The Paper Magician

Lira froze . . . and never moved again.

She set the knife down and examined her hands, seeing blood where she knew there was none. Paper, she reminded herself. It was a paper spell, nothing more.

But paper illusions didn’t have any effect on real people, did they?

She bit her lip. She still hadn’t heard back from Mg. Aviosky. Did her old teacher suspect her? Had she even received the telegram?

She glanced into the dining room, to the stairs that led to the second floor, where Emery slept. What would Ceony tell him?

“This is nonsense,” she said aloud, snatching up the knife and cutting the chicken crosswise. She seasoned and breaded it and shoved it in the oven. The aromas of home cooking and the washing and hiding of the knife helped to soothe her.

Ceony checked on Emery, and though he truly looked just like a man taking a nap, he didn’t wake.

After dinner Ceony retrieved her bag and took Fennel to the library, where she sat at the desk and tried multiple Folds of paper to see if she couldn’t rebuild him herself. She was still too green, though, and the connections in his body and the crisp lines of each unique Fold confused her. Even if she had watched Emery create the pup, she didn’t think she’d be able to copy it. The spells were just too advanced.

Giving up and trying not to feel heartsick, Ceony browsed the books in the library until she found a novelette entitled The Barn Spider, which had line sketches every few pages for reference. She read it to Emery, but being unfamiliar with the tale, she couldn’t make a single illusion appear for him. Something she would have to practice.

That night, as she slipped The Barn Spider back onto its shelf, the telegraph began tap-tapping. Ceony wrung her fingers together until it finished, then read Mg. Aviosky’s words while biting her first knuckle.

   checked coordinates stop no sign of lira stop cabinet investigating stop hope all is well stop

For some reason, the news that the others hadn’t found Lira did little to pacify Ceony’s nerves. If anything, it scared her even more.

It took several hours before she fell asleep, her thoughts lingering somewhere on the Foulness coast, replaying her confrontation with Lira over and over again. Pressing two fingers to her neck, she felt her own pulse, the poom of its PUM-Pom-poom too faint to detect.

She woke late the next morning, and went about her morning routine: curling her hair, applying her makeup, getting dressed, and doing chores.

For breakfast—or rather, brunch—she cooked bacon, eggs, and toast. Enough for two. After eating alone, she counted up what groceries Emery still had and determined she would need to go to the store soon. She’d prefer not to go alone.

She went outside, the warm summer sun shining between clouds at the cottage. Beneath the eave in the backyard rested an actual garden of actual plants, not just the paper imitations. It looked well tended, though a few baby weeds had grown between mint, parsley, and what looked like radishes. Ceony picked them out by the root one by one and set the pile aside to mulch. She stuck her index finger into the soil—it needed to be watered.

When she returned to the kitchen for a pitcher, however, she heard a faint but familiar sound in the dining room—an airy sort of clap, meant to be a bark.

She felt her insides break apart into puzzle pieces and slowly set themselves together again, but with her heart wedged into the base of her throat.

Fennel ran into the kitchen yapping wildly, his paper paws skidding along the smooth wooden floorboards. He fell over once, picked himself up, and ran for Ceony’s feet. Ceony, mouth in a wide O, knelt down to intercept him. Fennel licked her sleeves with his paper tongue and wagged his tail so fiercely she feared it would fly off his rump and land in the icebox.

“There we are!” she exclaimed, scratching Fennel behind his ears and under his chin. “That wasn’t so long, was it?”

But she knew Fennel hadn’t magically reanimated himself. Her pulse thudded loudly enough in her ears for her to distinctly make out its quiet third beat.

Two breaths later, the door to the stairwell swung open and Emery stepped out, wearing his same indigo coat but a clean shirt and pants—the gray slacks Ceony had washed just yesterday.

She stood slowly, feeling her face turn pink. He walked with a slight hunch that whispered of mild discomfort, but otherwise seemed perfectly healthy.

His eyes found hers—his beautiful green eyes—and they smiled.

“I have a distinct feeling I’ve missed something rather spectacular,” he said. His voice was a little rough, and he cleared it before adding, “That, and I’m incredibly hungry.”

“Oh!” Ceony said, pushing past Fennel to the bread box. “I can make you something. Sit down. Do you like cucumbers? But of course you do . . . They’re your cucumbers.”