The Paper Magician

Ceony ran a thumb over the shiver in her neck. Now such things were limited to campfire stories and history classes taught at Tagis Praff. Besides, Ceony had seen Mg. Thane work paper magic, which meant he couldn’t possibly be an Excisioner.

She crept along the hallway where floor met wall, grateful that the floorboards didn’t squeak and give her away. She heard a tune as she neared the study. Mg. Thane hummed to himself, though Ceony couldn’t name the melody. It sounded . . . foreign.

He’d left the door open a crack. Ceony pushed on it lightly with her index finger, just enough to see inside.

Mg. Thane worked with his back to the door on the narrow table right behind his desk. A stack of standard-sized white paper sat at his right elbow, and his long indigo coat draped over the back of his chair. He continued to hum as he took a piece of paper off the stack and Folded it out of Ceony’s sight. What was he creating, and at one o’clock in the morning?

Careful to be silent, Ceony stepped away from the door and retreated back into the dining room. She didn’t like secrets, at least not ones she wasn’t in on. Perhaps she would confront Mg. Thane in the morning. Or, perhaps, she wouldn’t.



Sometime in the early-morning hours, Mg. Thane went to bed, for he was not in his study when Ceony came downstairs to raid the cupboards precisely one minute after eight o’clock.

She wore her apprentice’s apron and her hair in a braid, but again hadn’t bothered to line her eyes or rouge her cheeks, as had recently become popular in town. There was just no reason to do so—who did she have to impress? Dragging a chair from the dining room into the kitchen, Ceony stood on it and looked through all the cupboards, which she found to be surprisingly well stocked. Mg. Thane had all the ingredients needed to make a chocolate cake, for instance, though Ceony noticed most were unopened. He had an enormous bag of rice beneath the sink, a half-eaten loaf of bread in the bread box, and eggs and an assortment of meat in the icebox, which Ceony found behind the counter, near the back door. The icebox also held a few handfuls of paper confetti. She wondered how they had gotten in there, or if they were part of some spell, but she merely brushed them off the bacon and grabbed the carton of eggs, a wedge of cheddar, and a bundled stock of fennel.

She had gotten down a frying pan and stoked the stove when she heard the strangest rasping sound coming down the stairs, along with the soft padding of paper on wood. Thinking it Jonto, she readied a spatula in her defense, but when the door to the stairs creaked open, something much shorter emerged from behind it.

Ceony gaped in surprise. There, wagging its little paper tail, stood a paper dog.

Dozens of pieces of paper formed its body, interlocking almost seamlessly from head to foot to tail. It had no eyes, being made of paper, but had two nostrils and a distinct mouth that opened and rasped at her in a strange sort of bark. It looked something like a Lab-terrier mix, its head only reaching Ceony’s knee.

Barking once more, the dog sprinted up to Ceony and began sniffing her shoes.

With parted lips and tingles running down her back, Ceony set the spatula down by the stove, knocking the fennel stock to the floor. She crouched and stroked the dog’s head. It felt surprisingly solid beneath her fingers, and its paper body made her fingertips buzz almost as though she were stroking real fur.

“Why hello!” she said, and the dog jumped and pressed its front paws against her knees, then actually licked her with a dry, paper tongue. Ceony laughed and scratched behind its ears. It panted with excitement. “Wherever did you come from?”

The door squeaked again, announcing Mg. Thane’s arrival. He looked a little tired, but no worse for wear, and still wore that long indigo coat. “This one won’t give me hives,” he said with a smile that beamed in his eyes. “It’s not the same, but I thought it would do, for now.”

Wide-eyed, Ceony slowly stood, the paper dog yapping in its whispery voice and nudging her ankles with its muzzle. “You made this?” she asked, feeling her ribs knit over her lungs. “This . . . this is what you were doing last night?”

He scratched the back of his head. “Were you up? I apologize—I’m not used to having others in the house again.”

Again, she thought, wondering. Mg. Thane seemed old enough to have had, perhaps, one apprentice before her, if that’s what he meant. She had never bothered asking Mg. Aviosky about Mg. Thane’s previous pupils. And she didn’t ask, not now. Not with this wonderful pup sniffing at her ankles.

He had made this for her. Because of Bizzy.

She looked from him to the dog, then back at him. She pinched the back of her arm to keep herself from crying, for her eyes had already made the decision without her consent.

“Thank you,” she said, perhaps too quietly. “This . . . this means a lot to me. You didn’t have to . . . thank you.” She grasped the spatula. “Do you want some breakfast? I was about to make some—”