The Paper Magician

Ceony made a note not to tell him. She needed all the advantages she could get if she were to survive here.

With Mg. Thane barring the stairs to the third floor with his shoulder, Ceony dragged her feet after Mg. Aviosky into the library, which appeared only slightly larger than her bedroom and had bookshelves only on the sidewalls, albeit ones that stretched clear to the ceiling. As Ceony expected, books had been crammed into every available space, spine against spine, some forming double rows so she couldn’t see what titles lay in the first. The shelves seemed recently dusted—very recently, for the moment Ceony thought it she sneezed, which made her notice the path of dust highlighted by a large window on the far wall. Her eyes landed on a loop of paper chains that surrounded the window, as well as the pinewood table beneath it, which held stacks of paper in varying sizes and colors organized from lightest to darkest, and then from roughest to smoothest. A small telegraph hung off its back-right corner.

The table’s single chair had been turned around, and upon it rested a short easel bearing a canvas of thick, plain paper, eggshell white and fine grained. No ornamentation, no hoopla, just a plain sheet of paper.

Studying it, Ceony realized what it was.

Her grave.

She knew about material bonding—it was one of the dozens of subjects she studied over the last year of rigorous courses at the school. It was nothing fancy, just an oath that tied your spirit into the subject, allowing you to conduct magic through it and only it. A woman could not, for instance, cast spells with both glass and fire. Only one. Ceony couldn’t bond paper and still hope to be a Smelter, enchanting jewelry and bespelling bullets as she had often daydreamed during her lessons.

It wasn’t fair, but there was no use in further complaining. They all knew it. Mg. Aviosky knew it, and Mg. Thane likely knew it, too. Ceony had earned the right to choose her material, but because those before her had neglected Folding—the weakest of the magics—she had been forced into it.

Mg. Thane handed her a smaller piece of standard white eight-by-eleven paper. Ceony pinched it between her fingers and turned it over, but it bore no instruction. No writing of any kind graced its surface, nor did any Folds, magical or otherwise.

“What is this for?” she asked.

“Feel it,” Mg. Thane said, clasping his hands behind his back once more.

Ceony continued pinching the paper, waiting for some sort of clarification, but Mg. Thane merely held his stance. After several seconds Ceony pressed the simple paper between her palms and rubbed her hands back and forth, thoroughly “feeling” the paper.

The paper magician’s eyes smiled, and he took the slightly wrinkled paper back without comment. “Do you know the words?” he asked, softer. Perhaps her eyes were as easy to read as his.

Ceony nodded, numb. The long talk she had had with Mg. Aviosky in the buggy surfaced in her mind. “It’s this or nothing. It has to be that way, for balance,” Mg. Aviosky had said. “Don’t let rumor and comedy dissuade you, Miss Twill. Folding takes a keen eye and deft hands—you have both. The others have accepted this fate; so must you.”

Accepted this fate. But had they? Were the words only meant to persuade Ceony to be more willing to sign away her dreams?

The two magicians watched her, Mg. Aviosky with her usual blank-canvas countenance and Mg. Thane with a strange sort of humor to his eyes.

Ceony pressed her lips together. As far as magic went, she knew it was paper or nothing, and she’d rather be a Folder than a failure.

She lifted a clammy hand and pressed it to the sheet of paper resting on the chair. Closing her eyes and gritting her teeth, she said, “Material made by man, your creator summons you. Link to me as I link to you through my years until the day I die and become earth.”

Such simple words, but they did the deed.

Ceony’s hand grew warm, and heat flashed back through her arm and body, then left just as quickly.

It was done.





CHAPTER 2



“I ALWAYS FOUND BONDING incredibly anticlimactic,” Mg. Thane commented as he picked up the easel from the chair. “Do you want to save it?”

Ceony blinked a few times and held her bonding hand to her chest. “Save what?”

He shook the large paper in his hand. “Some find it sentimental.”

“No,” she said, perhaps a little too sharply. Mg. Thane didn’t seem to notice and placed the paper against the wall, and the easel atop the table perfectly parallel to the paper stacks.

Finding no empty table space, Mg. Aviosky crouched on the floor and opened her hard plastic briefcase, crafted by the hands of a Polymaker—a type of magician who had come into being only thirty years ago, after a rubber magician had discovered plastic itself. From the briefcase Mg. Aviosky pulled a crisply folded red apron and a short, black top hat: the garb of an apprentice.