The Paper Magician

“Why?” she asked, swallowing to keep her voice from shaking. The walls of her throat grew sore. “Why . . . sponsor me?”


From the beginning Ceony had known she could only attend magic-preparation school—a requirement for all apprentices—if she received some sort of financial aid. She had studied hard during secondary school and was a nominee for the Mueller Academic Award after her acceptance to Tagis Praff, but lost the scholarship without explanation. Heartbroken, she had packed her bags and readied herself to move to Uxbridge, where she would take work as a housemaid for a year or so to pay for culinary school. Four days before her departure, Tagis Praff contacted her with an anonymous scholarship offer of fifteen thousand pounds, enough to cover one year’s tuition, books, and board. A miracle—no bank would allow a shanty nobody from Whitechapel’s Mill Squats to take out a loan for such a grand sum. She knew that from experience.

She cried after receiving that telegram. She wrote this letter the next day.

And Mg. Thane—a man she had not met until that morning and whom she had pegged as some sort of lunatic sorcerer—had been the one to give her the money, without interest or return. Without even a name.

Mg. Thane didn’t answer her inquiry. Rather, he simply asked, “Shall we?” with a sweeping gesture of his arm. A gesture that closed the matter. If Mg. Thane had wanted to discuss the scholarship, he would have listed his name when he gave it to her.

Shaken, Ceony set the letter down. Rubbing the back of her neck, she followed the magician out into the hallway and through the kitchen and dining room. He might have closed the matter, but she wouldn’t just let things stand pat. On the stairs she asked, “Did you request me?”

“I assure you that your assignment was pure coincidence. Or perhaps a bit of bad humor on the part of Magician Aviosky. If you can call it humor. I’ve always found her rather . . . dry.”

Some coincidence! Too stunned to think of a reply, Ceony traced Mg. Thane’s path back to the library, where her apprentice’s uniform rested on the floor. She slipped on her red apron but left the top hat. It was more for public show, besides.

Mg. Thane pulled around the chair and had her sit on it. Retrieving several pieces of paper from the table, along with something that looked like a cutting board, he sat on the short green carpet and folded his legs under him, his long coat puddling about him almost like the skirt of a woman’s gown.

“I-I can get you a chair,” Ceony offered. Part of her still held the disappointment of becoming a Folder, but another part felt strange sitting before Mg. Thane now, knowing what he had done for her and not knowing any of the reasons. Knowing that letter she had drafted and redrafted four times to her donor had actually gone to him. No etiquette class or textbook had ever explained to her how to handle a situation like this.

“Nonsense,” Mg. Thane said as he hunched over the board, seemingly unbothered by the hair falling into his eyes and the long sleeves hindering his hands. “I have a personal motto to never Fold on one’s lap.”

Ceony’s blundering thoughts paused at that. “One’s lap, or your own?” she asked.

Mg. Thane glanced up at her and she spied laughter in his eyes, even if it didn’t quite sound in his throat. “I think a person would think me quite peculiar if I were to Fold in his lap, wouldn’t you say?”

“They might think you peculiar besides,” she said, only processing the words after they had passed from her lips. She flushed. Her well-practiced snarkiness had tasted so much sweeter before the man’s revealed philanthropy. Perhaps the best way to handle the situation with her donor-gone-teacher would be to act like nothing extraordinary had happened just minutes ago. That would be easiest.

It helped that Mg. Thane smiled before returning his eyes to the board before him. “Everything is made of Folds,” he explained as he worked, Folding a square sheet of orange paper in half, then in half again. “But you know that. The trick is getting the Folds right. Everything must be aligned just so, or the spells won’t work. Just as you can’t enchant a mirror if it doesn’t reflect a perfect image.”

“Or bake a cobbler if you don’t have the right ingredients,” Ceony said softly. Mg. Thane only nodded, but she felt even that small approval was important. Ceony watched his average-looking hands move the paper this way and that, rotating it and flipping it over. It bent under his touch like water, and he never struggled in getting the paper to obey his direction. Ceony studied the movements, storing their images in her memory.

Mg. Thane Folded the paper into what looked like a kite, then opened it into a tall diamond. Not too complex. Still, Ceony couldn’t see the bird among the paper until he had nearly finished. Not a bird like those hanging in the kitchen, but one with a long neck and tail, and broad, triangular wings creased to perfect points.

He held it out in his palm and said, “Breathe.”