The Paper Magician

THE SLOPE OF WILDFLOWERS changed instantly into cobblestone in all shades of gray—charcoal, ash, slate, and steel. Big Ben—the bell in the tall, pointed clock tower to the north—rang out nine o’clock. The great statue of Sir Ryan Walters gripping the reins of his frenzied warhorse stood proudly in the center of the square. Its detail was so infinitesimal that the statue looked ready to come alive on all sides, but of course it never did. Sir Ryan Walters and his steed had been carved in stone, and since man had not created stone, no magician could enchant it.

People milled about Ceony on all sides of Parliament Square, seeming to give her a great deal of space without actually noticing her presence. They passed by numerous shops that all had doors facing the statue, and a few shuffled in and out of a six-story apartment building wedged between a dumpling shop and a post office, with narrow alleys on each side. Ceony had never been inside the building, but she imagined seeing the bill for one room’s rent would hurt her eyes for all the digits it would have.

Many of the square’s shops had CLOSED signs over the doors—Wickers, the candle shop; Her Ladyship’s Arms, a custom firearms dealer where she could have been contracted had her path to magic gone differently; and St. Alban’s Salmon Bistro included. Ale for You, the liquor store, and Fine Seams, the tailor Ceony had patronized a few times, still boasted OPEN signs on their shops. It must have been a Sunday. Most businesses closed on Sundays.

Ceony loved Sundays. They were her favorite time of the week—the only break the Tagis Praff School for the Magically Inclined allotted its students, outside of feast days and Parliament Day. Sunday was the one day when, if Ceony did not have homework to catch up on, she could go into the city and enjoy herself. Indulge in a nice walk, soak in the sounds of life, savor a simple sandwich, or read by the three-tiered water fountains opposite Big Ben in Parliament Square. Those fountains did have an enchantment, for when they had been constructed, a Polymaker—a plastics magician—had designed a special lining for each tier that made the falling water cascade in different patterns every five minutes. There were a few months of Ceony’s life when she considered becoming a Polymaker, if only to create something similar to that fountain.

She idly wondered if Emery—Mg. Thane, that is—enjoyed Sundays as well.

Skimming her surroundings, Ceony found an odd archway ten paces to her right, wooden and painted red. She neared it, touched its side—

Ceony blinked and found herself standing in a different spot on Parliament Square, the far-east side, her nose only inches from an old wooden door bound with ironwork rusted along its edges. A particularly long splinter pointed at her right between the eyes.

She took a step back as a bell pealed through the air—not Big Ben, but the brass bell that hung somewhere within the building before her. This place was a church—the faded sign above the door read “Collegiate Church of St. Peter at Westminster.” She vaguely remembered the building from her passes through the real Parliament Square. Fennel scratched the bottom of the door with his paw.

Though a thorough scan of the crowd brought no signs of Lira, Ceony Folded a paper jay and commanded it, “Breathe.” Holding one wing so the creature couldn’t flit away, she added, “Keep an eye out for a woman in black, with long hair and bloody nails. Peck at the windows if you spot her.”

The bird hopped in Ceony’s palm and she released it, letting it fly high over the square.

Ceony grabbed the church door’s thick iron handle and heaved the door open. She stepped into a dim hallway. On her third step she felt herself whisked away once more, and on her fourth she appeared on a narrow balcony in the back of a wide congregation hall, sandwiched between two circle-top windows trimmed with stained glass. Two rows of white Y-shaped pillars stretched before her, between which rested two rows of brown-lacquered pews. More circle-top windows let in sunlight, and three-tiered chandeliers with looping arms provided more light yet. At the front of the chapel the largest window took up almost the entire wall and had such minute stenciling in its stained glass that, from where she stood, Ceony couldn’t decipher the images. She did, however, have a good view of the church’s attendees.

They filled about half of the pews. A man dressed in a white robe and a long, dark stole over his shoulders stood at the front of the congregation holding a heavy-looking and worn Bible in his hand, but what he read Ceony couldn’t hear.

“I envy them,” said a familiar baritone beside her.

Ceony jumped. Emery Thane stood beside her, not quite touching the balcony railing, his arms folded across his chest. He looked as he did when he appeared at the banquet where Ceony had lost both her scholarship and her job. His dark brows pulled together just slightly, but not enough for true consternation, anger, or whatever he might have been feeling. The rest of his face and posture remained calm. Ceony couldn’t see enough of his eyes to read them, as they were downcast and watching the minister below.

Tingles like the trails of soft feathers coursed down her neck. If he looked the same, would she be able to talk to him?

“Thane!” she exclaimed. “I need your help!”

But the paper magician didn’t respond, only held his gaze. Ceony chewed on her lips before trying something else.