door.

She took a moment to gather her wits and catch her breath. Saraj. Focus on him.

In the powdering space between the door and the toilets hung a large mirror against a wallpapered wall, just over a polished dresser beside a cushioned chair. Ceony remembered this mirror well; Delilah had used it to take her to and from her temporary flat.

Ceony squared her shoulders and pulled the chair around to the front of the dresser so she could stand on it and reach the mirror. Ceony slipped her hand under the collar of her blouse, pulled free her charm necklace, and pinched the wood charm in her fingers, muttering the words that would break her bond to paper.

She resealed herself to glass, then touched the edges of the mirror the way her friend had done so long ago.

And she searched.

She pushed her consciousness into the mirror, probing for an unknown signature, feeling her spirit pull like taffy as she explored farther and farther from the lavatory, past the mirrors in Parliament and its square, past the mirrors in London and Croydon and Farnborough. She stretched, her consciousness spinning into threads. It drained her—she had never tried this spell at so great a distance. But it would work. She had tried the spell before, in the confines of her bedroom, albeit with a much smaller mirror.

There, she thought, this feels close enough.

Holding on to her search spell, Ceony traced her hand around the mirror clockwise, counterclockwise, and clockwise again. She murmured, “Transport, pass through.”

The mirror rippled into silvery liquid, waiting to swallow her.

Holding her breath, Ceony stepped through it.





CHAPTER 6




THE LIQUID GLASS draped over Ceony like a curtain of ice water, seeping through clothes and skin without leaving a trace of wetness. Her mind flashed to the memory of her buggy hitting the surface of a dark river, cold water creeping up her body as Saraj watched from the bank. That very sensation was one of three reasons Ceony didn’t mirror-transport often; it reminded her of drowning.

The second reason was the fear of getting caught.

The third was the danger of getting stuck within a damaged mirror . . .

Which was exactly what happened. Despite stepping into a clean mirror, Ceony found herself in a limbo filled with gray matter—sharp stalagmites and stalactites jutting below and above her, charcoal gems hanging midair, silvery webs floating like clouds or crawling as fog.

She inched forward, scanning each obstacle, each danger. This mirror she had found had been treated poorly, dirtied, and split, resulting in the dangerous obstacle field ahead of her. Far to her left, the ground shifted down as it might in an earthquake—the manifestation of a crack.