The Paper Magician

Between them stood a little boy no older than three holding a tiny bowler hat to his stomach. Rain weighed on his loose black curls and plastered the strands to his forehead, temples, and ears. He stared forward with little thought or expression, save for the pucker of his tiny mouth.

Ceony knelt beside him and tried to brush wet hair from his eyes, but of course her hand passed through him. Then she read the tombstones: “HENRY THANE, 1839–1874” and “MELODY VLADARA THANE, 1841–1874.” Both had doves in mid-flight carved beneath the names, along with the image of two overlapping wedding rings.

Ceony pressed both hands to her chest.

“These are your parents,” she whispered, glancing to the little boy, then to the beekeeper behind her. He had to be an uncle, judging by the family resemblance, slight as it was.

Anger. Infidelity. Death. Dark times—that’s what these memories were. Ceony had passed through Emery’s goodness and his hopes; it made sense to see his darkness, too. To see his hurts and his vices. To see the shadows cast behind those bright eyes.

The rain in the grass seeped into her skirt where her knees pressed the fabric to the ground. The little boy looked through her to an unmarked spot between the tombstones, the lids over his large eyes drooping. Raindrops clung to his dark eyelashes and pattered against his round cheeks.

“Please let me,” Ceony whispered. “I know you’re somewhere in here, Emery. Let me help him.”

Ceony tried to push soggy hair back from the boy’s face once more, and this time her fingers felt a glassy solid. Not skin and hair, but at least she could touch him.

She wrapped her arms around the little boy’s shoulders and hugged him to her. “It will be okay, I promise,” she murmured. “I’ve seen your future, and you accomplish a lot. Your parents would have been proud. It will get better. You’ll be happy again.” I’ll make sure of it.

She kissed Emery on his forehead and pulled his hat from his fingers so she could set it on his head. The storm had already drenched him, but at least the hat would keep the water from his eyes. Standing, she searched for something dry to wipe her face with, but she had few options. She needed to get away from the rain—if she soaked through, so would Fennel, and she didn’t think she’d make it much farther without him. Not in this dark place.

Reverently stepping over the graves, Ceony slid between the beekeeper and the priest and moved away from the funeral service and the path altogether, rubbing chills from her shoulders and neck. The cemetery seemed to stretch on forever, past all horizons, until the very sky seemed filled with graves.

Onward she trudged.

She reached a stone wall only as high as her knees and stepped over a portion that had weathered and crumbled. The grass grew shorter and harder beneath her feet until her shoes clacked on wide black and white tiles. An arching ceiling nearly three stories above her head replaced the clouds and rain. Ceony’s hair and clothes instantly dried, and the air warmed to room temperature.

She took several seconds to absorb the massive atrium—no, a hallway—into her brain. Copper-colored columns lined the walls to her left and right, and between them pear-shaped alcoves showcased different treasures: painted vases, old and yellowed documents framed in thick glass, portraits of the queen or busts of queens past. One bust, oddly enough, looked especially worn on the nose.

Long rows of square windows let in sunlight through the ceiling itself. Something about the place seemed familiar to Ceony, but she couldn’t pinpoint what. She had never been in this particular spot before. Or, perhaps, just not seen it from this angle.

She retrieved Fennel from the confines of her blouse. If the rain from the cemetery had gotten to him, then the change of scenery had dried that as well.

She unfolded the dog, who immediately popped to life and began scratching behind his paper ears with his back leg. Ceony laughed and rubbed his chin. “Stay close, boy.”

She began walking, her footsteps sounding particularly loud, Fennel’s especially quiet. The dog trotted off to a fern against one of the columns, sniffing the edge of its ceramic pot.

Faint whispers brushed Ceony’s ears. She paused, listening. They came from ahead and around the corner. Given her recent interaction with the characters of Emery’s heart, she approached the whispers with caution.

She recognized both voices—the first was Emery’s. The second, which she strained to hear, belonged to Mg. Hughes.

She spied around the corner to see them both leaning against a wall outside a room with double doors. Those doors jogged Ceony’s memory; this was Parliament. She had toured it once many years ago, back when her father still worked as a chauffeur.