The Master Magician

The starlights all turned zigzag side up and glided like bubbles to the ceiling. Ceony ordered them, “Glow,” and the starlights burned with a soft internal fire. Once the Holloways extinguished the electric lights, the room would take on an eerie and somewhat romantic radiance.

Ceony animated small paper butterflies that would flutter about the room, as well as triangular confetti across the floor that would shift around guests’ feet, giving the illusion of blowing wind. She had even Folded and enchanted paper napkins for the dinner, which would glow turquoise and read “Congratulations, Alton Holloway” when the guests unfurled them. She had considered including the occasional ghostly story illusion of an elephant or lion, but she would need to stay during the party in order to read the spells. That, and she feared some of the older guests might react poorly. Just a few months ago she’d read an article in the paper about a grandmother who’d had a heart attack after seeing a mirror illusion of an oncoming train by the theatre, an ill-advised advertisement for the new American play being performed there. It would surely ruin the party if a guest attempted to shoot a paper lion.

As Ceony released animated songbirds with the instructions to only fly close to the ceiling, Mrs. Holloway came down the stairs and let out a startled cry, which was fortunately followed by a wide, tooth-filled smile.

“Oh, it’s astounding! Just magnificent!” she cried, hands pressed to her heavily powdered cheeks. “Worth every pound! And you’re just an apprentice.”

“I hope to test for my magicianship next month,” Ceony said, though she beamed under the compliment.

Mrs. Holloway clapped her hands twice. “If you need a recommendation, dear, I will give you one. Oh, Alton will be so surprised!” She turned to the stairs. “Martha! Martha, leave the laundry a moment and come see!”

Ceony grabbed her bag—much lighter now—and bowed out of the home before her customer’s excitement could grow too out of hand. The decorations needed no further maintenance, and Mrs. Holloway had prepaid by check earlier that week. Emery would no doubt let her keep the entire sum—a considerable sum—though apprentices usually had to work for free, minus a monthly stipend. She would send most of the money to her parents, who had finally moved out of the Mill Squats and taken up a flat in Poplar. Her mother, especially, hated receiving “charity,” but Ceony could be just as stubborn.

Crouching on the walk outside, Ceony pulled out a sheet of paper and created a small glider with oblong wings, then wrote in its center the address for the intersection at the end of the street. Bringing it to life with the command “Breathe,” she whispered coordinates to it and released it to the wind. The little glider flipped a loop and took off southward.

Slipping her bag over her shoulder, Ceony started down the walk, her simple brown skirt swishing about her ankles, her two-inch heels clicking like shoed horse hooves against the ground. This was a ritzy suburb of London, with a great deal of green space between its houses, half of which were guarded by elaborate stonework or wrought-iron fences. A few were adorned with Smelter-worked ornamentation, such as elinvar pickets that rotated in response to passersby and brass gate locks that unlatched themselves when an expected visitor drew near. The year had matured enough to erase all lingering signs of winter, and May flowers bustled up in tidy gardens beyond the fences. A few had even managed to grow in cracks where the walk met the cobblestones, in utter disregard of the precise order of the neighborhood. A breeze tousled a few stray hairs from the French twist holding back Ceony’s pumpkin-colored mane. She tucked them behind her ear.

A few minutes after Ceony reached the corner of Holland and Addison, a buggy pulled off the road and up to the curb. Ceony bent down to peer through the glassless passenger window.

“Hello, Frank,” she said. “I haven’t ridden with you in a good while.”

The middle-aged man grinned and tipped his bowler hat toward her, the small glider she had Folded pinched between his index and middle fingers. “Always a pleasure, Miss Twill. Heading toward Beckenham again?”