The Paper Magician

Fennel barked and sniffed about Ceony’s shoes. Emery smiled.

“Well,” he said after a moment almost long enough to be awkward. He picked up the slices of cucumber and put them on the bread himself, then pulled a plate from the cupboard. Walking back to the table, he said, “Now we can finally have this meal, hm?”

“This meal?” Ceony asked, glancing at his bland sandwich. He took a bite of it without even bothering with mayonnaise. “Any meal I put thought into is levels above a cucumber sandwich. I could have been a chef, if you recall.”

“Is that so?” he asked, taking another bite.

Ceony began to cut two slices of bread for herself, but paused halfway through the first. “Would you humor me for a moment?”

“I believe I’ve been humoring you since you walked through my front door,” he replied.

She smiled. “Just for a moment.”

She abandoned the bread and cucumber and hurried to the study, selecting a sky-blue piece of square-cut paper from the shelf behind the desk. Resting it against the desktop, she carefully Folded a half-point Fold and a full-point Fold, pulling from memory the creation of the fortuity box that had promised her “adventure” before she had even known Lira’s name. With a pen she scrawled down the fortune symbols, pausing after drawing five.

She brought the box back into the dining room and showed it to Emery. “Which ones go here?”

Amusement touched his eyes—that seemed to be their preferred emotion—and he took the pen and paper from her, finishing the last three symbols himself as he chewed. Ceony committed them to memory before pinching the box in her fingers and presenting it to Emery.

“What is your mother’s maiden name?” she asked.

He leaned his chin into his palm, elbow propped on the table. “You don’t remember?”

“I do,” she retorted, “but I don’t want to jinx it. Just answer.”

“Vladara. One r.” His eyes glimmered.

She opened and closed the box seven times and asked, “What is your date of birth?”

“July fourteenth, 1871.”

She moved the box back and forth. “Pick a number.”

Emery remained silent for a moment, studying Ceony’s face. His thoughts didn’t reflect in his eyes. Before her flush could return, however, he said, “One.”

She opened the flap scrawled with a square divided into three, one of the symbols Emery had drawn. She opened it, seeing blank paper for a half second before an image flooded her mind with far more strength than it had the first time she’d read his fortune.

The vision was familiar—a setting sun, a plum tree, a hill covered with wildflowers and crabgrass. A soft breeze carried on it the scents of earth, clover, and honey.

Emery sat up on a patchwork quilt beneath the tree, his hair shorter than it was now, an indigo coat folded neatly beside him. He watched the sunset wordlessly, and in his bright eyes Ceony saw contentment.

Beside him a woman lay on her side, tracing the veins on the back of his hand with her finger, spotted with three freckles. Her orange hair fell in a neat braid over one shoulder. On the other side of the tree two young boys with raven hair played on a swing, pushing each other back and forth, grabbing the ropes and laughing.

Ceony closed the flap, blinking away the colors of the sunset. The lump in her throat had vanished, and her heart beat steadily right where it should be.

“Well?” Emery asked.

“It’s bad luck to know your own fortune,” she said.

“I believe it’s only bad luck to read your own,” he countered.

“Best to play it safe,” she said, trying to stifle a grin and failing miserably. Scooting back a chair, she sat at the table and asked, “I was wondering, though, about Prit. You hated Folding, so why did you choose to bond paper?”

“For the same reason you did,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I didn’t. And it turned out well, in the end. You see, Ceony, we’re more alike than you may think.”

“Yes,” she said, her grin spreading with full force. “Yes, I believe we are.”





AN EXCERPT FROM CHARLIE N. HOLMBERG’S THE GLASS MAGICIAN

CHAPTER 1



A LATE SUMMER BREEZE wafted through the open kitchen window, making the twenty tiny flames upon Ceony’s cake dance back and forth on their candlewicks. Ceony hadn’t made the cake, of course, as one should never bake her own birthday cake, but her mother was a good cook and a better baker, so Ceony had no doubts that the confection, complete with pink cherry frosting and jelly filling, would be delicious.